by Неизвестно
First I contacted the funeral home, then the newspapers. Sheila Black would be buried with a simple graveside ceremony three days hence, in a plot relatively near, but by no means beside, those of Mitchell and Rosemary Black. The interment would be preceded by a brief window of visitation. Her obituary, sadly bare-boned, would appear in both Pittsburgh papers as well as the local one, in hopes of dredging up someone—anyone—who might have cared about her. It seemed impossible that a woman nearing fifty would have no one to mourn her passing, yet even as I made the arrangements, I feared I would attend her visitation alone.
My last call was to my answering machine, which I had neglected to check since leaving for the hospital yesterday afternoon. The time that had passed since seemed much longer, and I was relieved when only three beeps followed my recorded message.
"It’s me," Todd’s thin, irritating voice proclaimed. "And I’m getting tired of your not returning my calls. It’s high time you got over this snit of yours, Meara, because I’m not going to wait around for you forever. Call me."
I exhaled with a sigh. It had been a month now, and Todd seemed no closer to accepting our breakup than he had when I told him I never wanted to see him again. Of course, I knew that the man had a great deal of talent at ignoring what he didn’t wish to happen. He hadn’t wished for my mother’s funeral to happen, for instance, because on that day, like all Saturdays, he had had other plans. He and his father would relax in front of the big-screen television in their basement, and his mother, before she had been hospitalized, would keep their TV trays replete with sandwiches and cookies. It was a tradition. Since she had become unable, they had depended on me to fill her shoes. And what were the two of them supposed to eat if I was at a funeral?
Resolution #1, I repeated to myself, I will not allow any man to use me. With a flourish of my index finger, I hit the code for "erase" and moved on.
"Meara—it’s Alex. Call me back as soon as you get this. We’ve got problems with the inspection. Major problems."
I let out a whispered curse. Problems with the inspection? There couldn’t be. I was barely getting enough out of the sale of my parents’ house as it was. I couldn’t afford more repairs. And with the payments for Sheila’s funeral coming due—
"Meara—it’s Alex again. Where are you? I’ve got to talk to you TODAY. Why don’t you get a cell phone like the rest of the world? Call me!"
I hung up the phone with haste and dialed the number at the end of the message. Alex was a good friend and a competent real estate agent, and if he said there were problems, he meant it.
"Meara!" he exclaimed when I reached him, his familiar tenor a welcome sound, despite the alarm in his voice. "Thank goodness. Where have you been? Listen, I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but the inspector found mold."
He said the word as if it were a dread disease. "Mold?" I repeated. "What seventy-year-old house doesn’t have mold?"
"Not bathroom-shower mold," he corrected. "Mold with a capital M. The black stuff. A seller’s nightmare. Haven’t you heard the hype?"
I had not, but Alex quickly filled me in.
"But my parents lived there for years!" I protested. "And I’ve been living there too for the last six months. None of us ever had any of those symptoms."
"None of that matters, Meara," he explained patiently.
Alex and I had met during our first year as elementary school teachers; luckily, our friendship had lasted longer than his perseverance in the field. He was a bit goofy, but a kind person, and I could feel the sympathy in his voice. "All that matters is that the inspector found it and the buyer is worried about it. They won’t go forward with the sale unless we have it taken care of."
I exhaled. "And that means?"
"An abatement contractor. I’ve already found a reasonable one, and we need to jump on it. This company is normally booked months ahead—they only have an opening now because another client decided to demolish instead of abate."
Demolish? My head spun. "How much is this going to cost?"
He told me, and my head spun the opposite direction.
"Meara?" he spoke into the silence. "Are you there? Don’t faint on me. Please."
"I’m here," I said defensively. "But I don’t have that kind of money, either. The funeral—" I cut myself off. Alex already knew I was paying for one mother’s funeral. I wasn’t inclined to explain about the other one.
"We’ll work it out," he insisted. "There are always ways. But we have to do this now. I really don’t think this buyer will wait, and you know we’re not loaded with other prospects."
I was silent for a moment, which he took as consent. "There’s something else," he continued. "You’ll need to vacate the house for at least seventy-two hours, starting Monday. Is that a problem?"
"Three days?" I exclaimed, my voice rising. "Where am I supposed to live? I have to be back here on Sunday—" my voice broke off. I had no business complaining to Alex. None of this was his fault.
"Meara," he offered, "if you don’t want to spend the money on a motel, you can always crash at my place. I’ve got a brand new futon in my computer room."
I winced. Alex was a sweetheart, but I had visited his apartment enough to know that his idea of hygiene was a can of Lysol on the back of the toilet.
"Thank you," I said sincerely, "But I don’t want to impose. I’ll find someplace inexpensive." I took a breath. "And as for the abatement, I’ll figure out a way to pay for it somehow."
"Great," he praised. "And listen—can you possibly make it in here today? I have some papers for you to sign."
A movement in the corner of my eye startled me, and I looked out from behind the desk to see two men standing in the corridor. David Falcon had arrived, and Fletcher Black was with him.
They had probably heard every word I’d just said.
The lawyer nodded at me and raised a hand politely, as if urging me not to rush. Fletcher didn’t look at me at all. I told Alex I would be back at his office in Pittsburgh by five, then hung up. It was a promise I intended to keep.
***
I looked at the document spread in front of me, puzzling over the handwritten scrawl. The language was legalese, or at least an approximation of it, but the papers were crinkled and smudged, and the ink looked like it had come from a cheap ballpoint on its last legs. My guess was that Mitchell’s son had prepared the proposal himself—possibly on the dashboard of a car.
"You want to buy me out?" I asked incredulously, trying to catch Fletcher’s eye. I was unsuccessful. He refused to look at me.
He sat leaning back in his chair, his lumberjacking ensemble and casual pose in distinct contrast to David Falcon’s formal carriage with crisp suit and tie. Fletcher’s jeans were not only tattered, but stained with large patches of reddish brown, and the drying mud on his hiking boots was detaching itself at a steady rate onto the inn’s previously spotless floor. His hands were folded in his lap. He didn’t speak. He made every effort to exhibit nonchalance.
His every effort was wasted. Little did he know that he was dealing with a schoolteacher, for whom interpreting body language was as instinctive as raising a coffee cup. I noted immediately the tense set of his jaw, the too-rapid rise and fall of his chest, the continual, rhythmic scraping of his boot heel on the rung of his chair. He was tight as a drum. Strained, anxious. Not to mention resentful. And judging by the lack of eye contact, I had a pretty good idea whom he resented.
"I’m perfectly willing to talk with you about this," I said warmly, attempting to thin the tension. "But if you don’t mind, I would rather put off any decisions about the inheritance until after Sheila’s funeral." My belief that my birth mother hadn’t deserved a dime of her husband’s money was nearly cemented, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility that publication of her obituaries might bring new information to light. What if, despite the housekeeper’s not-so-subtle allusions to Sheila’s poverty, she had brought some money of her own to the marriage? What if she had another re
lative or dependent who truly needed it? I had no right to give away anything that might be Sheila’s until I knew for sure, no matter how eager I was to wash my hands of it.
I took a breath. "There’s no need to rush, is there?"
The men exchanged an awkward glance.
"Well, not—" the lawyer began.
"It’s just easier this way," Fletcher interrupted, focusing on a spot above my left shoulder. "You sign that, I write you a check, and you leave."
My eyebrows rose. "I understand this is important to you—"
"This does not have to be a big deal," he insisted, his voice rising. "It’s just a broken-down inn and some land, okay? But I don’t have time for this right now. I need to get back to California. That’s why I want everything settled today. Now, how much is it going to take?"
Broken-down inn? I blinked. Did the man have no concept of what he possessed here? The antiques? The Ferris Mountain clock? "I really don’t think—"
I broke off when I realized he was looking at me. His eyes still swam with pain, but now they also blazed with determination—and in them I glimpsed a passion so powerful, so acute, that it startled me into silence.
He averted his eyes again.
"I—I can’t name an amount," I said with a stutter, reeling. "I have no idea what property like this is worth."
David Falcon cast another enigmatic glance at his companion, then leaned toward me. "You realize, Ms. O’Rourke, that you have every right to seek an independent appraisal—"
Fletcher glared at him, hard. "There’s no need for that," he snapped. "The whole point of offering cash is to end this today." He removed another paper from the top of the lawyer’s stack. "Here’s what I’m prepared to offer you." He released the paper in the air so that it floated down in front of me. "You’ll see it’s very generous. I can write the check now."
I looked at the figure circled in red, and my eyes widened. I knew little about real estate, and the value of the inn and its contents was particularly difficult to gauge, but the offer in front of me was more than my best guess for the total.
I stole a glance upward. Our eyes met for only a split second before he turned away, but it was enough for me to catch the same look of intensity. Why was he so desperate to remove me from the picture? Was I sitting on some sort of gold mine?
My mind raced for an explanation. Perhaps he and his sister had a buyer waiting in the wings already—a buyer who wouldn’t take kindly to waiting around while they contested my inheritance legally. Neither of them had chosen to live here—they hadn’t even stayed in this part of the country. Of course they would want to sell. But who would pay an inflated price for an old stone mansion and some forestland in the mountains? A real estate developer? A mining company?
My stomach lurched. What I had seen of these forests was breathtaking, and an undeveloped tract this large was a rarity. Many of the trees were hundreds of years old. The streams were clear. Wildlife abounded. There was a peace here that I had felt the first moment I stepped out onto the meadow—a peace no one could put a price on.
Was I paving the way for its destruction?
My face flushed with heat. I pushed the paper back roughly across the table. "I’m not signing anything today," I announced with the same underestimate-me-at-your-peril tone I used with my more pugnacious eleven-year-olds. "I won’t be making any decisions about the estate until after Sheila’s funeral. And that’s final."
Silence descended as the two men absorbed my statement. Then David Falcon threw his companion yet another visual message, this one unmistakable.
I told you so.
Fletcher stiffened. He glared back at the lawyer, and a short staring match ensued. "Just ask her what she wants," he ordered.
With a barely audible sigh of exasperation, the lawyer turned his attention back to me. "Are there any circumstances," he asked politely, "under which you would consider signing over your rights to Sheila’s portion of the estate without first seeking the opinion of a qualified attorney?"
Fletcher sprang from his chair with a groan. "Oh, for God’s sake, David!" he chastised. "Could you possibly make the offer sound a little less idiotic?"
The lawyer eyed him coolly. "As a matter of fact, no."
Fletcher cast the briefest of glances over at me, his expression venomous. Then he turned away. "Well then," he said, his deep voice frosty, "I have nothing else to say."
With that pronouncement, he strode to the French doors and walked out. I rose myself, watching anxiously as he headed across the stone slabs of the patio and out into the meadow. He was moving toward the same trail he had taken earlier in the morning.
I turned to the lawyer. "Where is he going, exactly?" I asked. "That’s the second time today he’s disappeared into those woods."
I knew that where Mitchell’s son spent his time should be of no concern to me. The man was brusque and unfriendly, and I should want no part in his trials and tribulations. But despite my aggravation at his behavior, there was something about him that affected me—that drew me in as forcibly and invisibly as an undertow.
The man had lost both his parents, as had I. But the pain in his eyes, the passion I had seen smoldering beneath, was coming from something deeper. He was grieving his father, yes—but there was more. I was certain now that the Fletcher Black I kept meeting did not really exist. I was seeing some sort of façade, a grand act. The question was why.
"He owns a tract of land adjoining this one," Mr. Falcon explained. "And there’s a cabin just over the hill that he likes to stay in when the weather’s decent."
I waited for the lawyer to rise and collect his papers, but he remained seated, indicating that we were not yet finished. Reluctantly, I withdrew my eyes from the window and sat back down.
"I should explain, Ms. O’Rourke," he said quietly, "that I represent Mitchell Black’s interests, not those of his son. I brought Fletcher over with me this morning only because he told me that he was planning on approaching you on his own. As an old friend of the family, I convinced him that might not be wise."
I had to smile. David Falcon, like my father, seemed chivalrous by nature—a rarity in males my age.
"The situation is this," he continued. "Fletcher and Tia Black are virtually certain to contest Sheila Black’s inheritance, and by extension, yours. Whether they are likely to succeed is a matter you’ll have to discuss with your own attorney. Regardless of outcome, if the case goes to trial the process will be both lengthy and costly. An out-of-court settlement is a perfectly reasonable option, provided both parties enter into it with competent representation."
I nodded, understanding his point, but my mind was drifting. I could not stop thinking about Fletcher, hiking back over the hill to some ramshackle cabin, smarting over his failure to bamboozle me. What did he really want? If his offer had been sincere, he would have to be wealthy in his own right to make good on it. But if he was, how might he have gotten that way? And why would he buy land adjacent to his family’s estate? To increase the investment?
"Fletcher and I need to talk," I announced.
The lawyer tensed. "I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ms. O’Rourke," he responded. "I can’t stress enough—you need to handle this through an attorney."
His voice was intent, and as I considered his words, Estelle’s bizarre warning rang with them in my ears. Stay away from that one.
I dismissed the notion. The lawyer was only trying to give me good legal advice. Estelle’s motives were more obscure, but I was not going to discount my own intuition. The real Fletcher Black was a decent person, and when the time came, I was certain that I could get through to him somehow—that we could settle things without my having to pay an attorney. We would have to, because I couldn’t afford one.
David Falcon seemed to be reading my mind. "Fletcher’s cabin isn’t accessible by car," he reported, "at least not a car like yours. I had to borrow my son-in-law’s truck to chase him down this morning, and I nearly got stuck three times.
So don’t try it. As soon as you hire an attorney, have him or her call me, and I’ll put them in touch with Fletcher.
"In the meantime," he continued, his tone paternal, "I have some papers for you to look over." He withdrew a neatly organized folder. "And I wanted to make you aware of this." He extracted an official-looking document from the right pocket and placed it in my hand. "This is Sheila and Mitchell’s original marriage certificate, from Nevada. I’ve acquired copies, but this one was in Sheila’s purse at the time of the accident, so I’m returning it to you. You should know that her birth certificate was found in her purse as well. It should still be there."
I stared at the document in my hands, and my heart began to pound. Sheila Marie Tresswell. My birth mother’s entire name, spelled out. A simple thing, to most people. Yet to an adoptee who had grown up wondering, the mere sight of the words was somehow amazing. Parents: John and Margaret Tresswell. My grandparents, whom I would never know. Sheila had told me at the coffee shop that her father had died of a heart attack when she was a teenager and that her mother had succumbed to lung cancer a year later. Birth: Uniontown, Pennsylvania. May 13th, 1952.
"I did investigate whether her parents were still alive," the lawyer explained gently. "But I’m afraid they’ve both been deceased for some time now. I could find no evidence of any other living relatives, but I did not do an exhaustive search. If you’d like to find out more, you might consider hiring a private investigator."
His last words were lost to me as my eyes became riveted on a single numeral. "This is wrong," I announced, my heart beating faster still. "Her birth date is wrong."
"Oh?" the lawyer responded without concern. "Well, she wouldn’t be the first woman to try to make herself younger on a legal document, I can tell you that."
