The Inheritance
“Lenny’s tied up today,” Jack continued, “but I’m free. How’d you like a guided tour around the Petersen property?”
Roslyn looked across the table at him. His eyes were bright and smiling. Encouraging eyes, she thought. “I’d love to,” she replied.
“Great. Might want to get a jacket,” he suggested. “There’s a lot of property to see.”
“Before you leave,” Sophie interjected. “I’ll need to know if you’d like me to get in any more supplies for you—for lunch or dinner tonight.” There was a slight pause before she added, “I’d be happy to prepare something for you.”
“Thank you, Sophie. That’s very thoughtful of you. But I’ll be fine. After I’ve explored here, I’ll do the town. Maybe check out one of those trendy restaurants you mentioned.” She pushed in her chair and turned to leave the room. “I’ll meet you on the front porch then, Jack,” she said, leaving the kitchen in three brisk strides.
She felt three pairs of eyes follow her through the doorway.
“Not much like her aunt,” she heard Sophie say.
Roslyn stopped, just out of view and heard Jack’s response. “Not to look at,” he agreed. He cleared his throat to add, “But clearly a family resemblance of one kind.”
“Yup” was all Sophie said, along with a very audible sigh.
“IT’S REALLY a branch of the Iowa River,” Jack explained.
Roslyn stared down the wooded ravine to the expanse of pea-green water. “A very big branch,” she commented. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she moved her head from left to right, taking in the whole panorama. Trees everywhere and of every kind for as far as she could see. Some were just budding and some were already in bloom. “How much of my aunt’s land extends over there, beyond the river?”
“Oh, I guess another thirty acres or so. The property line extends much farther to the east, behind the house.”
“Exactly how much land did Aunt Ida have? We’ve been walking for about half an hour now and you say we still haven’t seen it all.”
Jack thought for a moment. “There’s about a hundred acres of cultivated fields as well as the river and woods. And the house sits on four or five acres.” He paused. “Of course, it’s yours now.” His eyes bore into hers.
“Well, not exactly,” she murmured. “I haven’t met the conditions of the will yet.” Suddenly uncomfortable, she turned back to the river. The idea of owning such a piece of land was unthinkable. Too much for one person. Too much for me. “Anyway, perhaps we should get back to the house. I haven’t even had a chance to see more than a couple of rooms so far.”
“Would you like to check out the rest later today?”
Roslyn shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here for such a short time, there doesn’t seem to be any point.”
His face darkened. He seemed about to say something but changed his mind. When he started walking back toward the cultivated fields surrounding the house, Roslyn followed behind feeling like a scolded child. What was he so annoyed about?
His steady, long-legged strides tackled the ridged furrows of the field easily. Roslyn gave up trying to keep pace with him. Her sneakers were caked with clumps of soil, still sodden from last night’s rain. By the time they reached the grass that stretched into the lawns encircling the house, Roslyn could hardly raise her feet to walk.
She leaned against a blossoming crab apple tree to take off her shoes and socks. Barefoot, she quickly caught up with Jack. He stopped at the picket fence. Roslyn checked out his boots, noting that they hardly seemed muddy at all. And she couldn’t be certain, but she thought she saw a grin shoot across his face.
“Sorry, but there wasn’t a faster way back,” he said.
He didn’t sound that sorry. In fact, she suspected he might have purposely led her that way, out of spite. But spite about what? Don’t be so cynical, Baines. “Nothing a bit of water can’t remedy,” she said, trying for a lilt in her voice. She stuck out her right hand and said, “Jack, thanks again for all your trouble. I really appreciate it.” She paused, then added, “When I’m back in Chicago, I’ll have some vivid memories of this day.”
The surprise in his face was gratifying somehow. He took her right hand and held on to it a bit longer than she’d expected. Roslyn pulled it away, ostensibly to bend down for her shoes and socks. She’d only taken a few steps up to the veranda when his voice stopped her.
“Let me know when you come back to Plainsville.”
Roslyn swung round. “I’m not sure that I’ll be coming back,” she said.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. A frown appeared on his face, followed by something else that Roslyn couldn’t interpret. He twisted the brim of his baseball cap in his big hands. Finally, he gestured with the baseball cap to his right and mumbled something.
Roslyn took a step forward. “Pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “You ought to at least have a look at the rose. Over there.”
The baseball cap flipped to his right again.
Roslyn moved down to the step above where he stood. She looked over his shoulder toward the garden bordering the sidewalk. “The rose?”
Impatience surged briefly in his eyes. “The Iowa rose,” he clarified. “The reason you’re here right now. I think you should at least take a look at it before you go back to Chicago.”
He headed for a section of the garden that looped away from the sidewalk in a wide scallop. A bright-pink flowering shrub took center place in the loop, surrounded by other green plants and bushes that Roslyn couldn’t identify, although she thought she recognized a row of tulips half-emerged from the ground.
“Which one is it?”
He pointed to what appeared to be a pile of sticks covered in thorns poking out of the ground.
Roslyn wasn’t impressed. “That’s it?”
“You have to come back in June. Those little greenish-brown things are leaf buds and they’ll be out in a few weeks. In June, it’ll be covered with blossoms the size of your hand.”
“What color?”
“The palest pink you’ve ever seen, with a streak of deep crimson extending up from lemon-yellow stamens. Not one of those dramatic hybrids, but stunning all the same.”
Roslyn heard the admiration in his voice. She glanced at him. He was staring down at the plant and smiling. She looked at the bush again and shook her head. She just didn’t see what he was seeing. “Well, it’s not what I expected,” was all she could think to say.
After a long moment, he raised his head to hers. “Nothing ever is,” he remarked. “What we expect, I mean.”
Roslyn studied him. Jack obviously wasn’t talking about the rosebush. His jawline was set in a forbidding pose. Everything in the rugged, attractive face shouted How can you give all this up!
Roslyn looked at the house.
“It is a magnificent home,” she said. “I’m anxious to poke around inside. My aunt seems to have been quite a collector. The bedroom furnishings looked very old—not that I’m an expert on antiques.”
He nodded vigorously. “I don’t think Ida’s changed anything in the house—except for some wiring and the plumbing—since she inherited it from her folks. A lot of people don’t like older things—too big and too dark.”
Roslyn thought of her condo with its airy white-upholstered furniture and minimalist design. “Hmm,” she murmured. “There must be a good market somewhere for all those antiques.” The devilish side of her relished the horror that crossed his face.
“I—I suppose,” he sputtered, waving the baseball cap back and forth again. “But it would take a pretty callous person to—to just sell off their inheritance.”
“I don’t think I’d use exactly that word. Unsentimental, perhaps.” She smiled, turned around and walked up to the top of the veranda.
“Besides,” he raised his voice, “the terms of the will don’t allow for that. You have to live here for a year before you legally own everything.”
He is after the place! In spite of all his assurances and efforts to get me to like it, he really wants it for himself.
Roslyn pivoted around. “But I bet a smart Chicago lawyer could chew up that will and spit it out.”
Jack’s face flushed. He spoke quietly, clutching the baseball cap tightly at his side. “I guess so.” The cap in his right hand came up and aimed directly at Roslyn. “But I bet,” he said, his voice low and even, “that a year of living in this house in this town would guarantee you’d never want to part with a thing.” He turned on his heel and walked away, heading for the driveway at the side of the house.
Roslyn watched him disappear around the corner. She’d gone too far, she realized. And why, when she already knew she wasn’t going to take the house? Why hadn’t she simply responded to him with the calm courtesy she’d have used for any stranger? Instead, she’d egged him on, engaging him in some adolescent teasing reminiscent of a high school crush. And in spite of his compelling good looks, there was no way she could possibly be attracted to someone she’d known only two hours.
Still, when she heard the rumble of Jack’s truck starting up, Roslyn had to force herself not to look back before stepping inside Ida Mae Petersen’s house.
CHAPTER THREE
JACK REVERSED the truck right up to the end of the drive before he remembered he didn’t have Lenny with him. Fortunately—meaning, he didn’t have to go back into the house and risk seeing Roslyn again—his nephew had heard the engine and was now running down the drive, waving frantically.
Lenny clambered into the passenger side. “Thought you were leaving without me,” he gasped.
Jack roared out onto the street, shifted in an unusually jerky movement, and squealed north on Union Street toward the center of town.
“So…what’s up?”
Jack looked across at Lenny. “What do you mean?”
Lenny shrugged. “I don’t know. How come you’re heading back into town? Aren’t we going to the farm?”
“Thought I’d stop in at the post office—see if my catalogues came in.”
Lenny nodded, staring silently through the windshield. After a moment, he asked, “So, do you think she’s going to take it?”
“She?”
“You know…Roslyn. Isn’t that her name?”
“How the hell would I know?”
The air in the cab chilled a few degrees. Jack saw the confusion in his nephew’s face and regretted his outburst. “I don’t really know, frankly,” he added. “Guess she’ll take a few days to see the place and make up her mind.”
“Sophie and me figure she won’t. She’s too young to want to settle in Plainsville.”
Jack grinned. “Spoken like a true patriot son,” he commented.
“Well, you know. Plainsville is for the older generation.”
“Like mine?”
“Geez, Uncle Jack, you know I don’t think you’re old,” Lenny protested. “You’re six years younger than my Dad.”
“Who’s already an old geezer of…what? Forty-one?”
“Yeah.”
Jack waited in vain for Lenny to respond to the gibe. Finally, he said, “I’ve no idea how old Roslyn Baines is, but I do know that she must be one heck of a smart businesswoman to get where she is at that investment place in Chicago.”
“Too right!” Lenny exclaimed. “And she wouldn’t want to give it all up to move to boring old Plainsville is what I’m saying.”
“Maybe so, but you never can tell.”
“You can’t believe that!”
“She’s Ida Mae’s niece. Great-niece,” he corrected himself. “She’ll want to keep the house in the family.”
Lenny snorted. “Family! Geez, what family? Ida Mae never had anything to do with any family. The only real friend she had was great-grandpa Henry.”
“Who knows, Lenny? We don’t know everything about the Petersens and almost nothing about Miss Baines. There’s no point in second-guessing what she’ll do about the house.”
Lenny frowned in disbelief. “You act as if you don’t care what she decides. As if you almost hope she’ll move in.”
Jack felt a rush of warmth flow up into his face. He stared straight ahead, avoiding the suspicion in his nephew’s face. Of course, he didn’t want Roslyn to move in, but he’d hate himself if she turned down the house because of any kind of pressure from him. Ida Mae would have expected more of Jack. No. If the inheritance did fall to him, he wanted no inner qualms about taking it.
“IS THERE anything you’d like, Miss Baines?”
Sophie Warshawski was standing, dish towel in hand, in the archway between the living room and the hall.
Roslyn spun around from the fireplace, where she’d been examining a row of knickknacks on the mantel. “Please,” she said, “call me Roslyn.”
Sophie nodded, but said nothing in reply.
Roslyn felt as if she’d been caught shoplifting. “I was just looking at some of my aunt’s things.” Her glance circled the room. “She saved a lot over the years.”
Sophie nodded indifferently. “Most of this stuff is from long ago, when Miss Ida Mae was still a young girl. Far as I know, she never left Plainsville except to shop occasionally in Des Moines.”
Roslyn couldn’t imagine a young woman spending her whole life in a town as small as Plainsville. “She never went anywhere? Not even to college?”
“Nope. Old Mister Petersen apparently didn’t take with educating women, especially if they had plenty of money and wouldn’t want for anything.”
“We’re lucky that kind of thinking’s gone the way of the dinosaur.”
“Maybe. Still, an expensive education is no guarantee of happiness, is it?”
Roslyn refused to let the tone in Sophie’s voice intimidate her. “You know, Sophie, I’m completely mystified by all of this.”
Sophie’s eyebrows furled together. “How do you mean?”
Roslyn gestured into the room. “First of all, I never knew my grandmother even had a sister. I’d always thought she was an only child, like my own mother and like me. So I can’t understand why no one ever told me anything about the Petersen family. Then, to have this great-aunt leave me her house…” Roslyn gave up and turned back to the mantel. After a moment she said, “Please show me around the house. And whatever you can tell me about my aunt…well, I’d appreciate it very much.”
Sophie flipped the dish towel toward the hall. “We’ll start with the kitchen,” she said, “’cause that’s where I spent most of my time when I worked for your aunt.”
The smile she flashed was quick and tight, but somehow reassuring. Roslyn followed the housekeeper along the corridor and into the kitchen.
“Got a notepad?” Sophie asked when she reached the kitchen counter.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t career women take notes all the time? Case they miss something important?”
Roslyn realized she was teasing her and smiled.
Sophie pursed her lips together and scanned the room. “All this modern stuff was put in about twenty-five years ago, just after I started working for your aunt. She must have been about sixty-five or so when I started. Henry Jensen got me the job. That’s young Jack’s granddaddy. Henry and Ida Mae were friends for years, and she’d begun to have these dizzy spells. He was afraid she might fall, hit her head on something and lie helpless for days without anyone knowing about her. So he asked would I come work for her—do meals and light cleaning, laundry—just during the days like. Ida Mae was a sound sleeper, not the kind to get up and prowl around. Henry figured she’d be okay on her own at night, and I had my sister’s kids with me at the time, so it worked out better for me, too.” Sophie pulled out a chair and sat down.
Roslyn felt almost as breathless and sat down in a chair opposite her. A notepad would be useless, Roslyn thought. I’d never keep up.
“So that’s how and why I came here,” Sophie began again. “Now, as to this room. The table and chairs are real teak—brought right from Denmark when old Mr. and Mrs. Petersen emigrated to Iowa. I don’t mean Ida Mae’s parents. Her grandparents,” she clarified.
“How long have the Petersens been in Plainsville, then?”
Sophie shrugged. “Ida Mae’s grandfather started up the first bank in town and it stayed in the family until after her father passed away. Probably the family came over from Denmark in the eighteen hundreds. Lots of people in town are from Denmark or Norway—Jack’s family, too. All the names ending with en. That’s one way to tell. Later on, people came from Eastern Europe. Like me.” There was another glimpse of smile.
She pointed to the wall behind the sinks and counter. “See those blue-and-white tiles? Ida Mae told me her parents got them on their honeymoon in Europe.” Sophie shook her head, the smile on her face softening. “Miss Ida loved to tell stories about the things in this house. She was awfully proud. Some folks thought her a snob—and sometimes I thought so, too,” she admitted. “But she was always fierce about family and home.”
Roslyn averted her eyes from Sophie’s and peered down into her lap. Not fierce enough to keep in touch with mine, she thought.
Reading her mind, Sophie lowered her voice to say, “I have to say that you were almost as much of a surprise to me, as Ida Mae to you. First I knew about another branch of the family was in the last year of Miss Ida Mae’s life. Henry was over one night for coffee and dessert. I’d stayed a bit late—don’t recall why. Anyhow, before leaving I popped by the living room—or front parlor as Miss Ida called it—to say good-night. Henry was telling her she ought to let him contact her niece in Chicago. I remember his exact words because he was normally so mild-mannered. He said, in a very stern tone for him, ‘Ida Mae, you’ve got to put the past behind you. A lifetime of hating is enough. Call your niece.’ Then your aunt said in this kind of sad way, ‘It’s too late, Henry. Lucille is already dead.”’
Roslyn felt her breath catch. “My mother,” she whispered. “She died a little more than a year ago.”
Sophie nodded her head. “There you go. She knew about your people in Chicago and they surely knew about her, too. Yet not a one came to her funeral!”
Roslyn flushed. “There was only one left at the time—me. And believe me, I don’t know if we have any relatives in Chicago, much less in Iowa.”
Sophie raised her eyebrow again. “No one’s blaming you, Miss Baines. I just think it’s a shame, is all, that an old lady of ninety has no one at her funeral but a few distant cousins and people like the Jensens, who aren’t even related.”
Roslyn stared at the woman across from her. For a split second she pictured herself at ninety and wondered if she’d be any better off in terms of family or friends.
This time, Sophie dropped eye contact first. “Well, what’s past is past as they say. Best to get on with life. Shall we head into the living room now?”
“If you like,” Roslyn murmured. She suddenly felt exhausted, overwhelmed by the peculiar mix of emotions of the day, starting from the first shock of a man on a ladder at her bedroom window.
“You’re most likely tired from your trip here and all,” Sophie said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning and maybe we can go through your aunt’s things. Seems a shame to let all those clothes go to waste when so many people might want them.” Sophie placed her palms flat on the table to help herself out of the chair. “I’ll bring some apple muffins tomorrow and we’ll have another history lesson.”
Roslyn looked up into Sophie’s face and returned the first genuine smile the woman had given her that day. “Thanks, Sophie. Maybe I’ll wander the house myself for a while.”
“You do that. And enjoy your two or three days’ holiday here.” She bustled about the kitchen, retrieving her bags, sweater and purse, then left with a simple goodbye.
Roslyn kept her eyes on the empty doorway a while longer. She couldn’t help but be slightly amused that Sophie assumed she’d be heading back to Chicago permanently, leaving Plainsville, Iowa behind in the past. Right where it belonged.
AN HOUR of browsing through the house convinced Roslyn that, without knowing the background of the various pieces of china, crystal or furniture, she might as well be wandering through a museum. When she succumbed to a series of yawns, she knew it was time to get out for some fresh air and to grab a late lunch in town.
The house itself had been fascinating. Even Roslyn’s inexpert eye could see that no expense had been spared in the structure and interior design. Its remarkable features of rich wood paneling, staircase balustrade and vaulted ceilings edged with swirls of ornate molding reflected not only impeccable taste but meticulous attention to detail. No corner had been overlooked, from floor to ceiling.
It was only on the third floor, arranged in the shape of a T, that Roslyn detected signs of age and neglect. Circular patches of dampness spread across the ceilings in two of the bedrooms and the tiny alcove that made up the third bathroom in the house. Strips of wallpaper hung limply from the walls and, here and there, tendrils of loose paint curled upward. Roslyn guessed this floor had probably once accommodated servants. Out of sight and removed from the rest of the house and its visitors, it had been left to fend for itself over the years. She eyed the ceiling once more.
Must be damage from a leaky roof, she thought, and immediately conjured up Jack Jensen’s face. If he’d been looking after the place for the last few years, as he’d suggested, he’d obviously forgotten the roof. But then, perhaps his work had focused on the grounds rather than the house itself. Yet he had supposedly come that morning to clean the eaves troughs. Maybe his real purpose all along had been to check out the competition. Namely, her.
Roslyn smiled. He certainly didn’t seem like the kind of guy whose motive for helping little old ladies was to inherit their estates.
Roslyn navigated the steep staircase leading to the second floor. After exploring this level, she thought that if she were to move into the house, she’d definitely take the back bedroom across the hall. Twice the size of the other, it featured two gabled alcoves and four windows. The room would always be bright, especially in the summer, and had an unrestricted view of the fields and woods beyond. Roslyn stared out one of the windows and realized all that land could belong to her—if she wanted it.
She shook her head at the image of herself as a landowner. Somehow, it didn’t match her Chicago persona. But she’d take a walk through town, if only to see the rest of what she’d be relinquishing when she returned to the city.
AS SOON AS SHE WALKED in the door, Roslyn knew the teenager she’d spoken to in the convenience store had been the wrong person to ask about a good place to eat in town. She stood indecisively on the threshold. A quick look around the café told her no one present was over the age of twenty. The pulsing bass of a rock group pumped from a sound system guaranteed to be heard in the next county. Guys and girls in crisp white shirts and blue jeans whizzed about with trays of impossibly tall drinks and enormous desserts. A few heads turned Roslyn’s way, but nobody showed more than a fleeting interest in the newcomer. Their dismissal of her presence made her feel twice her thirty-two years. She couldn’t leave the place fast enough.
Back on the sidewalk of Plainsville’s main drag, Roslyn debated between finding a grocery store and making lunch at home or tackling the other side of the street. The street won, merely because the idea of preparing a meal in an unfamiliar kitchen was more than she could bear.
Jaywalking in Plainsville was a rare occurrence, judging by the number of stares she received as she dodged a few cars to cross. Safely on the other side, Roslyn walked toward the heart of Plainsville—a small grassy roundabout in the center of the street dominated by a bronzed statue of a man astride a horse and with a hawk perched on his shoulder.
Roslyn viewed this centerpiece from the sidewalk. Plainsville’s founding father, she wondered, accompanied by his loyal pet hawk? She smiled. Not for Plainsville the lure of modern sculpture! Still, she had to admit the town was pretty, its sidewalks lined with graceful trees and planter boxes filled with plants not yet in bloom. She caught the reflection of light in one of the trees and noticed that its branches were festooned with strings of Christmas bulbs. The streetlights were replicas of gas lamps and arched gracefully over the parking lanes.