Читать книгу The Inheritance - Janice Carter - Страница 9

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.

“I see you’ve already managed to find the best diner in Plainsville.”

Roslyn whirled to her left. Jack Jensen was standing inches from her shoulder and she brushed against him as she turned. “You startled me,” she gasped.

“Sorry, I should have tapped you on the shoulder or something. Either way, guess you would’ve jumped.”

“I—I was just looking at that statue,” she said, pointing to the roundabout.

“Oh. I figured you’d just had a bite to eat at Laverne’s place.” He craned his neck behind him.

Roslyn noticed for the first time the diner with the sign Laverne’s Coffee Shop propped against the plate glass window.

“Don’t be fooled by the name,” he added. “It’s not one of those trendy coffeehouses where you pay exorbitant prices for designer coffees and monster-size pastries that have no taste.”

Several corners in downtown Chicago popped into Roslyn’s mind. “Actually,” she said, “I was looking for a place to eat when the guy on the horse caught my eye. Right out of Main Street, U.S.A., isn’t it?”

He looked down at her, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The guy represents every pioneer and settler who had the guts to leave a safe home behind and head out for the unknown.”

Roslyn felt her face flush.

“And the hawk,” he continued, “well, anyone who knows their geography knows that Iowa is the Hawkeye State. Named after one of our famous Native Americans.” He waited a beat, then leaned into her face to say, “So much for the history lesson. Care for some lunch?”

“Great,” said Roslyn. “Maybe if I put some food into my mouth, I won’t be able to fit my second foot in.”

He smiled, stepping aside to let her go first. But then she heard him mutter. “Geez, I forgot I’m supposed to be meeting Lenny.”

“At Laverne’s?”

“Nah. This place is too old-fashioned for Lenny. He was going to wait for me near the roundabout.” Jack moved toward the edge of the curb and scanned the parkette surrounding the bronze statue.

His eyes crinkled against the sun and he pushed the tip of his baseball cap back off his forehead to get a better look. It was Roslyn’s first chance to get a better look, too. At Jack Jensen. Tall and lean rather than thin, he obviously kept in shape. His profile had strong lines without sharpness. Ordinary features that merged to form an attractive, though very un-Hollywood face. For some reason, that pleased her.

His head swiveled unexpectedly, catching her mid-stare, and Roslyn knew her face was red. “A dead giveaway,” he murmured softly.

“Say again?”

“Your skin tones. I bet you can’t ever tell a lie convincingly,” he teased, adding quickly, “Not that I’m suggesting you ever would!”

She grinned, just as Lenny’s shout got his attention.

“Damn!” he whispered, pulling his eyes from hers and staring down the street. Lenny was running toward them.

Lenny pulled up right in front of Jack. “Thought you were leavin’ me behind again,” he began, then stopped, catching sight of Roslyn. “Oh, sorry.” He looked from one to the other.

“I just bumped into Roslyn here,” explained Jack, “and, well, I was thinking of getting a bite to eat with her at Laverne’s.”

Lenny frowned. “Here? I thought we were going to Murphy’s!”

Jack stared silently at his nephew.

Willing him to shut up? Roslyn wondered. “You two go ahead with your plans,” she said. “Besides, I’m sure you have a lot of work to do today.”

“Yeah,” said Lenny, brightening at the reminder. “Aren’t we supposed to clear some brush for old man Watson?”

Jack flipped the cap off his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Little spikes stood on end, moistened by perspiration. “We can do that any day,” he said.

“Not with me, ’cause next week final exams are starting and I won’t be available.”

Jack sighed loudly and turned to Roslyn. “Look,” he began.

She held up a palm. “Another time. Just recommend something at Laverne’s for me.”

He gave a faint smile. “Anything. For lunch, maybe the club sandwich on whole wheat.”

“Sounds good,” she said, keeping her eyes on Jack’s face but catching the scowl on Lenny’s at the same time.

“Okay then,” he said, still playing with the cap in his hands.

There was a moment’s pause which Lenny broke. “The meter musta run out by now,” he grumbled.

Jack shot Lenny a look that silenced him. Roslyn was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Maybe you could pop around sometime tomorrow,” she suggested. “I think we need to talk about…well, things.”

“What time?” Jack asked.

She shrugged. “Sophie’s coming to help clean and go through some things with me. Maybe around eleven?”

“Good. Eleven.” He nodded enthusiastically, then put the cap back onto his head. “Okay, then. Tomorrow at eleven.”

“Geez, Uncle Jack,” Lenny interjected. “You’ve already said that a hundred times.”

Jack ignored his nephew and held out his right hand. Surprised by the sudden gesture, Roslyn placed hers in his.

“That’s good. That we’re going to talk, I mean,” Jack murmured, staring down into Roslyn’s eyes and clasping her hand gently in his.

Lenny sputtered something. Finally, Jack released her hand and, with Lenny tugging at his right elbow, began to move off down the street.

“Good grief,” mumbled Roslyn. “What a pair.” But her hand was still tingling when she placed it on the door to push it open.