The Inheritance. Janice Carter
a glass of orange juice and the other reaching for a muffin when Roslyn came into the room. He started to get to his feet, but Roslyn smiled and waved him down.
“Please,” she said, “you make me feel I’m attending a board meeting. And work is still a day or so away.”
He had a sudden picture of her then, in one of those nice-fitting, tailored suits, walking confidently into a room of executives. The image made him realize how far apart Chicago and Plainsville really were. Jack swallowed the lump of muffin in his throat.
“Sophie’s been telling me you two have worked all morning cleaning out closets,” he began, as she sat down in the chair opposite him. “Guess your aunt saved a lot of stuff.”
“Everything but what mattered most, I’m afraid. For some reason, there’s nothing but an old photograph of my grandmother and aunt as five-year-olds. At least, nothing I’ve found so far.”
“I know Miss Ida kept photo albums. I used to see her poring over them some days,” Sophie said.
“There were a few in the boxes. Maybe I’ll take them back to Chicago with me,” Roslyn said.
Jack avoided Sophie’s face, afraid she might wink or something. She hadn’t made any bones about who she wanted to take over the Petersen home, even though it rightfully belonged to Roslyn. He’d spent a whole day arguing the point with her when they’d first learned the terms of the will.
The house should go to the person who’d taken care of it, Sophie had asserted. The person who’d cherished it. And of course, he couldn’t deny that he was that person. He’d always loved the Petersen home, even as a kid when Grandpa Henry brought him to visit and the three would have iced tea on the veranda. He always sat on the swing and pushed it back and forth with the tips of his sneakers.
Still, he’d pointed out, he had no connection by blood to Miss Ida, and family had to count for something. Sophie had snorted at that remark. If Miss Ida loved her family so much, why hadn’t she kept in touch? Why leave a house to someone you never even met? And he hadn’t been able to think of a damn thing to say to that, except that maybe this great-niece would learn to love Plainsville. Sophie, as usual, got the last word. Or snort.
And now that niece was smiling nicely at him from across the table with eyes that must be the color of a sea somewhere, though not one he’d ever seen. Kind of a blend of blue and green, he decided, but the dominant shade depended on the light. He started to think about what tubes of paint he’d mix to get that shade when he realized she was talking to him.
“Hmm?” he asked, staring first at Roslyn then at Sophie, who was smiling broadly.
“I was saying that we ought to discuss the will. My return ticket’s for Sunday and—”
“Maybe I’ll go upstairs and finish up that front bedroom,” Sophie interrupted and swept out the door quicker than Jack had ever seen the housekeeper move.
He felt uncomfortable, the way Roslyn so bluntly got to the point. No small talk or preamble. Though he doubted she was the small talk kind of woman. Which was another thing that attracted him to her. That and a few other attributes, he had to admit.
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