Книга - The Inheritance

The Inheritance
Janice Carter


A mystery inheritance–with strings attached!Roslyn Baines can't believe what she's hearing. A great-aunt–someone she's never even heard of–has left her a large estate in rural Iowa on condition that she give up her career in Chicago for a year and live in the house. Otherwise, the alternate beneficiary–Jack Jensen–will inherit the place.Well, maybe he should. After all, he helped take care of it for years, while Roslyn didn't even know this side of her family existed; her grim-faced grandmother never discussed relatives. But Roslyn's curiosity draws her to Plainsville, Iowa, and once there, Roslyn–with help from Jack–uncovers the painful reasons behind her grandmother's silence.Now, also thanks to Jack, she's beginning to feel comfortable in the home of her ancestors. Trouble is, if she stays, Jack loses his inheritance. If she leaves, she may never see him again. And that's a risk she can't bear to take.









“I don’t understand that man at all.”


Roslyn looked at Sophie and continued. “I mean, I practically had to beg him to take this house off my hands. And how does he react? By implying that I don’t appreciate what’s being offered here. What does he expect? That I’ll just walk away from my life in Chicago because a great-aunt I never even knew existed left me this monstrous home with the condition that I have to live here for a whole year to look after a rosebush. A rosebush!”

Roslyn gave a half shrug, palms up in surrender. She sensed the housekeeper was waiting for something more, so she continued.

“The woman obviously didn’t give a hoot about my taking the place or she wouldn’t have made it so difficult. So when I decide to give it to the other beneficiary, he gets all prickly and accuses me of not caring about any of this.” Roslyn’s right hand swept an arc across the room.

“Jack would never—”

“Well, he did.” In fact, Roslyn thought, none of the conversation with Jack had gone the way she’d imagined. She thought he’d beam, offer a humble thank-you for her generosity and maybe even suggest some kind of celebration later.

An unexpected wave of disappointment flowed through her.


Dear Reader,

Writers are often asked the question, “Where do you get your ideas?” It’s a good question, but a difficult one to answer. Because writers are usually storytellers and daydreamers. They absorb anecdotes and snippets of passing conversation like sponges, holding on to them for future use.

When my friends, Jane Baldwin and Paul Christianson, recently married, they received a cutting from Paul’s family treasure—an antique rosebush brought to America generations ago by his Scandinavian ancestors. One day, as I admired this plant flourishing in their wonderful cottage garden, they told me the story of their Iowa rose.

I was captivated by the notion of a plant being passed down through generations as reverently as a piece of sterling silver. I could envision blooms from that plant in wedding bouquets, christening posies and funeral arrangements. A celebration of all aspects of life, the rosebush was a living tradition and heirloom.

If the rosebush could speak, it would have hundreds of stories to recount. In this novel, with its imaginary setting and characters, I’ve constructed one possible tale from the Iowa rose.

I am indebted to Jane and Paul for urging me to spin my own story about their family tradition.

I’d also like to send a big thank-you to my pal Linda Christensen for helping me to develop an investment-fraud scenario for the book.

Janice Carter




The Inheritance

Janice Carter





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Peter, with love

A special thank-you to Jane Baldwin and Paul Christianson for the story of their family’s Iowa rose.

And to Linda Christensen for the investment information




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#ud2c14c24-9b7d-5497-be5c-288f91db5975)

CHAPTER TWO (#u963aeb8e-f483-542d-b671-d6a3c8a22c17)

CHAPTER THREE (#u15f97d21-2fd5-5ed4-9827-91faca15a2ca)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u1c0d9bfc-9951-55c4-95ea-6e5ac7a69310)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


“THAT’S MY INHERITANCE? A rose?”

Randall Taylor, solicitor and executor of the estate of Ida Mae Petersen sighed from the other end of the line.

“Miss Baines, your aunt was concerned about keeping the family home in the family.”

“A bit late for family,” Roslyn cracked. “I haven’t seen nor heard from this Great-Aunt Ida and her side of the family my entire life.” She edged forward in her chair, setting her elbows on the desktop. “That’s the part I don’t understand. Why the contact after all these years? And why me? Can you give me some help here, Mr. Taylor?”

“Please, call me Randall. I’ve a feeling we’ll be having more conversations after today. The Iowa rose has been in the family for generations. Ida didn’t want to see it perish from neglect or be uprooted.” He paused. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on any other family uh…difficulties.”

“Randall, then—I don’t expect you to comment on the peculiarities of my family, but you have the advantage of knowing my aunt and the rest of the family in Iowa. I don’t understand why she’s left me anything at all, frankly, since my parents have had nothing to do with the Iowa relatives. Most of all, I’m puzzled by the inheritance itself. I mean, a rosebush? Was she some kind of eccentric recluse—or worse?”

Randall chuckled. “Some considered her eccentric, certainly. But she had all of her faculties, believe me, and a few to spare.”

“And she couldn’t get anyone in the whole of Plainsville to take on a plant?”

“That wasn’t the point. She made it very clear to me when we drew up the will that the rosebush had to stay in the Petersen family. When Ida read your mother’s obituary last year in a Chicago newspaper, she decided to change her will. There were no other living relatives more immediate than you. Plus, as she explained to me, she wanted to set the record straight on a few things.”

“Set the record straight?” Roslyn frowned. “What does that mean?”

Randall sighed. “Frankly, I don’t know. Ida Mae was a very private person and detested anything that might have been construed as prying. I assumed that she was referring to some family matter.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t know anything about a family matter. When I was growing up, the only family I had were my parents and grandparents in Chicago. I didn’t even know my grandmother had a sister, let alone a twin.”

“To tell you the truth, I never knew myself until I helped Ida make up this new will. My predecessor at our law office here in Des Moines had been her personal lawyer up until the last few years.”

After a moment’s pause, Roslyn asked, “Exactly what is the complete estate, then?”

“All right, let’s go over it again. Do you have time?”

“Certainly, my next appointment isn’t until one-thirty,” she said, without mentioning it was for lunch. Her fingers drummed lightly on the wooden desktop.

“Ida was sole owner of the Petersen family home in Plainsville, Iowa. Current market value is about three hundred thousand dollars. That’s the value of the house of course, and it stands on five acres of prime land in town with another hundred acres adjoining and stretching into the outskirts. Plainsville’s become a kind of distant satellite community to Des Moines, so the eventual value of the land could be quite high.”

Roslyn checked the time. “Go on.”

“Well, except for some old stock certificates and what’s in Ida’s savings account, the cash assets of the whole estate come to about thirty thousand, on top of the house. Now, I haven’t factored in the land because that part of it is purely speculative at the moment. Someone in your line of work can relate to that.”

“Sure,” she mumbled. Her fingers settled on the desk. She closed her eyes and massaged her brow. Then she glanced at her watch again. She had about twenty-five minutes. Why was she wasting her time going through all of this again? Why didn’t she just say, “Thanks, but no thanks” and get off the phone?

As if reading her mind, Randall said, “I know this is a lot to take in but I’ll go over the conditions once more, as well. Then I’ll leave you to your appointment.” He cleared his throat and Roslyn pictured him squinting through his reading glasses at the document. “So, the main condition to inheriting the entire estate is that you must live in the house and take care of the rosebush. Should you decide not to reside permanently in the house, your share of the inheritance will only be a cutting from the plant.”

Roslyn snorted. Great-Aunt Ida had to be some kind of crackpot. “And may I ask what happens to the estate in that event?”

“The estate will be offered to Jack Jensen of Plainsville, Iowa. Under the same condition.”

“Who’s he? Some distant cousin?”

“No relation at all. But the Jensen family is as old and well-known in the community as your aunt’s. Apparently young Jack and Ida Mae forged a strong friendship in her latter years.”

“So why didn’t she just leave everything to him in the first place?”

“Because they’re not family—there’s no blood connection. She wanted you to have first refusal.”

“That’s a good way to put it.” She thought for a moment and then added, “What’s to stop me from agreeing and then selling the house once it’s legally mine, without permanently moving in?”

“You must actually reside in the house for a year before the deed is officially signed over.”

“A year? In Plainsville?”

“Your aunt explained to me that taking over the home ought to be a true commitment, both to the town and to the family heritage. I suggest you take the weekend or longer to think all of this over. Don’t make a decision over the phone.”

Roslyn barely acknowledged his comment. A year in Plainsville was all she could focus on. What on earth could this great-aunt have been thinking?

WHEN ROSLYN finished her summary of the telephone conversation with the lawyer, she reached for her wineglass and leaned back into her chair and looked at her boss.

Ed Saunders poured the last of the wine into his own glass and reached into the inner pocket of his pinstripe suit. “Mind?” he asked, withdrawing a slender aluminum tube.

“Come on, Ed. That’s why we had our luncheon here—so you could light up at the table afterward.”

His grin was sheepish. “Got me there, I’m afraid. Well, this great-aunt of yours sounds like a real character.” He shook his head again and chuckled. “A rosebush! What was that line about a rose garden? Something from the seventies, wasn’t it?”

Roslyn shrugged. “I think it was a song—or a book or something. Anyway, so much for luck, eh? First time an unexpected inheritance falls into my lap and it turns out to be a cutting from an old rosebush.”

Ed rolled the unlit Cuban beneath his nose before moistening the end in his mouth. Roslyn peered down into her glass. She wished he wouldn’t light it, but didn’t have the nerve to object. They still hadn’t got to the heart of their meeting and she wasn’t going to jeopardize her chance to be a new junior associate of Saunders, McIntyre and Associates Investments over a cigar.

She heard the metallic click of a cigarette lighter and looked up as a large smoke ring drifted across the table.

“Thank heavens for my club,” Ed murmured, savoring his first puff. “Nothing like a decent Cuban after a fine meal.”

“Isn’t that ‘decent’ Cuban illegal?”

Ed winked. “Shhh! Not so loudly. ’Course—” he strained to glance over his shoulder “—I’m sure there are more than a few on the premises as we speak. Illegal, but not impossible to obtain.”

“All adding to the enjoyment, of course,” Roslyn said.

“That’s what I admire in you, my girl.”

Roslyn tried not to wince.

“Your quick and very insightful wit. And intelligence,” he added. “Which brings me to the purpose of our meeting.”

Roslyn gripped the stem of her wineglass. She raised it casually to her lips before responding. Swallowing the slightly fruity wine, she tilted her head in mock interest and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“As I intimated to you several weeks ago, Saunders, McIntyre and Associates Investments are taking advantage of the terrific market of the past year and the board has given the go-ahead to expand our operation. We’re setting up a new branch on the south side and want you to be in on it with us. As junior associate, with all the benefits and perks that come with the title.”

The tension in Roslyn’s stomach melted in a rush of excitement.

“So,” Ed continued, taking another drag on his cigar, “you’ve got to make a decision about this inheritance of yours, I suppose.”

“Not really, Ed. I mean, can you see me in Plainsville, Iowa?”

“I take your point,” he commented. “But before we leave, there is one more thing.”

Catching the ominous tone in his voice, Roslyn had a feeling she was about to hear the string attached to her promotion. After all, it had been a day of conditions.

HOURS LATER, on her way home, Roslyn let her forehead rest against the train window. She knew she ought to be feeling jubilant. Wasn’t making associate her primary goal since joining the investment firm five years ago?

She sagged against the plastic seat. Her eyes swept across the commuters leaving the heart of the city almost two hours after the peak of the rush hour. They all looked as wrung out as she felt. An inner voice scolded her for yielding to such a dark mood on what ought to have been the best day of her career so far.

She loved the erratic pace of her work days—the frenzy of buying and selling; urgent phone calls and spinning from one monitor to the next, checking stock prices around the world. Everything at her fingertips and everything demanding now, now!

Then there were the calm times—the interludes of sanity that Roslyn and her co-workers dubbed the eyes of the hurricanes. Those rare moments gave them time to replenish before the next storm.

You love it, she told herself. The unpredictability of it all. So why the funky mood? Roslyn wondered. Ed Saunders’s face floated through her mind. “There’s a problem at the firm,” he’d said. “Looks as if someone’s been skimming from client accounts.”

Roslyn’s immediate reaction had been simply shock, until Ed had mentioned that he believed that person might be Jim Naismith. Then her disbelief became nausea. She’d dated Jim a few times and liked him.

She thought back to the night almost five weeks before when she’d stayed to finish off the Wallis account and had bumped into Jim at the copy machine. The paper cartridge was empty and he’d shown her where the office receptionist kept a secret supply.

Their easy bantering had led to a late supper together. Although Roslyn had always avoided socializing on a personal level with the staff at the firm, she liked Jim’s easygoing manner and had gone out with him a few times. She’d been content to keep their friendship platonic but after she turned down his invitation to accompany him on a Caribbean cruise, their dating had come to an end.

The train squealed into Roslyn’s station. She headed for the platform in a daze. Another weekend loomed ahead. There was plenty of work to do, but none of it appealed to Roslyn in her present mood—not even her Saturday morning sleep-in followed by a run around the harbor.

She pushed her way through the turnstile and stood on the pavement outside the El station. The news about her strange inheritance had been sponged from her thoughts. All she could focus on was Ed’s request at the end of lunch.

I know you can’t—or maybe won’t—believe Naismith is our thief, but promise me one thing. If you see or hear him engaged in anything suspicious, let me know immediately, won’t you? In complete confidence, of course. Just between partners.

Was there a hint in that message somewhere, implying she’d have more access to Jim’s movements than anyone else in the office?

And she couldn’t keep back the second question that sprung to mind. What would her previous involvement with a suspected embezzler mean to her new promotion? However the events of the next few weeks played out, Roslyn knew there was no way she’d escape untouched. She couldn’t bring herself to spy on a colleague and friend; at the same time, how could she refuse her boss’s first big request of her—partner to partner?

I’m beat either way, she thought. All I can do is try to come out of this clean. She looked up and down the street, hoping to hail a cab for the short distance to her condo. But rush hour had finished and most of the cabs were going farther into the city for evening events.

Roslyn sighed, turned up her trench coat collar against the bite of a brisk April breeze, and, sidestepping puddles from the recent shower, headed home. It seemed an appropriate end to the day.

THE CONGRATULATORY messages were already coming in via phone and e-mail by the time Roslyn walked off the elevator at eight-thirty Monday morning. Her secretary, Judy, looked up in surprise.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming in today. Too much celebrating on the weekend?”

Roslyn grinned. “I wish. Too much traffic, not to mention too much rain.”

“I know,” Judy agreed. “Do you believe this weather? I mean, April showers bring May flowers and blah-blah-blah, but this is ridiculous. Anyway, the word is out on your promotion and there’s a stack of callbacks waiting for you.”

“You’re a pal, Jude.” Roslyn was halfway into her office when the telephone rang. Judy waved her fingers, mouthed the word coffee and turned away. Roslyn shrugged off her coat and tossed it over a chair.

“Hello?” She cradled the receiver against her left ear and sat down in her black leather swivel desk chair. Before the caller could speak, she’d already reached for the stack of messages that Judy had left for her and was shuffling through them. The day’s work had just begun.

“Miss Baines? Randall Taylor here.”

Randall Taylor? Roslyn closed her eyes. Friday afternoon’s revelations had completely erased Great-Aunt Ida and her prized rosebush from her memory.

“Oh yes, Mr. Taylor. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to call so early.”

“Randall,” he reminded her. “Well, I have to leave Des Moines on business for a few days and I thought I’d check with you before I left regarding your thoughts on the inheritance.”

Roslyn sighed. “I’m afraid I haven’t made a decision. Something came up at work later on Friday, and I spent most of the weekend reflecting on that. Uh, when will you need a definite yes or no on this?”

There was a slight pause. “There’s no real rush, of course. Although I must admit I’d like to have things settled as soon as possible. Once the will has been probated, I should really move ahead with finalizing things. However,” his voice shifted to a less businesslike tone, “may I give you some friendly advice?”

Roslyn pushed aside the phone messages. “Certainly.”

“I know that to someone who’s spent her whole life in a place like Chicago, Plainsville, Iowa isn’t much of a draw.” He chuckled. “In fact, probably Des Moines itself isn’t a grabber.”

Roslyn nodded her head in silent agreement. She wished the man would make his point so she could get to some of her telephone calls.

“But please, take a few days and visit your aunt’s house before you decide.”

“Visit Plainsville?”

“It wouldn’t be that bad, seriously. Late April isn’t the best time of year for Iowa, I’m afraid, but you ought to see your aunt’s home before dismissing it.”

Roslyn sighed again. He must have been reading her mind. She’d been about to inform him to call Jackson or Johnson or whoever the other beneficiary was. “Randall, I’m really very busy here. I seldom have time to take a day off, much less a few days.”

“The house is very special. Trust me. It’s a heritage house, Roslyn, and is well-known in the county.”

“I doubt that would be a selling point with me, Randall. Living in a tourist attraction doesn’t appeal.”

“It’s not like that. People here are too respectful of other folks’ privacy. But the Petersen name is almost as famous as the house and a visit would be an opportunity to get to know that side of the family.”

“There’s got to be a good reason why my side of the family chose not to know the other, Randall. I think I’ll go with my parents and grandparents’ judgment on this.” Irritation bristled in her voice.

“I’m really botching this, I’m afraid. But any businessperson will attest that a property should never be turned down sight unseen. As a potential investment for you, the house in Plainsville ought to be given that chance at least.”

She admired his strategy, knowing it was one she’d have used with a client herself. “Tell you what, Randall, I’ll think about a visit. I believe I have your number in Des Moines—is there an e-mail address on the card?”

“’Fraid not. I personally avoid the computer as much as possible. Should you decide to visit before I return, I’ll leave instructions and a key with my secretary.”

Roslyn made her goodbyes and gave Randall’s suggestion a few seconds of her time until the telephone rang again. Then she retrieved her sheaf of messages and let the day’s business take over. Until shortly after lunch, when there was a gentle tap at her door.

It swung open at her “Come in” to reveal Jim Naismith standing in the frame and clutching a dozen red roses. Roslyn’s stomach pitched. A crescending drumroll pounded at her left temple. Feeling a rush of heat suffuse into her face, she managed a surprised smile and blurted, “For me?”

ROSLYN DIDN’T get a chance to confer with Ed Saunders until late in the afternoon. For hours, she’d sat in her office staring at Jim’s bouquet of roses, stuck somewhat unceremoniously in an empty coffee can. All the while, she kept replaying his gracious congratulations. Something had changed in his manner, she decided.

The old Jim would have hung around longer, teasing her about moving up the corporate ladder. All of the banter would have been delivered with sincerity and pleasure at such a reward of her hard work. The handful of times they’d dated had taught her that about Jim Naismith.

Or had it? she suddenly asked herself. Because this Jim hadn’t lingered for small talk and had, after giving her a quick hug, pulled back immediately. He’d been evasive about her general inquiry about his weekend, mumbling that he’d been into the office, and had become defensive at the surprise in her voice. He’d blurted that some people in the office had been dealt a bigger workload than others.

His reaction had startled Roslyn. Jim had never seemed to be the type of workaholic who felt that he was the only one with a heavy load. And when she’d casually asked him what account had kept him in the office all weekend, he’d simply shrugged and left her office. By the time Roslyn closed Ed Saunders’s door behind her later that day, she was beginning to think she might have been wrong about Jim.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said on Friday,” she began.

Ed frowned.

“About Jim Naismith.”

Her boss placed the pen in his right hand onto the desk. “Go on,” was all he said.

Roslyn swallowed. She couldn’t go through with it. Even after checking security’s sign-in log over the past three weeks and noting that Jim had come into work every weekend, she couldn’t ally herself with Ed against Jim. There had to be an explanation, even if it was the standard one—that all the investors were overworked and desperate to earn their commissions and bonuses.

But there was more to her emotional response, she knew. Staring at Ed’s florid face, the shock of white hair and rugged good looks that had many younger clerks swooning in his wake, she realized that she was reluctant to voice her thoughts about Jim simply because she feared jeopardizing her promotion. Still, experience had taught her that the truth would always come out in the end.

“I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you—about Jim, I mean,” she stammered at the question in his face. “You see, Jim and I’ve…well, dated a few times and although we’re just good friends, I thought our socializing might…well…”

“Prejudice your involvement?”

Dry-mouthed, Roslyn nodded.

Ed leaned forward, resting his chin on his right thumb and index finger. He thought long enough to convince Roslyn he might be pondering a way to rescind Friday’s promotion offer.

“I appreciate your frankness as well as your ethical integrity here, Roslyn. Of course, I won’t expect you to give me information on a colleague whom you’ve been seeing in a social context.”

“A casual social context,” she blurted, afraid that this breach of an unspoken office rule would seal her fate.

But Ed smiled. “Whatever. I won’t put you in any position of conflict of interest here.” He paused, glancing down at the paper lying on his desk. “However, I do have a favor to ask.” He raised his head, fixing his watery blue eyes directly on hers.

Roslyn felt her face color. “Yes?”

“Needless to say, I expect you to keep all conversations about this matter in the strictest of confidence.”

“Of course.”

“The board has decided to conduct its own internal inquiry into Naismith’s accounts before calling the Securities Exchange Commission or…the police,” he added softly.

The police. The impact of what all of this would mean to Jim suddenly hit her. Roslyn could only nod.

Ed narrowed his eyes at her. “Perhaps, if you’ve got nothing immediately pressing on your desk, you might even want to take a few days’ holiday. Things might get a bit tense around here. Your…uh, friendship with Naismith will place you in an awkward position.”

Roslyn glanced away from the intensity of his stare and the insinuation in his voice. Did he think she might be involved in the fraud as well? Get a grip on yourself, Roslyn. The man is only trying to be considerate of your feelings. And she had to admit, he had a point. She’d already felt very conflicted about Jim’s gift of roses.

Roses! Her response tumbled out. “Actually, the lawyer I was speaking to on Friday—the one who called from Des Moines about my inheritance,” she clarified at the frown on Ed’s face. “He advised me to visit Plainsville to check out the house, before making a decision about taking it.”

“Excellent idea. Take a few days—even a couple of weeks. By then, we’ll know whether we have enough to go to the Exchange Commission or not.”

Roslyn backed toward the door. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll have Judy arrange for my current files to be monitored by someone else.”

“Not Naismith,” Ed quipped.

Roslyn smiled, but hated the touch of conspiracy in the gibe. She closed the office door behind her, leaning against it long enough to catch her breath. Ed was right about one thing, she realized. She definitely needed to get away from the office. And right at that moment, Plainsville, Iowa didn’t look half-bad.




CHAPTER TWO


ROSLYN HANDED a ten-dollar bill to the cabbie and bent over to pick up her luggage, receiving a wake of puddle spray as the taxi peeled away from the curb. It was the final indignity in a long day of exasperation, irritation and white-knuckle flying. The brief flight from Chicago to Des Moines had been plagued by nonstop turbulence and pitching in the midst of a thunderstorm. On arrival in Des Moines, Roslyn discovered she’d missed her bus connection to Plainsville and would have to wait another two hours.

“There’s a crop dusting outfit that uses a local farmer’s field for landing and takeoff. I could find out about chartering a plane, if you like. Though—” the information clerk had snapped her chewing gum thoughtfully as she turned to squint out the window “—you might wanna wait for the bus.”

But Roslyn had already decided she’d rather walk than get on another plane. A farmer’s field? Only in Iowa.

The stopover gave her an opportunity to call Randall Taylor’s law office to confirm arrangements about getting into Ida Mae’s house. His secretary informed her that the key had been left under the front doormat by a clerk who lived nearby. By the time the bus to Plainsville pulled into the station, Roslyn was ready to sign over the deed to the other beneficiary without taking another step into Iowa.

She was soaked before she reached the sweeping veranda of the large house standing in darkness yards away from the rain-slicked pavement. It was almost ten o’clock on Tuesday night, and Roslyn had noted during the short ride from the bus station on the other side of town that Plainsville was quieter than the Exchange after a market dive.

When the taxi had pulled up to her aunt’s home— “The Petersen place? No kidding? You a Petersen?”—Roslyn also noticed that the houses on either side of her aunt’s were already in darkness.

Between mumbling to the cabbie— “Yes and…uh, no, not really”—and muttering to herself that everything in Plainsville appeared to have shut down for the night, Roslyn had little chance to take in more than the general shape of the house. But from the covered veranda, she paused to look out to the street, observing for the first time a waist-high fence she’d bet was white picket, framing an expanse of property whose borders she couldn’t see.

The neighborhood was unlike any she’d seen in the city, where lots were much smaller. Here the homes were scattered like giant building blocks, surrounded by huge trees and sprawling front lawns. Randall hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the Petersen house was on the outskirts of town. Roslyn couldn’t be certain in the rainy night if the road ended less than a mile beyond or not, but she bet it did. In fact, she guessed her aunt’s place was probably just a stop sign away from being called a farmhouse.

Roslyn stooped to lift up the edge of the bristle mat at her feet, and her fingers touched a small envelope. She tore it open and shook out a set of keys.

After two attempts, she managed to turn the key and the door swung open, complaining in a low-pitched creak. Roslyn stepped into the dark interior. She felt around the edges of the doorjamb for a light switch and released her breath in a long whoosh when she located and flicked on three lights. The porch, the hallway and the staircase leading from the entry flashed into existence.

Sixty watts, she thought, straining to see beyond the narrow field of illumination. She turned back for her suitcase and briefcase, closing the door behind her. From somewhere within the house she could hear the steady tick of a pendulum clock.

“Hello?” Roslyn’s voice cracked slightly, and she tittered. Whom did she expect to answer? All the little critters that inhabit dark places when people aren’t around? Better not go down that path, she warned herself. Especially when you’re spending the night here alone.

She stared down at the envelope in her hand, realizing that there was a folded paper inside.

Dear Miss Baines,

Sorry I couldn’t meet you at your aunt’s but I had to take my son to his karate lesson tonight, and no one else was available. I arranged for Miss Petersen’s housekeeper—Mrs. Warshawski—to open the house for you and make up a bed in one of the bedrooms. She also said she’d buy a few provisions—coffee, tea, milk etc.—for you. Mrs. Warshawski worked for your aunt for twenty-five years, and Mr. Taylor asked her to stay on until the will was settled. She lives on the other side of town but will be there to meet you in the morning.

Enjoy your first evening in Plainsville and feel free to call me at Mr. Taylor’s office if you need anything else.

Sincerely,

Jane Baldwin

Roslyn picked up her suitcase and headed for the staircase, too exhausted to explore. All she wanted was to find the bed that had been prepared for her, dig out the miniature bottles of airline Bourbon that she’d tucked into her purse and crawl under the covers.

TIME TO TURN OVER, Roslyn thought, and bake the other side. She flung an arm across her eyes, shielding them from the glare of a Caribbean sun that penetrated even through closed lids. Her mouth was so dry. She tried to move her lips but they were stuck together. A tall frosty drink. Had to be somewhere close, she thought. At my elbow. Her eyes blinked open.

Not the Caribbean, she realized at once. Sunlight streamed from the window opposite the bed she was lying in. Roslyn slowly flexed the fingers of her right hand, thick and lifeless from lack of circulation. She rotated her head gently on the pillow, scanning the room and wondering for a brief but scary moment where on earth she was.

The decor of the room helped fix the setting—chintz everywhere and clunky dark wooden furniture. Gilt-framed portraits of people in various periods of dress were arranged on one wall papered with tiny purple violets. Two pastoral landscapes hung on the opposite. The double bed she was sprawled in had once been painted white. A long time ago, she decided, craning round to view the wrought iron headboard, slightly chipped and splashed with dots of rust.

Plainsville, Iowa. Not the Caribbean at all.

Roslyn struggled to raise herself onto the thick feathered pillows beneath her head. Doing so, she knocked the night table with her left elbow and the two empty miniature Bourbon bottles clinked onto the floor. Roslyn winced at the noise, and her head fell back onto the pillows, banging against the iron bed frame.

She raised a hand to rub the tender spot. The travel alarm clock propped against the lamp on the night table indicated nine o’clock. Back in Chicago, she’d have been hard at work for an hour.

Suddenly the complete emptiness of the day loomed before her. She was in a small Midwestern town, a place she’d never even heard of until last week, lying in a strange bed in someone else’s house. She’d committed herself to staying five days and didn’t have the least idea what she would be doing here.

Roslyn groaned, wondering how she’d gotten herself into such a ridiculous situation. What little she knew about Iowa came from grade school geography. She recalled green undulating hills, flat lands and farms. Lots of farms. She only hoped Plainsville contained a good bookstore and coffee shop.

She groaned again, then stretched, raising her bare arms above her head and wrapping her hands around the curving loops of the headboard behind. The patchwork quilt fell away, exposing the silky top of her sleeveless ice-blue nightgown. No wonder she’d been shivering all night. Flannel was definitely a must for Plainsville, Roslyn decided, even in late April. But the wash of sun spilling over her and onto the hardwood floor was inviting. She flung off the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

A heavy thud from outside stopped her cold. Roslyn looked over to the window. She hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains the night before, guessing there were no neighbors close enough to be spying on her. She padded across the room reaching the long rectangular window just as a man’s head popped into view.

Roslyn stepped backward, one hand automatically covering her mouth and the other vainly attempting to sling back the spaghetti strap of her nightgown. The man outside the window grinned and waved a hand. Roslyn noticed then that he was standing on the top rung of a ladder. Suddenly he raised a fist clenched around some kind of tool which he tapped against the window frame.

Roslyn swung round to the bed, grabbed the quilt to wrap around her and ran from the room. She took the stairs two at a time but when her bare feet thumped onto the floor at the bottom of the staircase, she stopped. She didn’t know the layout of the house. God, she didn’t even know if there was a telephone. No. Wait. The note from the secretary mentioned something about a phone call. But where the heck…?

She pivoted left, then right. The size of the house daunted her. Better to aim for the front door, straight ahead. She snapped the dead bolt and pulled hard. Last night’s storm had left behind puddles. Roslyn shoved her feet into her pumps lying where she’d kicked them off last night and rushed onto the veranda.

She clipped down the slick cement steps onto the narrow strip of sidewalk that curved toward the rear of the house. Roslyn marched along the path, barely noticing the sunlight bouncing off damp patches of grass, puffing sprays of mist into the morning air. She heard voices ahead and as she came around the corner of the big frame house, she saw two men—one lounging against the bottom portion of a long aluminum ladder and the other scrambling down the rungs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarled at them.

HE GUESSED right away who she was. Ida’s lawyer had called from Des Moines over the weekend to say that the niece—great-niece?—might be visiting for a few days to check the place out before deciding to move in or not. He hadn’t dreamed she’d come so soon.

All the rain they’d taken over the last four days had got him to thinking that he hadn’t cleaned out the gutters and eaves troughs after the winter. Last fall he’d noticed a few weak spots in the old copper troughs and had dictated a mental note to himself to repair them for Ida. So he’d persuaded Lenny to come along and hold the ladder for him while he cleaned out the troughs. He was still chuckling when he plunked a foot onto the grass at the base of the ladder.

“Should’ve seen the look—” he said when a vision whirled around the end of the house.

She looked even better in full sunlight, he thought; her hair a swirl of reds and coppers burnishing out from her pale face like an electrified halo. And the face. The white skin translucent enough to reflect hints of spring all around them. He could paint that face! Though, he swiftly amended, not with that particular expression on it.

He held up both palms, dropping his trowel onto the ground. “Sorry about that, Miss. Uh…I was just about to clean out the eaves troughs—”

“The eaves troughs?”

Either she’d never heard of an eaves trough or she found his explanation ridiculous.

“I used to work for Miss Ida Mae. Well, we were friends, too. Anyway, I did a lot of odd jobs for her and after the rain this week, I thought I’d better get at those—”

“Eaves troughs.”

He stopped then, realizing that the glint in her eyes had more to do with anger than sparkles from the sun. He wondered if his own embarrassment was as obvious as it was starting to feel because she stared at him until he imagined he’d been the one caught parading outdoors in a nightie instead of her.

Then her gaze abruptly shifted, zigzagging from a point behind him, to the ladder, to Lenny, back to him and finally, to the tools lying on the grass.

“J.J.’s Landscaping and Garden Center,” she muttered. Obviously she’d noticed his truck.

“That’s me—Jack Jensen. And this is my nephew Lenny, who’s helping me out today. And you must be the niece.”

She seemed to be in a daze. “The niece?”

“Ida’s niece—or is it great-niece?” Jack turned to Lenny. “Is that what she’d be called? Great or grand?”

Lenny gave him a look as mystified as the niece’s, and Jack swore at himself for babbling.

“Jack Jensen?”

Jack and Lenny both turned back to the woman. Disbelief was all over her face.

“You mean, you’re the other beneficiary?”

Jack wasn’t certain of the insinuation in her voice but he caught Lenny grinning at it. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. And you would be Miss—”

“Baines,” she said. “Roslyn Baines.” She stuck out her right hand, releasing the quilt she’d been clutching. It dropped to the ground.

The nightgown shimmered in the sunlight, its filmy blue fabric undulating against her long slender legs and body like ripples in a mountain stream. Jack and Lenny looked down at the ground. There was a fluttering sound as Roslyn swooped to retrieve the quilt. When they both dared to raise their eyes, she was heading toward the front of the house.

“I’ll finish this up another time,” Jack hollered after her.

She paused, turning around only long enough to say, “Come into the house when you’ve put your things away,” then disappeared around the corner.

There was a moment’s silence that Lenny finally broke. “Geez,” he said.

Jack nodded, staring at the end of the house. “You can say that again.”

THEY TOOK their time putting things away. Roslyn peeked out the bedroom window as she snatched clean clothes from her suitcase and carried them into the bathroom across the hall. A room she figured would be safe from accidental sightings. Then she had to smile. What a sight she must have presented!

Humiliation swept through her. Granted, she’d been startled and perhaps a tad frightened, which came from spending her whole life in Chicago. People who accessed apartments from ladders or fire escapes in the city were usually emergency personnel or cat burglars. Or worse—the stuff of nightmares. But when she’d taken in their smirking faces and the name on the beat-up truck in the drive, the fear had sizzled into anger.

Roslyn knew from personal experience that her temper could be awesome, although its effect was definitely diminished when teamed with a flimsy nightie. Padding across the cool tiles, she slipped a pale lavender shirt off its hanger and buttoned it up, letting it hang loose over her black jeans.

The single window in the bathroom gable telescoped out over the roof. Bending low from the waist, she could just see the front of the truck. The men were leaning against the hood, talking. Part of a ladder extended over the cab of the truck. So they were finished, but not exactly rushing to her front door.

Roslyn sighed. Who could blame them, after such an unfriendly greeting? She closed the last button on her shirt and realized she’d left her makeup bag in the bedroom. If she didn’t hurry, they might decide to leave. For some inexplicable reason, she was loath to have her first meeting with Jack Jensen—the other beneficiary—hang on such a sour note.

Abandoning makeup, she fought with her hair, twisting it through an elastic band. A quick brush of her teeth and her toilette was complete. One last glance in the mirror on her way out the door made Roslyn realize that no one in her office would even recognize her at that moment. But for Plainsville, she thought wryly, it would do. She headed for the first floor.

The hesitant tapping at the front door almost made her laugh. Were they afraid of her now? She pulled hard on the heavy door, calling out a hearty “Come in.”

A short, plump woman of about sixty stood before her. “Miss Baines?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry,” Roslyn stammered. “I—I was expecting someone else.”

“You were?” Disbelief echoed in the voice. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary asked me to be here by nine at the latest. And,” she peered at the tiny watch face on her thick wrist, “I make it to be five minutes to…on the dot.”

“No, no, you misunderstand. You see—”

“There was no misunderstanding at all, from what I recall.” She squinted hard at Roslyn. “Unless you changed the instructions without letting me know.”

Roslyn sighed. “Please, come in. You must be my aunt’s housekeeper. Mrs.—?”

“Warshawski. Folks call me Sophie.”

“Sophie. Nice to meet you. I’m Roslyn.” She extended her hand, which the other woman ignored. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary mentioned in her note that you’d be coming by this morning.”

“So there was a note!” Vindication rang in her voice.

Roslyn looked past the woman’s shoulder to see the men staring up at her from the bottom of the veranda steps. The one who’d introduced himself as Jack had a smile on his face that seemed almost pitying. There was an exchange of glances between the two of them that Roslyn couldn’t read. Perhaps telepathic agreement that the woman from Chicago was indeed a major nutbar?

Weary of explanations, Roslyn swung the door open wider and made an ushering motion with her left arm. “Please! All of you, come on in.”

Mrs. Warshawski frowned, then hesitantly peered round her shoulder. Her face softened. “Jack! Didn’t see you standin’ there.”

He nodded. “Mornin’, Sophie. Hope you brought some coffee.”

The woman beamed. “Sure did. Even a dozen biscuits right out of the oven.”

Lenny took the steps two at a time and plucked the canvas bag out of Sophie’s hand. “I’m starvin’. Let’s go.” He crooked an arm through Sophie’s and the two squeezed past Roslyn and headed into the house.

Jack paused on the door stoop.

Up close, Roslyn felt dwarfed by his height, a good four or five inches more than her own of five-nine. It was a sensation she hadn’t experienced many times in her life and it made her feel strangely vulnerable.

“Sophie’s baking is legendary,” he explained, giving an apologetic smile for Lenny’s rush into the house.

His eyes crinkled in weather-etched lines. Dark as midnight, but kind, Roslyn decided. He swept off the faded baseball cap to reveal a thick head of short, black hair.

“Well? Shall we join them?” He grinned down at her and before she could reply, was halfway down the hall.

Roslyn slowly closed the door. She was beginning to feel like a character in a quirky novel. Not Alice in Wonderland exactly, but close enough. She recalled a title from her college days. Yes. More like Stranger in a Strange Land.

Their voices led her along the wood-paneled hallway to a kitchen she was seeing for the first time. She watched from the door. The three were bustling about the large, airy room as if they’d spent their whole lives in Ida Mae’s house.

They went about the task of making coffee, getting plates and mugs out of tall, wooden cupboards and extracting jam jars and plastic containers from Sophie’s canvas bag in a routine that appeared to have been performed many times. All the while, snippets of conversation ricocheted off the walls. Bits of talk beginning with “Did you hear that…?” or “Well, I never…” and even “I guess you knew that…” were followed by occasional lapses into brief silence.

Finally they noticed Roslyn, turning almost as one toward the doorway. Jack placed the cutlery he’d just taken from a drawer onto the rectangular harvest table in the center of the room and took a step toward her.

“Miss Baines—please come and sit down. We…uh, well I suppose we got carried away there. Thinking it was like old times when we’d gather for coffee on a Saturday morning with Miss Ida Mae after we’d done the yard work. Sophie here always made a pan of biscuits or cinnamon buns, and Lenny and I—or Miss Ida, if Lenny wasn’t with us—would get the coffee ready.” He stopped. “I’m babbling. Please,” he pulled out a ladder-back chair from the table, “sit down. We’ve forgotten our manners. This place is your home now.”

Silence doused the energy in the room. Sophie’s lips tightened, and Lenny gazed out the window. Roslyn returned Jack’s smile and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair. When the coffee was poured and the biscuits set on a platter, the three other chairs were pulled out in unison.

Roslyn sipped carefully on the hot brew. “Since I’m only here a few days, I’d like to visit Plainsville’s main attractions,” she said to break the silence.

Sophie’s face smoothed into a smile. “Not many attractions so to speak, but I’m sure Lenny could drive you around the center of town. We’ve got some shops and restaurants that some people drive all the way from Des Moines to visit.”

Roslyn hastily interjected, “I’m sure Lenny has plans for the day. I can wander into town myself. The ride from the bus station last night didn’t take longer than twenty minutes.”

“You musta got Morty Hermann,” Lenny stated.

Sophie shook her head. “That man. He’d cheat his own mother.”

“One of our three cabbies in town,” Jack explained. “Unfortunately, he takes advantage of newcomers. The ride here from the station should only have taken five or ten minutes, max.”

“Oh, well,” sighed Roslyn. “That happens all the time in Chicago, unless you know exactly where you’re going.”

“You’re right. Happened to me a few times,” Jack agreed.

“You’ve spent some time in Chicago?” Roslyn asked.

“A bit,” he said. “I lived there for almost ten years.”

“Oh,” was all that Roslyn could think to say, feeling foolish for assuming he’d spent his whole life in Plainsville.

“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.

“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.




CHAPTER FOUR


ROSLYN COULDN’T remember the last time she’d felt so restless. Or could this gnawing sensation be loneliness?

No, she thought, pushing the suggestion away. More like boredom from midweek in Plainsville, Iowa.

She rose from the wicker rocking chair she’d found in the sunroom off the kitchen and prowled back and forth along the veranda. April was far too soon to be sitting outdoors in the evening, but the silence inside the house was pressing. She wrapped the afghan tighter around her, reluctant to head back inside for her jacket. Once there, she knew she’d simply turn out the lights and go to bed. It was only nine o’clock and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d retired so early. Maybe the day after her mother’s funeral a year ago, when sleep had been a welcome escape.

Her mother’s pretty face flashed before her. Lucille Dutton Baines. Roslyn sighed, trying to conjure up a picture of her mother in which she didn’t have a defeated look. If Roslyn went back to the years before her parents divorced, she could almost envision a mother who smiled and laughed. Roslyn had never learned all the reasons for the breakup. She remembered a lot of arguments about money. As the years passed, other issues cropped up, and her father began to stay out at night.

Moving into Grandma and Grandpa Dutton’s row house had ruled out any chance of reconciliation. Roslyn shivered at the very memory of Grandma Dutton’s hawklike face and thin, brittle body. Not the kind of body that welcomed a child’s embrace. Was it any wonder, she asked herself in the center of Ida Mae Petersen’s veranda, that her grandmother had never revealed anything about her family? Would any family want to claim someone like Grandma Dutton?

That sobering question was unlikely to be answered. For here she was, in the very seat of the Petersen family, and anyone who might know the complete story was dead. The image of herself as sole survivor of the Petersen clan made Roslyn feel even worse than she had moments ago. She headed for the door, pausing to take a last look at the garden Jack had shown her that morning.

The Iowa rose was bathed in the dim light from the front hall. If only the plant could speak, she thought. Then she shook her head. You’re losing it, Baines, she said to herself. Next you’ll convince yourself that the bush knows all kinds of secrets.

SOPHIE PURSED HER thin lips together and frowned.

“That rosebush,” she enunciated slowly, obviously irked by Roslyn’s question, “came to Iowa from Denmark more than one hundred and fifty years ago. They call it an antique rose, because it’s from the original stock. Not a hybrid, like most of the ones you get nowadays.” She smiled, her face softening. “Jack told me all that. Anyway, your Aunt Ida’s ancestors carried it with them when they came to America all those years ago. It must have been important to the family even then, because people didn’t have the luxury of taking a lot of stuff with them when they traveled on those little boats all the way across the Atlantic.”

Sophie stopped then, her eyes drifting off in a kind of reverie. Imagining the voyage, Roslyn wondered?

The other woman’s eyes blinked rapidly, then gazed across the kitchen table at Roslyn. “Sorry, I got to thinking about my own folks coming over, but they traveled in a modern boat, of course.” She took a deep breath. “As I was saying, the rose was planted in the family homestead—where we’re sittin’ this minute—and has been looked after by generations of Petersens ever since.”

Roslyn waited for Sophie to continue. “And?” she prompted.

Sophie raised her broad shoulders in reply. “That’s it. You asked what was so special about the rose.”

“So they brought it over from Denmark. I still don’t see why Aunt Ida would have been worried enough about it to will it to me.”

Sophie flashed Roslyn a look that questioned her basic intelligence. “The rose has been just as much a part of family life as any person. Every time any Petersen got married, the bride had to have roses in her bouquet. If a Petersen died when the rose was blooming, the flowers would be placed in the funeral wreaths. Whenever a Petersen moved away from Plainsville, a cutting from the rose would go with them.” She plunked her empty coffee mug down and stared at Roslyn.

“How do you know all this?”

“Oh, your aunt told me many times, over the years. She fussed over that rosebush as if it were her own child.” She closed her eyes for a second, then shook her head sadly. “I suppose it was, too. Poor Ida.”

“Why?”

“She never got to use the rose herself, her dying in January….”

“No roses, then,” Roslyn murmured.

Sophie gave her a sharp look, but went on. “And of course, the dear soul never married.”

“I wonder if my grandmother had a cutting from the rose in her bridal bouquet.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you know?”

“I know less than you, apparently. I remember a photograph of my grandma and grandpa all dressed up and arm in arm, standing in front of a building. My mother said it was their wedding picture—they got married in a registry office in Chicago, I think. I don’t know if she had a bouquet in her hand or not.”

“Where’s the picture now?”

“Probably in a trunk full of stuff from my mother’s flat. I—I never had the courage to go through it after Mom died. It’s all in storage now.” Roslyn’s voice drifted off.

After a moment’s silence, Sophie announced, “Well, speaking of storage. I guess it’s time we got to cleaning out Miss Ida’s room.”

Roslyn reluctantly followed Sophie along the hall and up the stairs. It was a bright, sunny morning. The skeletal tops of trees behind the house were visible through the transom window on the first landing, and Roslyn wondered what they’d look like in full leaf. Then she caught herself. Trees, silly. They’d look like trees.

“When Miss Ida and her sister were young girls, they shared the big back bedroom,” Sophie said as they turned at the top of the stairs.

“It’s a beautiful bedroom,” she murmured. “If I lived here, that’s the one I’d have.”

“Except you won’t be living here,” Sophie reminded her gently.

Roslyn’s face heated up. She was tempted to say something about not having made a decision yet, but was loath to spoil the easy neutrality that she and Sophie had struck together over morning coffee.

Sophie herself seemed to regret her remark. “Maybe you should move in there for the next couple of nights—just to satisfy your curiosity.”

Roslyn’s smile was faint. “No,” she said. “No point, is there?” She squeezed past Sophie and headed for the master bedroom at the front of the house. On the way, she turned her head to ask, “Why did Aunt Ida move into this bedroom? The other one is so much nicer.”

“After her first stroke she said she wanted to be able to see the rose from her bed. Keep an eye on it, she used to say.” Sophie snorted. “Jack used to think Miss Ida didn’t trust him to give that plant its proper care.”

“Well, she could certainly get a good view of it from her bed,” Roslyn said, standing at the wooden headboard and peering out the bay window.

“Miss Ida was much shorter than you,” said Sophie. “She could only see it if she had a lot of pillows behind her. We tried to move the bed, but even Jack and his brother had a hard time getting it to budge.”

Roslyn glanced down at the double bed. “It’s huge,” she said. “I love the way the headboard comes up so high and then curves back like that.”

“It’s called a sleigh bed,” said Sophie. “Handmade right here in Plainsville.” She lumbered across the room to the mirrored vanity and tall bureau standing next to it. “Might as well start with the drawers,” she said. “Why don’t you take the closet? We may need some help getting this stuff downstairs.”

“Jack will be here about eleven,” said Roslyn. “I’m sure he’d help.”

“Oh?” Sophie’s only response, but Roslyn sensed the woman was waiting for an explanation. “We have to settle some things,” she finally told her.

Sophie cast her a knowing glance, but Roslyn ignored her, opening the closet door. “This is so strange,” she murmured, “to be handling things owned by a person I never even met. It doesn’t seem right.” She stared into the closet. On a shelf above the rack of clothes sat a rectangular wooden box. She pulled it down.

It was a rich mahogany shade, its edges neatly dovetailed and the lid locked with an ornate silver clasp. “How beautiful,” she murmured, running her hand along its smooth, polished surface.

Sophie looked up from the bureau. “Your auntie loved that box. It was always by her side. I think she kept a diary or something in it. After she died, I put it in the closet to keep it safe.”

“Is there a key?”

Sophie’s face was blank. “Yes. I’ve seen it somewhere. Just can’t remember where. Would you rather tackle the back bedroom and leave the closet to me?”

Roslyn was grateful for the suggestion. “Yes, I’d rather do that. Thanks, Sophie.” She replaced the box on the closet shelf, eager to escape from the task that had brought back too many memories of cleaning out her mother’s flat after her death last year.

Although there was now only a double bed in the rear bedroom, Roslyn could see how twin beds might have been tucked into each gabled alcove. And except for the bed, there were two matching sets of everything, all painted white—vanities with attached mirrors, bureaus and, in opposite corners, two identical child-sized rocking chairs. Two scruffy braided rag rugs lay on the hardwood floor.

A perfect bedroom for twin girls, she thought. The gabled alcoves—one jutting out from the rear wall and the other from the side wall—housed small windows trimmed with Swiss eyelet curtains that were no longer crisp and white. Two larger windows between the gables offered spectacular views of the woods and fields behind the house. Roslyn looked out the window closest to the side gable to see the end of the drive and the garage where Jack had parked his truck yesterday.

In spite of the brisk April wind, she opened the window to ventilate the bedroom, then pivoted slowly, deciding where to start. There were two other doors in the room, to the right of the main one. Two walk-in closets for the little princesses? She was beginning to picture a room decorated in pastel accessories and frilly trimmings. Hard to imagine the stern grandmother she’d known growing up in such a room. She bet the closets were jammed with stuffed animals and dolls.

But they yielded only stacks of cardboard boxes. Roslyn began at the top of the pile, expecting to find inside the souvenirs of childhood she’d imagined. Instead, one box after another revealed musty magazines, children’s books and even old calendars. No sign of treasured mementos. Someone had mentioned that her aunt had collected things. If so, Roslyn thought, where were they?

Still, she persevered. Some of the boxes contained carefully wrapped vinyl long-playing records; others, neatly folded newspapers. The contents of the second closet were even less interesting: old cookbooks, recipe cards and envelopes of discount coupons that had expired years ago. But at the bottom of the last box in the closet, turned upside down as if to conceal its discovery even longer, was a cardboard-framed black-and-white photograph of two girls. The little princesses.

One sat in a rocking chair; the other stood behind to the right, with an arm draped lovingly over her sister’s shoulders. They were identical from the tip of their sculpted blond curls to the toes of their shiny patent shoes. Their lacy dresses came to just below the knee. Each girl was holding the stem of a single rose bloom.

Roslyn turned the photo over to ease it out of the cardboard frame. Someone had written, in spidery script, “June Rose and Ida Mae, June 12, 1915, fifth birthday.”

“Find something interesting?”

Roslyn craned her neck. Sophie was standing in the doorway with a tray of cold drinks. Roslyn held out the photograph, which Sophie took after placing the tray onto the vanity.

“Oh, my,” she said, then flipped the picture over to read the inscription. “Aren’t they just the perfect little—”

“Princesses.”

Sophie looked down at Roslyn and grinned. “I’d never have thought of Miss Ida as that, but you sure can see it in this picture. Where’d you find it?”

“At the very bottom of a box. You know, Sophie, it’s obvious that my aunt was a pack rat, saving a ton of useless stuff. But where are all the things from her childhood? I mean, even my mother, who wasn’t at all sentimental, saved some favorite stuffed animals and baby clothes of mine.”

Sophie shook her head, handed the photograph back to Roslyn and sank down onto the edge of the bed. “Miss Ida talked a lot about her family and all the antiques and treasures in this house, but she never once said her sister’s name aloud. I knew from what other people in town told me over the years that there was a twin sister living in Chicago and that there must have been a falling out between the two.”

“Must have been some falling out,” murmured Roslyn, “for her to get rid of the memory of that twin so completely.”

“I guess it’s hard for you to find out all this, seeing as how that twin was your very own grandmother.”

Grandma Dutton’s solemn face appeared in the room. Hard to reconcile that face with one of those little girls, Roslyn thought. And which one would she have been? She peered closely at the photo.

“Trying to decide who’s who?”

Roslyn glanced up at Sophie, whose smile was a mix of humor and sympathy. “Just curious,” she said.

“Well, the writing starts off with June Rose, so maybe she’s the one standing just to the left. Assuming that the order of the names matches the left to right order of the picture.”

“Perhaps, though it hardly matters, does it? They were so identical in looks.”

Sophie pursed her lips. “Maybe it mattered to them,” she said.

Roslyn studied the picture a moment longer, wondering what it might have been like to grow up as a mirror to another person. Would you feel you could never escape that other face? She almost shuddered at the thought.

The rumble of a truck engine broke the silence. “Jack!” Sophie announced, pleasure ringing in her voice. She heaved herself off the bed and grabbed the tray. “We’ll have our snack down in the kitchen,” she said, bustling out the door.

Roslyn stared at the picture in her hand, mesmerized by the dimpled faces smiling so expectantly at the camera. Five years old and so much to look forward to. But something happened to ruin that closeness. What had come between two identical twins to make them virtually renounce each other?

She sighed, pushing herself up from the floor. Coming to Plainsville had definitely raised a lot of questions. Unfortunately, they were questions that seemed destined never to be answered.

JACK WAS comfortable in a kitchen chair, one hand clutching 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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