A. Colucci - Seeders

While Isabelle could cope with his dictatorship, she couldn’t stand his suspicion and jealousy, the endless middle-of-the-day phone calls. Lately, she stopped going out altogether.

“What did you do today?” he asked.

“ Food shopping.”

“Online?

“Uh-huh.”

“Remember you told me you wanted to travel the world?” He chuckled.

“Things change.” She sharpened a knife over the roast.

Colin listened to the quiet. “Where’s Monica?”

“Luke’s room.”

He craned his neck toward the hallway. The door to his fifteen-year-old son’s room was closed and he chuckled again. “Maybe he finally nailed her.”

Isabelle bristled at the comment. Colin had brought Monica home two months ago, after her mother was thrown in jail for prostitution. Not that he was such a caring man, to take pity on a troubled teen, but Monica was the latest in a series of charitable projects to make him look good to the department. Isabelle didn’t really mind. The girl was all right, not too difficult so far, but quite distracting for her older son, Luke. Like Colin, Isabelle knew that it was unlikely anything was going on inside the bedroom. Monica showed zero interest in the boy. But she was hardly a good influence with her street smarts, provocative clothing, tattoos, and black makeup.

Colin was already at the table when she carried the sliced roast and vegetables into the dining room.

“I’ve got big news,” he said. “I’ve been promoted to lieutenant.”

She set the platter on the table with a thud. “That’s wonderful.”

“They put me in charge of the Park Slope murders.”

“The serial killer?”

“The case will be my life until we nail the fucker. This is probably my last family dinner for months.”

Isabelle feigned a look of disappointment and watched her husband line up a uniform row of string beans on his plate. She was about to call the children to dinner when the doorbell rang, and she turned with a gasp. The same cold premonition swept over her again and she looked at the door without moving.

Colin speared a piece of meat. “You gonna get it or what?”

Isabelle swallowed hard, went to the door, and slid the lock. Standing in the hallway was a short but elegant man in a European suit. His large, dark eyes were set against a tan face. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was combed back neatly. He looked Italian, but his accent was British.

“Isabelle Brookes?” he said.

She nodded hesitantly.

“Daughter of Professor George Brookes?”

For a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Who are you?”

“I’m your father’s lawyer. Nicholas Bonacelli. May I come in?”

She stepped aside.

Colin scrutinized the man walking into his dining room. He asked, “What’s this about?”

Bonacelli spoke only to Isabelle. “I’m sorry to bring such troubling news. Your father died two months ago.”

She was stunned.

“You’re the heir to his estate.”

“Estate?” She was still piecing his words together. “You mean the island?”

“That’s right. The reading of the will is to take place tomorrow. It was your father’s request that you be present.”

“Oh… I don’t know.”

“I’ve made travel arrangements for you and your family.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Colin said with an angry grin. “Tomorrow? There’s no way.”

“It was his last request.”

“Excuse me,” Isabelle said. “I think something is burning.”

She fled to the kitchen and stood motionless by the stove with her body doubled over as though she’d been kicked. Her palm pressed firmly against her lips as she tried to suppress a cry. She attempted to recall George’s face, voice, or expression, but couldn’t focus on a single image. They were all blurry snapshots; a barefoot man in a white jacket twirling a yellow flower, instructing her on species identification, reading her books, and challenging her with riddles. They were faded memories, but exceptionally happy ones, and every moment took place on Sparrow Island, the only place that had ever felt like home.

So why had she never returned? Disappearing from her father’s life had been so difficult at ten years old, but she had had no problem staying away for thirty more. Now it seemed strange and wrong. She cringed, knowing it was fear that kept her from returning, the shame of her father’s legacy and the ugly rumors that surrounded him. She could feel tears forming, but then squared her shoulders. No, she wasn’t going to cry. The past was gone and there would be no reconciliation. Yet, this was a chance to return to the island she loved, put her feelings in order and try to forgive. The pain began to subside.

The thought of leaving her husband was strangely pleasant.

In the dining room, Colin was asking Bonacelli how much the island was worth.

“It’s irrelevant, since it cannot be sold. Sparrow Island was leased to Professor Brookes by the Canadian government. It’s paid up for the next seventy-five years.”

“Then there’s no need to fly out there. I know my rights. She doesn’t have to go to any reading.”

Isabelle marched into the room. “Mr. Bonacelli, I’d like to leave as soon as possible.”

“Splendid.” He opened his briefcase on the table next to the roast.

“Hold on a minute,” Colin said hotly.

“It will just be a couple of weeks,” she told him. “Summer break just started and we have no plans.” She turned to the lawyer. “Is the house still livable?”

“Certainly, but it’s in bad disrepair.”

“It has running water? Electricity?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Transportation?”

“A supply boat comes twice a month. There’s no phone, but a two-way radio works most of the time.” He picked up a large envelope. “There is a private plane leaving for Halifax in the morning. You can bring up to four people. A boat will take you to the island as soon as you land, and we can go over the details of the will.”

“You can do that right now, ” Colin said, his face mottled red.

“That was not her father’s wishes. I don’t even have the documents with me.”

“Isabelle!” Colin held up a hand and spoke loudly. “This is much too short… We need time… I’ve got a big case now.”

“That’s exactly why it’s a good time to go. You’re busy hunting down a serial killer. Really, you don’t have to come, Colin.”

“Of course I do. You can’t possibly handle this yourself. Besides, who will take care of the kids?”

“They’re coming with me.”

“No way.” Colin shook his head and pointed his finger at the lawyer. “We have a right to see that will and there’s nothing that says we have to go to any island. I’m in law enforcement and I know property rights pretty damn well.”

“You can take it up with the Canadian consulate,” Bonacelli said, thrusting the envelope toward Isabelle. “Now, I have a taxi waiting and I’m late for an appointment. Here are all the papers instructing you where to go. Reservation numbers, directions, and my personal cell phone number. I’m terribly sorry to meet under such an unfortunate circumstance. I knew your father for some years and he spoke of you with great affection.”

Isabelle found comfort in his words, but couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. “You didn’t tell me how he died.”

“It was an accident.” No one spoke and he did not elaborate. Then Bonacelli started for the door. “Well, good-bye, Mrs. Maguire… Mr. Maguire.”

“Lieutenant.”

The lawyer gave an odd smile and left.

When the door shut, Colin glowered at Isabelle. “So what was he worth? Your father—did he have any money?” He went back to the living room, jittery and grim.