Janice Carter - The Inheritance

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

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

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“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.”