Kristen Ashley - The Will

I closed my eyes and turned away, taking in a deep breath, feeling it fill my lungs.

I opened my eyes and looked to the other nightstand.

There it was.

Slowly, I moved there, wrapped my hand around the side of the big frame and lifted the picture up to take a closer look.

Jake Spear surrounded by his kids, all of them surrounded by lavender, and, behind them, the sea.

It had been taken outside the house.

His daughter was at his side, her front pressed into it, her arms around his middle, her cheek to his chest, her eyes to the camera, her lips smiling.

His eldest son was at his other side, Jake’s arm was around his shoulders too, and I could tell the young man had an arm around his father’s waist as they were standing tucked close. The young man was also smiling.

And standing in front of the girl was Jake’s youngest son. He was leaning back against her body.

He, too, was smiling at the camera.

As was Jake.

I turned and sat on the bed, staring at the photo.

They were all younger. Not by much, years maybe, but with children, much changes as years pass.

And she had them close. By her bed.

Yet she never told me about them. I’d even been in this room more than once in the last seven years and had not seen this picture.

But it was there and she kept them close.

Close until the day she died.

They all had keys to her home.

She’d given them large sums of money.

She’d given me to that man.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him, Gran?” I whispered to the photo then looked up.

I aimed my eyes across the room to the window seeing lavender grown high and beyond that, sea.

“What did you tell him about me?” I asked the window.

The sun glinted on the sea and the lavender swayed gently in the breeze.

I shook my head.

“What did you want him to do with me?”

The lavender, the sea, the room, all of them had no answers for me.

I parked in the curving lane at the front of Lavender House, opened the door and got out, slamming the door behind me and moving to the trunk where I’d stowed the groceries.

I wouldn’t be in Magdalene for very long but I would be there for a while. I also had a life where I ate most of my meals in restaurants or at parties and rarely had the chance to cook.

After Jake Spear left and I got no answers to questions that were hounding me, I decided that since I was there, I’d take advantage of being there.

Meaning I would give myself a treat and cook.

Thus, I prepared for the day and went to the market in town.

I had filled brown paper bags in each arm when the SUV drove up the lane.

I looked through my shades to the shiny black Escalade and primarily the man who sat behind the wheel.

I’d never seen him before.

I watched him approach deciding I did not need this.

I had a number of things to do, the priority at that moment was getting the groceries in the house, but it was never a priority to deal with an unannounced visitor seeing as it was most rude to show up unannounced.

He could be someone who simply wished to give his condolences. However, he could call, like dozens of other people had done since Gran had died. He didn’t need to come to the house.

Especially since I had no idea who he was.

His sunglassed eyes never leaving me, he got out of his vehicle and I saw he was tall, lean and well-dressed, in well-fitting, excellent quality dark blue trousers and an equally well-fitting, tailored light blue shirt.

No tie.

His dark brown hair was cut well.

And at a glance, I knew his sunglasses cost five hundred dollars.

“Can I help you with those?” he called when he was about ten feet away.

“Not to be rude,” I replied. “But I don’t know you so I’m afraid I’ll need to refuse.”

He nodded his head, stopped four feet away and suggested, “Let’s remedy that. I’m Boston Stone.”

My face must have betrayed my response to his absurd name because he smiled and it was not an unattractive smile.

“My mother said she was under the influence of drugs post-birth,” he explained his name in a manner where I knew he’d done it frequently in his life. Then again, with that name, he would have to.

I nodded and asked, “How can I help you, Mr. Stone?”

His head tipped slightly to the side before he answered and part of his answer included him strangely repeating himself, “I’m Boston Stone. CEO of Stone Incorporated.”

I said nothing.

“I believe Terry told you about me?” he queried.

“Terry?” I queried back.

“Terry Baginski. The associate at Weaver and Schuller who read your grandmother’s will yesterday.”

I felt my body lock as an unexpected and unpleasant pulse thumped through it

Stone Incorporated. In all that had happened, I’d forgotten.

The other thing Gran never told me. This man wanted to buy Lavender House.

“Yes,” I stated. “Ms. Baginski told me about you.”

“As you’re busy,” he replied, tipping his head to the bags in my arms, “I’ll not keep you except to ask if you’d like to have lunch with me tomorrow to discuss your plans for Lavender House.”

That pulse thumped through me again and it was far more unpleasant.

Boston Stone of Stone Incorporated.

A man behind a company.

Not a family with children, the wife cutting lavender to put in the family room and on the kitchen table, the kids playing Frisbee in the back yard around the arbor with petals of wisteria blowing through the air around them, the husband knowing how to fix the sink and keeping the house in tiptop shape with loving care…forever.

I tasted something sour in my mouth and forced through it, “Mr. Stone, I don’t wish to be rude, but as you can see, I’m busy. And as you know, my grandmother died only five days ago. There are a variety of things on my mind and one of them is not having lunch with someone to discuss my plans for Lavender House.”

This wasn’t strictly true. I’d given vague thought to it.

It was just that it was vague.

Now, with this man standing in front of me, it was not vague in the slightest and I didn’t like how that felt.

“Of course, my apologies. It’s too soon,” he murmured.

“It is,” I agreed.

“Then I’ll repeat my offer of lunch but I’ll do it in order to give you a lovely meal and, perhaps, take your mind off your recent loss.”

I studied him as I processed his words.

And then I processed his words.

Good God, I’d just met the man in my grandmother’s driveway and he was asking me out.

Although he was quite handsome and it was done smoothly, in a kind tone, and with respect, I couldn’t believe it.

“Mr. Stone—”

“Ms. Malone, just lunch, no business, getting you away from memories and taking your mind off things. I know a place that does wonderful things with mussels. If you like seafood, I’d enjoy introducing you to it.”

He was quite nice, not to mention I loved mussels and all seafood.

I just had no desire to have lunch with him.

“That offer is kind, Mr. Stone,” I said quietly. “But I’m afraid your endeavors wouldn’t succeed. I have much to think about and even more to do.”

He nodded and lifted then immediately dropped a hand. “Of course. But if you change your mind, the information Terry gave you includes a direct line to me. Just phone and we’ll make plans.”

“If I change my mind”—highly unlikely—“I’ll do that.”

His smooth voice dipped lower and even smoother when he said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Josephine. Lydia was much loved and there were many reasons for that. So please know, I understand this loss is grave.”

I felt my throat close so I just nodded.

“I hope you call,” he finished, still talking lower and smoother.

“I’ll think about it. Have a nice day, Mr. Stone.”

His sunglasses held my sunglasses before he dipped his chin, turned and moved to his SUV.

I watched him get in and slam the door. After he did that, I moved to the house.

When I’d entered, I kicked the door shut behind me with my pump and stopped dead.

I did this because it hit me.

All of it.

Everything I was seeing.

Everything I was experiencing.

But most of all, everything I was feeling.

The shafts of light piercing the shadows, dust motes drifting making the air itself seem almost magical.

The abundance of furniture stuffed in the large rooms opening off the foyer. All of it old, all of it plush, all of it comfortable.

And then there was the profusion of knickknacks, some of them likely worthless, some of them perhaps priceless, but all of them precious. The gleaming wood of the antique tables. The framed prints on the walls that had hung there for decades, maybe some of them for over a century.

My mind’s eye conjured an image of the land around the house. The rough gray stone of the coastline. The rocky beach with its deep pier. The massive bushes of lavender that hugged the sprawling tall house all around. The green clipped lawns. The arbor covered in wisteria with the white wicker furniture under it pointed at the sea. The rectangular greenhouse leading to the mosaic-tiled patio, also pointed at the sea. The small garden surrounded by the low, white fence.

My family had lived in that house for over one hundred and fifty years. My grandmother had grown up there. She’d lost her sister there. She’d escaped there after her husband used and abused her. She’d helped me escape there after her son used and abused me.