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“It’s a beautiful home, Sonya. Over the many years, the Pooleshave added to the original structure, maintained it meticulously. It holds so much history. Your history. It was your uncle’s deep hope that you’d accept this legacy and carry it forward.”
He rose. “My information, including my cell phone number, is in the packets. Please contact me, or have your attorney—which I advise you to retain—contact me. I’d be happy to meet with you and your attorney, and will be here through Thursday. I can and will come back at your convenience, or meet with you at my own office, at the manor, wherever it suits you.”
She got up to take his coat from the closet. “You have to know this is crazy. All of it.”
“He was of sound mind. Sound enough to make his wishes and terms clear and precise.” He put on his coat, pulled the ear-flap hat over his head. “You haven’t asked how much. How much the house is worth, the trust, the interest in the business, and so on. I find that very interesting.”
“It’s not real. Or doesn’t seem like it.”
“It’s very real. Look through the information, take time to think, hire a good lawyer.” He held out a hand for hers. “We’ll talk again.”
She shut the door, then just stood. Waited to wake up. But it hadn’t been a dream, she admitted. No hallucination, not when those packets sat on her table.
Though she barely felt her legs, she walked back, opened one. And pulled out a many-paged, blue-backed legal document.
The Last Will and Testament of Collin Arthur Poole.
It occurred to her she’d never seen an actual will, much less read one.
She sat, and though it resulted in a banging headache, read every word.
He’d left—bequeathed—some things to his lifelong friend. A specific painting titledBoys at Sea, an antique chess set and board, a first-edition copy of H. G. Wells’sThe Time Machine.
Other bequests—a carnelian bowl, antique pearl earrings—to a Corrine Whitmer Doyle. Probably the friend’s wife, Sonya thought.
Separate bequests to Oliver Henry Doyle II, and to a Paula Mortimore Doyle. Another painting, some jewelry.
More yet to Oliver Henry Doyle III. Son? A Louisville Slugger, signed by Mickey Mantle, eight Matchbox cars, circa 1975. To an Anna Rose Doyle, a pearl necklace.
Various monetary bequests, forty-five of his fifty-percent interest in the shipping company.
And to her shock, antique diamond-and-sapphire earrings to Winter Rogan MacTavish, her mother.
When she reached the end, she pressed her fingers to her eyes.
How was she supposed to think? How could sheabsorbany of this?
He’d left everything else to her—including a house and its land—eight-point-three acres’ worth. All its contents (inventory listed in a separate document), a trust to maintain said house, property, and contents.
Life insurance policy, brokerage accounts, investments, and more she just couldn’t begin to comprehend.
But rolling over all of it, her father had a brother. A twin. He’d had family he’d never known.
And so had she.
She grabbed her phone.
“Cleo, I need you to go to Mom’s with me. Now.”
“What happened? Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. Something’s happened, but I’ll explain on the way. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes. Please.”
“Give me fifteen. Jesus, Sonya, you sound like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have. Fifteen.”
She dragged on boots, her coat—reminded herself of the cold and swung on a scarf, yanked on a wool cap. In five minutes, she was out the door, packets in hand.
