“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
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
“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
