“Yes sir,” the driver snapped a salute.
Markham flushed.
I stifled a grin. “Thanks for the umbrella, Mr. Hunter. And the advice.” I held out my hand to him. After a moment, he shook it, then turned and left.
“What advice was that?” Markham asked.
I just shook my head.
“Shall we go upstairs then?” He nodded at the door.
“Tell me your business first.”
“It's to your advantage.” He saw that I wasn't about to invite him in. He sighed. “You know your aunt had a granddaughter? Dr. Marilyn Finch.”
“Yes. I didn't know she was a doctor, though.”
“Not a medical doctor. A professor. Like you want to be.”
“What's her field?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I'm curious.”
“Archaeology.”
“What university?”
“She's not at a university any more. She's freelance, does consultations for developers, some museums, collectors. That kind of thing. Anyway, she wants to make an offer for the land.”
“Why doesn't she make it in person, then?” I snapped.
“She lives in the States, in North Carolina as a matter of fact, when she's not on the road. Her work involves a lot of field locations. She asked me to talk to you about the cottage, to explain her sentimental attachment. She's always thought of the place as her one true home. You can imagine how she felt when she found out her grandmother had left it to you, a stranger.”
“She's known about it for nearly five months. Aunt Beatrice told her at Christmas, your uncle said. Why hasn't she bothered to get in touch with me if she's so concerned?”
“Mrs. Baker simply told her of your existence. We didn't know about the bequest until after she died.”
“I thought you looked after the estate?”
“I only administer the trust that Beatrice's husband and father provided. My uncle kept the wills in his personal safe. She was more than a client to him, as he keeps reminding me.”
“And what is Dr. Finch's relationship to you?”
He flushed. “I will ignore that remark. You may want to know that she has asked me to fax her a copy of both your grandfather's and her grandmother's wills. She doesn't want to cause trouble, but she's talking about contesting them.”
“Is that a threat?”
He held up both hands. “No, no. I'm sure we can come to
some amicable arrangement.”
“I haven't even had a chance to look at these papers.” I waved the envelope at him. “I won't say yes or no. I plan to go up to Cook's Lake soon and see the place. After that we can talk.”
“She's willing to buy the land,” he said. “Five hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”
“Half a million dollars? That's an awful lot of money!”
He shrugged. “It's worth it to her. Are you interested?”
“I'll have to think about it.” I weighed the envelope in my hand. “I don't think I can. There's that stipulation my grandfather put in, that if I don't want the land, I have to give it to the province.”
“That's not legally binding,” Markham said patiently. He shifted from one foot to the other. Obviously he would have preferred to be sitting comfortably in my apartment. I just wanted to get rid of him so that I could get a good look at what Mr. Ross had given me.
“Your uncle insists on it,” I said.
“It's only to your cousin,” his voice rose. “It's not like it's going out of the family. She has more claim on the place than you do, sentimental and otherwise.”
“What do you mean?”
“There's a question about your parents' marriage. How legal it was.”
“They got married in England. In a church. My mother showed me pictures.”
“Pictures can be faked. That church was destroyed in the blitz â if it existed at all.”
“Just what are you implying?” I stood very still to try to stop the trembling that rose in waves from my knees to my lips. I blinked back sudden tears.
“It's a question of legitimacy,” Markham went on. “Whether you really are your grandfather's heir or not.”
“My father was George Cook,” I retorted. “That's been proven.”
“His name is on your birth certificate, true.”
“Your uncle is perfectly satisfied with my right to the family property.”
“My uncle is old.”
“I've had enough.” I reached past him for the door handle.
He grabbed my arm. “Let's quit pretending,” he said. “You can't tell me you're not interested in the money. Everyone's interested in money. Think of what you could do with half a million dollars. I'm sure your husband would.”
“Leave Will out of this.”
“Why would you want to be saddled with a few acres of rock in the middle of nowhere? The taxes are high and there's the upkeep of the house. It's not a free ride; a lot of costs go along with owning land.”
“Please let go of my arm.” I refused to look at him.
“You okay, Rosie?” Bonnie pushed in from outside, a sack of groceries in each hand. She shook her head to dislodge the hood of her raincoat. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Markham dropped my arm to brush at some drops of water that spotted the sleeve of his overcoat. “Talking to Ms. Cairns.”
“About me?” she glared at him. “Did Harold send you to spy on me?”
“Harold doesn't send me anywhere,” Markham said. “I'm not interested in the sordid little details of your life. I have business with Ms. Cairns.”
“Watch out for him then,” Bonnie said to me. “Snake is his middle name. He's probably trying to chisel you out of that land your aunt left you.”
“Now, just a minute,” Markham protested.
She ignored him. “Open the door for me, will you?” she asked me.
I unlocked it. She elbowed her way through, then turned back to stare at us through the glass. The elevator door slid open. She ignored it.
“Bonnie's waiting,” I said to Markham. “I think our business is concluded, don't you?”
He controlled his temper with a visible effort. “I forgot she lived in this building.”
“She lives right across the hall from me.”
He shook his head. “How lucky for you. I'd keep away from her if I were you. She's a bit⦔ He patted his temple with one finger.
“Funny thing, she says the same about you,” I retorted.
“What's she been saying?” he demanded, his brows furrowing. “She doesn't know anything about me.”
“You're her brother-in-law.”
“I was. Past tense. Anyway, she's got nothing to do with why I'm here. I want to discuss the property. I can understand your curiosity to see the place. I can appreciate that.” He took a deep breath. “But you must understand your cousin's position. She loves the cottage, she needs it to escape to. It's part of her identity. You wouldn't want to take that away from her, would you?”
“If it's so important to her, why doesn't she ask me herself?” It seemed such a reasonable question, I didn't mind repeating it.
“She is sensitive to the awkwardness of the situation. She thought I'd be better as a go-between. Until things are settled. She even suggested that she'd be willing to rent it from you, until you're ready to sell.”
“You're selling your cottage?” Bonnie broke in, her nose almost pressed to the glass door. “When did you decide that?”
“I haven't decided anything,” I shouted. “Look, I'll go through these papers tonight. This is the long weekend: Will and I were going up north tomorrow anyway; we'll stop at the lake and look at it. We'll get in touch with you after that.”
“Dr. Finch won't leave the offer open for long,” Markham said. “You might not get such a good deal from someone else.”
“Don't push me,” I said. “I'll make up my own mind in my own time. If my cousin is so anxious to deal with me, she should contact me in person. If she can't be bothered even to speak to me, why should I care if her grandmother's death has spoiled her vacation?”
“She's a very busy woman,” Markham muttered.
“Well, so am I.” I slammed the inner door shut and stalked to the elevators. Both doors opened for a change. Bonnie got in one, I took the other. I rode it to the top of the building, then back down to the third floor. The hall was empty. Good. I didn't want to talk to Bonnie right then, to listen to more complaints about Harold and his treatment of her. I had my own problems to deal with. I was able to get inside my apartment without interruption. There was a map in the envelope, along with a thick file of legal papers. And photographs. I lunged for the phone to dial Will.
Every twenty-fourth of May holiday weekend for the past fifteen years, Will and I have gone up to his parents' cottage on Lake of Bays. While Will works taking down the shutters, repairing ice damage to the dock, putting in the water lines and raking deadfall to the compost heap, I'm indoors, washing every plate and pot and spoon, checking for mice nests in cupboard drawers, and beating the rag rugs with a new straw broom. Both his parents are good at supervising and finding fault. In the evening we play endless games of euchre punctuated with stories about Will's childhood that now even I can recite from memory.
This year I had the perfect excuse not to go: I had to see my property on Cook's Lake.
It wasn't an easily made decision. First, I had to negotiate with Will's mother. Then, with Bonnie. Bonnie was so anxious to see my inheritance that she'd come up with a plan: Will and I would drive up to Cook's Lake together; he would go on to his parents' cottage on Sunday when Robin and Bonnie arrived to stay with me. They would take me back to the city with them the next day.
“I'm not sure it'll work out,” I protested when Bonnie began to draw up lists of the food we would need to take. “I don't even know how many bedrooms there are, if there's electricity or indoor plumbing, or even furniture.”
“No problem. You don't want a cottage to be like a suburban house. We don't mind roughing it.”
“But if it's too primitive, we may go straight on to Will's parents' place.”
“I'm sure you'll want to stay at Cook's Lake. I mean, you can't stand your mother-in-law, right? You've been complaining for weeks about having to open up the Cairns' cottage. Robin and I will be happy to get away from the city and keep you company there. I'm dying to see your place.”
How could I tell her I didn't want them to come at all, that I wanted the time alone with Will?
A phone call from Marilyn Finch seemed to provide the perfect excuse. She called that night, waking me from a dream of a white classroom, a blank test paper, a teacher we called Petey Peterson, a tyrant who paced in front of the blackboard, tapping a pointer lightly, insistently, on the open palm of his left hand as he talked on and on about logarithms and square roots. I stood beside my desk, shamed in front of all the others for my inability to answer the simplest question. They were grinning, fingers pointing because I was bleeding, blood dripping down my skirt, forming a puddle at my feet. The bell rang. And rang and rang⦠I knocked over the phone in my haste to answer it.
“Is this Rosalie Cairns?” It was a woman's soft drawl.
“Yes,” I scrambled for my glasses and watch. Midnight.
“I'm Marilyn Finch. Your cousin. I hope I didn't wake you?”
“Marilyn! It's good of you to call.”
“I should have been in touch with you earlier, I know. But my grandmother's death shattered me, just shattered me. You may not believe me, I know I haven't been to visit her for awhile because of my business, but blood's blood. She was a fine lady.”
“I never even had the chance to meet her. Or attend her funeral.”
“Yes, wellâ¦she's gone now,” she sighed. “Roger told me you thought we should talk. And I agree. I'd love to meet you all. Now, I'm up at the lake⦠“
“You're here? In Canada?”
“That's where I'm calling from. The corner store, actually. Grandmother refused to have a phone at the cottage. I came
up yesterday to fetch a few things, personal things I've always kept here. I do think of the lake as my place, you know.”
“I feel a little awkward about this,” I confessed. “I mean I never expected anything⦠I never knew any of the Cooks.”
“Now, honey, I'm sure we can make some kind of arrangement, satisfactory to us both. You won't be living here all the time. We could share it. Why don't you come on up here to the lake on Saturday and we can make some plans?”
It wasn't her right to invite me to my own cottage, I thought. “I was coming anyway. With my husband.”
“Husband? I thought maybe we could get to know each other, on our own. Family talk. Girl talk.”
I considered. Will could drop me off on his way to his parents,' killing two birds with one stone. On the other hand, he would be as anxious to meet her and to see my inheritance as I was. I remembered Bonnie's plan and gave it a twist.
“Tell you what,” I suggested. “My in-laws were expecting us up at their cottage on Lake of Bays this weekend. Will and I have already made plans to come to Cook's Lake tomorrow. After he's seen the place, he could go there on Sunday. How would that be?”
“All right. You'll be here by noon?”
“Yes.”
“Bye, then.” The phone clicked.
I immediately dialled Will. It took quite a few rings to wake him up.
“Are you all right?” were his first words when he realized who was calling.
“Marilyn just phoned.”
“Marilyn who?”
“My cousin. Marilyn Finch. I told you about her. She wants to meet me and talk about sharing the cottage.”
“Sharing? It belongs to you. You could rent it to her maybe, when you didn't want to go there.”