Page 2 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow

Two

An hour later, I’m dragging my ass into that reading of the will.

Gail and I have already argued over this.

If my grandfather left me anything, she wants me to take it for my mother, whose care is about to bankrupt me.

I’ve said it’s a moot point because if he left me anything, it’s a teacup and a KISS MY ASS donkey sticker.

Now Gail hovers beside me, her whole body practically vibrating with apology.

I force an “It’s okay” smile. She doesn’t buy it.

Her round face is drawn and pale, her blue eyes shadowed to gray.

She’s run her hands through her short dark hair enough that it’s sticking up, and when I motion for her to pat it down, she’s too upset to bother.

Get it over with. Take the teacup and the sticker, say “thank you very much,” and walk out with my head high.

For Gail’s sake, I won’t delay the reading. She needs and deserves whatever she gets. She’s a social worker, which I always think of as more a vocation than an occupation. It sure as hell doesn’t fill her bank account. I just need to be sure she doesn’t try to give any of her inheritance to me.

To Gail, I pretend money’s just “a bit tight.” The truth is that I’ve bookmarked a dozen websites on bankruptcy, and I’d file if I weren’t terrified of how it would affect my mother’s care.

Mom is in an awesome facility, and I will do whatever it takes to keep her there. Initially that meant giving up on med school, lying to everyone and saying that my years of volunteering suggested medicine wasn’t the job for me.

I’d landed a decent job in Chicago and zoomed from lab tech to researcher.

Then the bank informed me that the med-school money was gone, and the doctors told me that Mom was declining fast. She needed me home to advocate for her.

So I returned to Syracuse, where the only job I could get was an entry-level lab tech at half my former pay.

Then, six months ago …

“We hate to lose you, Sam, but we were told to cut in order of seniority, and you’re our newest hire.”

So now I’m running data from home, making minimum wage, every penny I’d saved in Chicago already gone to my mother’s bills.

Could I use money from my grandfather’s will? Yes, but it would kill me to take it.

And it would kill my mother if I didn’t.

“I hope you get everything,” I whisper to Gail as we enter the room.

“If I do, half of it goes to you.”

She catches my expression, sighs and shakes her head.

What if she did get everything? My uncle has his own money—plenty of it. Maybe my grandfather finally did the right thing and left it all to Gail, and I could agree to accept a sliver. Just enough to banish the specter of financial ruin.

“Miss Payne,” a voice says, and I look up to see an elderly woman in a perfect pantsuit. “Isabella Jimenez, your grandfather’s lawyer. I’m so glad you’re here.”

I nod mutely.

“If you and Gail will take a seat.” She waves at a table. “We can begin.”

So, I get a teacup. Not even joking. Okay, that had been an educated guess.

My grandmother had collected teacups, and she always said that she’d leave me my favorite: a Wedgwood decorated with rabbits.

Sadly, the ancient KISS MY ASS donkey sticker that adorned the basement beer fridge isn’t mentioned.

There’s a seemingly endless list of bequeathments. My grandfather’s long-suffering housekeeper gets a few things, though far less than she deserves. Even the boy who cut the lawn receives the lawn tractor, and I can’t help but wonder if this was why my grandfather insisted I be here.

Imagine what you could have gotten, Samantha, if you’d just sucked it up and pandered to me like everyone else.

When my phone vibrates with a text, I check it under the table.

It’s a nurse from Mom’s care home.

Vickie: Your mom is having an excellent day, and she’s asking for you. Can I tell her you’re on your way?

That isn’t a guilt-nudge. Vickie knows she only needs to say the words “good day” and I’ll fly out the door. For an excellent day, I might not even remember to put on shoes.

Gail sees the text.

“Go,” she whispers.

Ms. Jimenez clears her throat.

Gail straightens. “Sam needs to leave. Her part is done—”

“Her grandfather required that she stay until the end.”

“It’s her mother,” Gail says.

“If it’s an emergency, we can postpone this and reconvene tomorrow.”

“How much longer?” I say.

She flips through her pages. “Ten minutes?”

I nod, even as I simmer. The lawyer moves on to the disposition of property, and if some desperate corner of my soul hoped for a scrap, it is disappointed.

The house—probably worth a couple of million—will be divided into thirds, one going to my uncle, one to Gail, and one to Caleb.

That’s another reason why I’m here. If my cousin was entitled to a share, I would have been, too.

Gail reaches to squeeze my hand, her look promising me half of hers. I won’t take it. I can’t. She’s thirty-six, recently divorced, and considering in vitro fertilization for the baby she’s always wanted. I won’t steal that dream from her.

I still smile back. What matters is that the will is almost done. Mom’s last “excellent” day, where I truly had my mother back, was two months ago.

My foot starts tapping. Gail gently touches my knee, and I grimace an apology.

“And now we come to what I suspect you’ve all been waiting for.”

The end? Yep, definitely waiting for that.

“The dispensation of the Paynes Hollow property.”

I go still. Shit. I’d forgotten about that. Willfully forgotten.

As the founding family, my ancestors had taken the best land and passed it down intact from oldest son to oldest son. My grandfather owned over three hundred acres of prime land stretching along the coast of Lake Ontario.

I haven’t set foot on that land in fourteen years.

“I am supposed to share this.” The lawyer lifts a piece of paper and adjusts her reading glasses. “During Mr. Payne’s recent illness, he received an offer from a development firm.”

My gut clenches as I envision my childhood summer paradise destroyed for high-end condos. Only it’s not a paradise anymore, and it’s certainly not mine.

“Mr. Payne wished for me to read the offer, which is valid for his heirs.”

I check my watch. Then I tuck my phone under the table to text Vickie.

“That offer is…” Ms. Jimenez pauses. “Ten million dollars.”

Aunt Ellen squeaks. Caleb fist-pumps, as if we’re at a damn sports game.

Gail has gone pale.

Ten million dollars?

That’s a joke. It must be.

No, actually, it makes sense. Three hundred acres. Forget condos, that could be a full-on subdivision. A hundred lakefront lots and more within a short walk of the water.

Ten million is not outrageous at all.

“It’s divided the same as the house property, right?” Uncle Mark says. “Three ways. Me, Gail, and Caleb?”

I grin at Gail. I’m thrilled for her, but I also must admit to the rising hope in my heart. Even after taxes, she’d have two million. A sliver of that would solve all my problems, and she’d barely notice the loss.

“Split three ways, right?” Uncle Mark repeats. “No, wait, it goes to the oldest son. Which means me. Or Caleb.”

My heart stops. Is this why I’m here? To see that ten million go to Caleb, who’ll blow it on luxury cars and five-figure bar tabs while my mother moves into some squalid care facility?

“The property goes to a single beneficiary,” Ms. Jimenez says. “As you said, tradition is that it goes to the eldest male.”

Caleb chortles and fist-pumps again. At worst, it’ll go to his dad, who will give him whatever he wants.

Here, have a million bucks for your birthday, son.

My hands clench on my lap. It’s okay. I will walk out of here no worse than I entered.

“In this case,” Ms. Jimenez continues, “it would have gone to Harris.”

Caleb snickers, and every muscle in me tenses. If he says anything about my dad—

Ms. Jimenez says, “Since Harris predeceased him, tradition needed to be changed.”

“It passes to me,” Caleb whispers. “Oldest male—”

“The property—in its entirety—goes to Harris’s daughter, Samantha.”

My head whips up. Ms. Jimenez looks at me and smiles, a kind smile that tells me I didn’t hear wrong.

To me? Did I misjudge my grandfather, tangled in my anger and grief?

“There is one stipulation,” Ms. Jimenez says. “In light of the break with tradition.”

My heart stops, and I stare at her, seeing apology in her eyes.

“It’s a simple one, though, Sam. And once you fulfill it, the land is yours.”

“Wh-what do I need to do?” I manage.

“Go back,” she says. “You need to spend a month at your family cottage. In Paynes Hollow.”