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“Let’s just say, I’m here and whiskey exists.”
With a laugh, she said, “There’s my girl. Let’s drink to that just as soon as you deal with Jeremiah Polluck. That old coot has been pestering me for an hour. You’d think he was blind, as well as he noticed I was busy with a fleet of pies.”
Jake snorted, passing me with my suitcases in his hands. “And you’d have to be blind not to see he’s sweet on you.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “He’s sweet on my cooking. And he’s not winning any points coming here today just to pounce on poor Livi the second she got home.”
My anxiety spiked at the thought of Jeremiah waiting in there with Pop’s will. I didn’t know what it’d say, but given that I was his last living kin, the answer seemed obvious.
I didn’t want to know all the same.
That was the thought on my mind as Kit took me under her arm and walked me into the house, chattering about nothing just to fill the quiet, which I appreciated. We followed Jake’s wide back, wound with muscles and tapering down to his narrow waist, then to his substantial rear end, which was at my eye-level for a single glorious moment as we climbed the steps.
Walking through that door was another snapshot in a flip book of snapshots. I was hit with the familiar scent of baked goods and the aroma that only this house contained, an amalgamation of a hundred and twenty years. It was knotty pine and smoky embers. It was pipe tobacco and antique iron. It was smells that weren’t smells so much as they were memories, as if the house lived and breathed in this space and had its own stories to tell.
Old man Polluck hopped off his stool—which really meant he sort of slid off, pausing to balance himself—before heading for me with a bit of a bounce in his step.
“Olivia,” he said, his face sad and touched with pity, “I am just so sorry, dear. Frank’s loss is felt deep and wide. And I’m sorry to bother you when you haven’t settled in, but Frank was very clear in his instructions. As his executor, I had to come, you see.”
Again I tried to smile, and again I failed. “Thank you, Mr. Polluck.”
He waved a hand. “Oh, now—you’ve been calling me Jeremiah since you were just a little thing with legs twice as long as the rest of you. Don’t stop now. You’ll make me feel my age.” He smoothed his tie over his paunch as if to right himself.
Jake cleared his throat and headed for the stairs with my suitcases. “Want these in your old room?”
“Son,” Jeremiah started, “I’ll need you here too.”
Jake stopped mid-stride, his face bent in confusion. “What do you need me for?”
“Come on and sit down, and I’ll tell you.”
Kit’s eyes bounced between us as we headed into the kitchen. “I’ll put some coffee on,” she offered, hurrying to keep herself busy so she wouldn’t burst.
I couldn’t say I blamed her. I’d have given just about anything for a list of things to do.
I took a seat at the table, Jake at my side. Jeremiah shuffled to the other side to face us, his ancient briefcase in hand, then on the tabletop, creaking open. The shuffling of papers preceded the conversation that would change the lives of everyone in this room in some way or another.
“First, these are for you.” Jeremiah extended his hands, each holding a letter.
I took mine gingerly, my eyes misting again at my name in Pop’s hand on the envelope.
“Do we have to read these now?” Jake asked, his voice tight.
“No, those are for you to read whenever you wish.” He took a breath and straightened up as best he could for possessing a crooked back. “A few years ago, Frank updated his will. I don’t think any of you would be surprised that all of his money is tied up in the farm. And this asset is your inheritance.” His rheumy eyes shifted from me to settle on Jake.
Jake frowned. Blinked. Glanced at me, then back at Jeremiah. “You mean Olivia.”
“I mean both of you.”
A silent moment, crackling with questions, passed. And with it came my relief. My only shot for success with the farm lay in Jake’s hands, which was help I hadn’t been sure I could rely on until that very moment when his stakes became the same as mine.
Jeremiah reached into his briefcase, his hands returning to view with identical packets, which he handed to us. “Frank Brent’s will states that Brent Dairy Farm is to be equally distributed in its entirety to the two of you, fifty-fifty, with the exception of the farmhouse, which goes to Olivia. What you do with it is solely up to you, but Frank made sure you’d have to come together to decide.”
