We didn’t compete in the same sports or pursue similar activities. We shared bedrooms but not interests, which probably made our parents nuts as they shuttled us from dance recitals to soccer practice to math competitions.
I chased overachieving Hannah like a puppy, trying to earn my own medals and ribbons—and our parents’ attention. I mostly read books and tried to please my teachers. And I got so good at memorizing my three younger siblings’ schedules that my parents jokingly called me their assistant.
Right up until September of 2001, when they were both in New York City for meetings, each in separate towers of the World Trade Center, when the planes hit.
From then on, our grandparents stepped in to raise us, and I quickly promoted myself from assistant to managing director of the whole freakin’ show. But that didn’t include running a ranch. That was always my grandparents’ domain.
If running it is the same as letting it fester and decay.
Our grandparents are currently somewhere along the coast of Mexico on a cruise, which is how they’ve spent their retirement years after we all graduated from college.
It’s hard to believe anyone could neglect a place this badly without a neighbor calling the Department of Sanitation. The window coverings are broken, letting in enough of the sun’s crooked rays to illuminate the dust particles in the air and the layer of grime on what was once a polished wood floor.
The furniture is covered in sheets that are themselves dust-covered, and most of the light bulbs have long since burned out. We haven’t ventured beyond the living room because we’re all a little scared.
I wonder why Grandma Ann never tasked any of us with checking on the place, and I feel guilty for not asking about it, especially after everything our grandparents did for us.
“I know. I told ’em the place needed work, but they wouldn’t listen,” intones a deep male voice.
Mel Budgewack steps through the entryway and joins the conversation like he’s been here all along. His white beard makes him look like Santa. He’s been a part of our lives foras long as I can remember, regularly attending so many of our holiday dinners and family events that I sometimes forgot he had his own family—a wife and two sons. No grandkids. Maybe that’s why he likes our sisterly chaos so much. “Meantime, I’ve been keeping an eye on things.”
“Seems like he should visit an eye doctor,” Hazel mutters.
“Careful where you step,” Mel says. “Mice have been known to set up shop in drawers. In fact, we once found a whole family living in the grand piano, beds made of stuffing from one of the sofas?—”
I hold up a hand to halt the colorful reminiscence. I can tell from Hazel’s face that she’s an inch away from bolting out the door.
“Mice?” She recoils from the books and plasters herself against a wall.
Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Only difference between a mouse and a puppy is bad PR. They just want a warm place to sleep, same as you and me.”
“So what does that mean for us? What are we supposed to do here?” I don’t have time to kick around piles of books or tiptoe around the dusty floors for fear of scaring the mice. I want to prepare for what’s next.
Mel expels a laugh from deep in his rounded gut and smooths the gray wisps of hair at his temples. “Bottom line, eh, Tessa? Just gimme the bottom line.”
Having zero interest in confirming or denying his perception of me, I cross my arms and offer him a steady stare.
Mel’s not afraid of me or anyone else, which is probably what’s allowed him to put up with my quirky grandparents for so many years. “I assume you read the trust document from cover to cover. Maybe you can tell me what it means.”
“Well, yes. It’s ours,” I confirm. “It’s fully paid for, except taxes and maintenance.”
“Maintenance…” Hazel mutters.
Callie bounces on her toes as though inheriting this mess is a good thing. “What, aren’t you guys excited? This place has such potential. It could be fixed up as an AirBnB or rented for destination weddings.”
Maybe it’s Callie’s job as an event planner that gives her a vision of potential beauty in any place she visits, imagining a makeover with the right lighting and decor. As she looks from one of us to the other, she seems to sense our lack of interest and frowns.
Leaning against the arm of a chair, I jolt away when a cobweb tickles my leg. The shadows in the dimly lit room look like animals or worse, corpses. I shudder.
Maybe Callie’s ambitious assessment is a good thing. Maybe fixing it up will give my sisters a common purpose.
I roll my eyes at myself. Here I am, always wanting my sisters to get along, always checking on everyone, making sure they’re drinking enough water and taking their multivitamins. A familiar pit forms in my stomach as I anticipate a new conflict I’ll need to referee.
Hazel already has her phone open, and she snaps pictures of the room from various angles and stabs the glass of her phone furiously.
“Don’t break the glass, honey.” Dylan, who’s never gotten along with Hazel, sighs and peers at Hazel’s phone. “You’re querying real estate brokers?”
Hazel nods without looking up. “You’re welcome.”
