The Four Seasons. Mary Monroe Alice
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was disappointed again.
“Your father left a fair-size estate,” Mr. Collins replied calmly. “One that diminished over time, considering the expense of upkeep for a house and property of this size, not to mention Merry’s considerable medical and educational expenses. If you wish, I can give you a detailed accounting afterward.”
“We were very careful with the spending,” Rose interjected, worried.
“That won’t be necessary,” Jilly replied to Mr. Collins. “I’m sure everything is in order, I’m just…surprised. How much would you say the house is worth?”
Birdie promptly opened the portfolio and sifted through the papers. “According to Mrs. Kasparov, the fair market value would be somewhere around five hundred fifty thousand dollars. Less the real estate commission, transfer taxes and such.”
“You can’t be serious.” Jilly looked devastated. “In this area? That can’t be right. It seems very low.”
Here we go again, Birdie thought. She cast a quick glance at Rose, not wanting to offend her with what she was about to say. “Mrs. Kasparov believes the house and property need quite a bit of work. Things she itemized in particular include the porch, which is rotting in places, pipes that have broken, and the walls haven’t been properly repaired. The paint and wallpaper need to be freshened. The grounds are completely overgrown and the filled-in pool detracts from the land value. And of course the kitchen and bathrooms are terribly outdated and would need to be totally redone. The bottom line is, the place is architecturally lovely and in a great location, but it’s what’s known as a handyman’s special.” She set down the papers and folded her hands over them. “I quite agree with the estimate. Under the circumstances, we can’t expect top dollar.”
“Regardless of the condition, it’s a double lot,” Jilly argued. “Within walking distance of the lake! The land alone is worth that much. Why, the house down the block is up for over a million.”
“Walk through the house, Jilly. You can’t compare the two.” Birdie hesitated. “There’s some question as to whether the house should be torn down.”
“No,” Rose gasped.
Jilly was indignant. “I want another opinion.”
“You can look at the comps,” Birdie said, handing the folder to Jilly. “We have to consider if we really want to do the work ourselves to fix the place up, or just sell it as is as quickly as possible. Frankly, I vote for the latter.”
Rose was shifting in her seat, wringing her hands. She stared at Mr. Collins in silence, then glanced at her sisters, cringing under the question shining in their eyes.
Mr. Collins cleared his throat. “Well, now, that is an issue that should be discussed between the three of you, privately. I wouldn’t presume to interfere, but I am at your service should you need my professional advice or—” he ventured a smile that revealed the affection accrued from a lifetime of association “—if you just want the advice of an old friend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins,” Birdie said.
Jilly echoed this but Rose remained silent, seemingly distracted.
“Is that everything, then?” Birdie was deeply flustered by Jilly’s disappointment. She began tucking back papers and closing up the real estate portfolio. She couldn’t imagine why Mr. Collins requested this meeting after the funeral when everything was perfunctory. They could have just as readily handled it between a phone call and a FedEx. Dear man, he was probably being thoughtful. She really didn’t know what she would have done without him all these years.
“There is one more rather delicate matter to discuss,” he replied.
Birdie looked up, surprised. Mr. Collins’s tone altered and he appeared to be treading on softer ground. “Oh? And what would that be?”
He slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “I called this meeting today because I wanted to discuss something with you while all of you were still together, under this roof. This is a unique situation.” He cleared his throat and began again, glancing briefly at Rose.
“I’ve known Merry from the time she was born. She would, from time to time, come down the street to visit Mrs. Collins and me. As you know, your sister was not legally competent, but during this last illness, she had a remarkable intuition that her time was limited.” He looked at Rose for confirmation. She was sitting straighter in her chair, pale and still.
“We had several long conversations. Merry was quite concerned about one issue in particular.” He cleared his throat again and pulled from under the sheaf of papers a videotape. On top, taped to it, was a small envelope, a young girl’s blue stationery adorned with pastel flowers.
Birdie narrowed her eyes, noticing that the writing on the envelope was large and childlike—Merry’s.
Rose stood and, in the manner of one who had anticipated this event, took the videotape from Mr. Collins’s hand and carried it to the living room television, which was set up and ready to receive the tape.
“Won’t you make yourselves comfortable on the sofa?” he said, indicating that they should all move to the other room.
Birdie and Jilly rose without exchanging glances and followed him to the living room. The mood was uneasy; no one knew quite what to expect. They sat opposite each other in the two wing chairs. Rose fiddled with the television and Mr. Collins remained standing, apparently eager to begin.
“What’s this all about?” Birdie asked.
“Be patient,” he replied. “It will all become perfectly clear.”
“All set.” At his nod, Rose pushed the play button, then seated herself in front of the television.
The room settled into silence as the video ran, beginning with a short strip of blank tape. Suddenly, there was Merry, full of life. There were gasps from the sisters at the shock of seeing her beautiful face fill the screen, smiling, giggling and covering her mouth when she laughed.
“Oh, my God,” Birdie gasped, bringing her fist to her lips. “Merry…”
It was almost too much to bear. Merry was a breathtakingly beautiful woman, without any outward sign of mental disability. Beyond her delicate bones, her tiny waist, her brilliant blue eyes that lit up her face when she smiled, there was another, more elusive quality to her charm. For all that she was thirty-two years old, Merry still possessed the coquettish, utterly beguiling innocence of a child.
As the camera zoomed in, Birdie saw signs of Merry’s illness in the dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes, the whiteness of her skin and the blue cast to her lips. And she looked so much like Rose. The younger two Seasons were both small with delicate frames and the same red-gold hair worn long and straight. Except that Merry was obviously frail and weak, where Rose was physically strong. The invalid and the caretaker.
Mr. Collins’s voice could be heard on the screen. “Hello, Merry, how are you today?”
Merry grew suddenly coy, turning and lifting one shoulder. “Fine.” Then tilting her head, she asked, “Are you making pictures now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Like the ones of Jack and Ali?”
“Your picture will look just the same,” the off-camera voice of Mr. Collins assured her.
Merry nodded, accepting this, seemingly distracted by something over his shoulder.
“What do you want to tell us today?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He chuckled. “I thought you had something you wanted to say.” When Merry frowned and shook her head, apparently confused, he prodded, “To your sisters? Rose and Birdie and…”
“Jilly!” she exclaimed, sitting up in her chair. He had her full attention