Legacy of Love. Christine Johnson
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waited for his father’s attorney to pick up the line on the other end. The letters and numbers in their brass circles blurred. He leaned his elbows on the desktop and rubbed the fog from his eyes. Should have got more sleep last night. Should have thought of a solution.
Instead, he’d paced all night trying to find a way to keep the Simmonses in the house they’d rented for almost three decades. Mrs. Simmons understood why they had to leave. She’d listened patiently as he explained the terms of the sale his father had negotiated, but her quiet resolve only made him feel worse. He had to help them.
First, he would try to persuade the new owner to extend the deadline.
“MacKenzie here.” The brusque voice of his father’s longtime attorney and executor came on the other end. “What can I do for you, Brandon?”
He hated the attorney’s familiar tone, as if he were part of the family. Perhaps he had wiggled his fingers into Father’s business. Maybe that’s where the money had disappeared. His purchase of the Simmons property was certainly suspicious. He’d said it was just a business venture, that he wanted to open an automobile dealership, that Brandon’s father had made the deal before he’d died, but the man was Father’s attorney and executor. The whole thing smelled rotten. Unfortunately, Brandon had no proof of wrongdoing.
“I need an extension on the Pearlman property on Main and First.” He took a deep breath.
A pause followed. “What sort of extension?”
After weeks of dealing with the attorney, Brandon knew he couldn’t push much. But any little bit would help. “The tenants need more time.”
“You know the contract terms.”
Brandon choked back his impatience. “It’s an elderly woman and her daughter. You can’t put them out at Christmas.”
MacKenzie barely paused. “Your father insisted on those terms.”
Brandon didn’t believe that for a minute. “Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Not only was he keeping the rent unbelievably low, but he sent frequent payments to the family, so why would he sell under such unreasonable terms?”
“Only your father knows.”
“Perfect. And he’s dead.” Once again Brandon choked back his impatience with the slick attorney. “Suppose you make an educated guess.”
“I’m not in the business of speculation, nor would it have been appropriate for him to confide in the buyer.”
Brandon dug the nib of his pen into the blotter. A trace of ink bled into the fibers, making an ugly black mark. “But I can’t force Anna—that is, the tenants—from their home.”
“Then refund the purchase price.”
Brandon growled, “From what you’ve told me, that money was spent. Or did my father have you hide it somewhere?”
“I object to your inference,” MacKenzie retorted. “The contract is ironclad. Fulfill the terms or don’t. The option is yours.”
“But I don’t have the money.”
A pregnant silence followed. “My offer stands. Sign over the deed to your house, and I’ll hand you the property on Main and First.”
Brandon suspected that’s what MacKenzie wanted all along. “This was never a business venture. You want my house. Well, you won’t get it. A Landers built this house, and a Landers will always own it.”
A click on the line signaled an end to the conversation. Brandon hung the receiver on the cradle and buried his head in his hands. He’d let temper get the better of him and solved nothing.
Lifting his head, he stared dully at the room, hoping for an answer. The library had always been his favorite place in the family’s summer home. The paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases had fueled his imagination. He’d spent hours dreaming of secret passages and hidden rooms and poking into every nook and corner without success.
It would be nice if those walls did hide a fortune in gold, but of course the house held no secrets and offered no money.
He slipped the sales contract back into its folder. MacKenzie had mentioned the only possible solution, but Brandon couldn’t give up this house. It and the bookstore were his future.
Brandon ran a hand through his hair. Somehow he had to help Anna and her mother. He pulled the ledger close and stared at the gloomy figures. He had the house, and his brother had been provided for in an untouchable trust, but the rest of the money was gone. With no income and insufficient savings, the best he could do was find Anna and her mother a decent house to rent.
Too bad they couldn’t live here. The house was certainly big enough for two more people. Originally built in the late 1840s, it had undergone so many additions and reconstructions that few people could find the original rooms. Years of neglect had left the heavy velvet drapes white with dust. The dark walnut furniture could use a good oiling to restore the wood’s sheen. At least the sage green wool carpet was in good condition. A relatively recent addition, it had seen no activity after the year he turned eighteen, when the family stopped coming here.
Even before that, the long summers of his youth had trickled to a week or two each year, but after the summer his mother died, no one came back. Now this musty old house was his. No money to keep it up, nothing but dust and cobwebs. He’d have to hire a housekeeper; one who wouldn’t charge too much, considering his cash had sunk to a pitiful low. Anna’s waves of light brown hair floated to mind, and with it came a thought. She cleaned houses. As quickly as he thought of it, he set the idea aside. It wouldn’t work. A young woman and a bachelor? Tongues would wag.
If not Anna, then perhaps her mother would take the position. That minister had said her hours had just been reduced. It was the perfect solution. They could live here.
The idea took root and flowered as he imagined Anna sitting by the fireplace, her blue eyes dancing with excitement as he told her about the latest discoveries in the Valley of the Kings. She’d turn toward him, smile and ask his opinion.
He shook his head. What nonsense! The girl couldn’t possibly find him attractive. What’s more, she’d never agree to live in this house. Even with her mother here, it was too scandalous.
He stared bleakly out the window. Trees lifted their bony limbs to the sky, anxious for the first coat of white. Brown leaves scurried across the brown lawn. The colorless, lifeless landscape sucked any fragments of hope from his soul.
Then a single ray of sunshine highlighted the answer.
The carriage house. Of course.
He shot to his feet. It just might work.
Without bothering to put the ledger back in the desk, he hurried to the front entry and donned his coat, hat and gloves. He could help Anna and her mother after all.
Chapter Three
“Don’t worry,” Ma said with a pat to Anna’s arm. “The Lord will provide.”
Anna bit back a growl of frustration and rose from the kitchen table, the eviction letter in her hand. She’d spent yesterday evening and all morning trying to get her mother to commit to leasing a room at either Terchie’s Boardinghouse or above the drugstore, but Ma would not settle for less than a house.
“For the hundredth time, we can’t afford a house. If you won’t decide, then I will. We’re moving to Terchie’s, and that’s that.”
She crumpled the vile letter, and tossed it into the stove’s firebox.
Ma looked up from her grocery list. “Should you have done that, dearest?”
Though Ma had explained that Brandon’s father was the one who’d sold the house, Anna couldn’t forgive Brandon. He could have renegotiated or done something to change the outcome. After all, he was rich. Instead, he was forcing them from their home at