The Art of Inheriting Secrets(78)

The place had come furnished, but I hadn’t done much serious cooking yet. The cupboard yielded a heavy skillet and one medium-sized pan, but when I tested to see if they’d both fit on the tiny stove, the answer was no. I’d have to cook in shifts.

And for one moment, I imagined what it would be like to cook on the AGA in the kitchen at Rosemere. What if the kitchen wasn’t a commercial kitchen at all but filled with a big wooden table and lots of cupboards, and I opened up the back wall to french doors that looked out over the fields? What if it was my kitchen, and my friends came in to eat there, and we drank wine and watched the sunset? What if I had a family gathered around a big farmhouse table?

The vision pierced me. All at once, I realized maybe it could be a home eventually. Maybe not all of it—who wanted to live in thirty-seven rooms?—but some big portions of it. It excited me, and I thought suddenly of my friend Renate, a designer who had moved to New York three years ago, breaking my friendship heart. We were still friends, but coast-to-coast friendships were never the same. She would love the idea of transforming those ancient spaces into a welcoming, comfortable place. I would have to remember to email her.

Suddenly, there were too many things to remember. I was juggling so many ideas that I was getting dizzy with it. It was the way my mind worked—a thousand tasks spinning at once—but when it got to this point, I needed to get lists going. Carrying my dry-erase marker over to the board on the wall, I made a to-do list. I knew people who used digital tools, but I needed to have them in the physical world. The tasks were more manageable when I just looked at them in a tidy row:

Send Renate an email



Market: lamb, butter, potatoes, peas, rosemary, good salt



Next clue in treasure hunt. Paintings?





Smiling, I then added,

Have wild sex with Samir as often as possible





I surrounded this with spirals and hearts. It turned out that falling in love at thirty-nine was just as heady as it had been at nineteen and twenty-nine. I found myself drawing his face: those heavy brows; the straight, bold nose; his lush mouth; the suggestion of his tumbling hair, all in orange dry-erase marker.

For no reason, for every reason, I laughed, capped the pen, and went off to the market to gather supper.

I did my shopping, then stopped in at Haver’s office. Mrs. Wells was there at her desk, and she looked instantly on guard when I came in. Coolly, she said, “I’m afraid he isn’t in.”

“That’s fine. I just wanted to be sure you had all the permissions you need to release the files to the accountant I hired.”

“We have the information,” she said stiffly, moving a piece of paper on her desk. “Thank you.”

She turned her attention to the computer. When I stood there a little longer, she deigned to look at me. “Is there anything else?”

“There’s no judgment on the firm, Mrs. Wells. I am just not an expert on any of this, and I need some help understanding what is going on with the estate.”

“It’s none of my concern,” she said, typing something.

“No, it isn’t,” I said, “but I had hoped we could be polite to one another.”

“Of course,” she said and dropped her hands on her lap. “What else can I do for you?”

“Do you know when Mr. Haver will be back?”

“He’s gone to Mallorca on holiday. It will be a few weeks.”

“Weeks,” I said. “I assume he left the contact information for the banks?”

“Yes.” Wordlessly, she flipped through a file and brought out a single sheaf of paper.

“Thank you.” I tucked it into my shoulder bag. “See you soon, I guess.”

“Or perhaps you’ll find everything you need in the next village over.” She pushed up her glasses and focused on the screen.

Ah. A faux pas. I should have found an accountant in Saint Ives Cross. I nodded, creasing the paper. “I’m sure I’ll find everything I need right here. Thank you, Mrs. Wells.”

Out in the still-warm day, I told myself it was a good lesson. No matter how I felt about Haver, I had nothing against Mrs. Wells, and I was sorry I’d hurt her feelings.

But it was annoying that Haver was out of town. I had a lot of questions, and now it would be that much longer before I could get the answers. In the meantime, I needed to move the accounts to my own control, and I would do that in the morning. Something else to add to my to-do list.

Just now, however, the sun was warm on my arms, and I had a lovely meal I looked forward to cooking. Even the challenges of the tiny stove and limited tools would be fun. A man passed me, and I realized he was a regular at the pub. “Good afternoon,” I said.

He tipped his hat with a little bow.

I had planned to pick up some little something for dessert at the bakery, but of course, it closed at 1:00 p.m., or whenever they ran out of goods for the day. No matter.

With my bag on my arm, I slowed to text Samir: I hope you’re very hungry. I am so happy to cook! It’s been ages.

I thought it might take a while for a response, but it came through almost immediately. Oh, yeah. I’m famished, all right.

I stopped to text more easily, the bag swinging on my wrist. When will you be finished?

I’m just feeding my cat. Do you want me to bring anything?