More Than Words Can Say (2 page)

For his part, Allistaire Reynolds had long been a partner at Grayson & Stone, LLC, and he had handled the Enright family’s affairs for decades. The Enrights were wealthy by Syracuse standards, and as is so often the case with people of substance, they had suffered their share of thorny legal issues.

“Okay,” Chelsea said. “So I’ve inherited Gram’s cottage. I know that it’s somewhere up in the Adirondacks, but that’s about all.”

Allistaire opened the folder on his desk and took from it a weathered envelope, which he handed to Chelsea.

“Maybe this will help,” he said. “Provided you had reached the age of thirty, your grandmother stipulated that immediately after her death, you should be given this letter in private. That’s largely why I asked you to come here today. I wasn’t made privy to what the letter says, but perhaps it will provide some answers about all this. It’s been in this firm’s possession for a long time.”

As Chelsea stared at the yellowed envelope, she correctly surmised that it was a product of a different era. In her unmistakable penmanship, Brooke had addressed it with an old-fashioned fountain pen. Curiously, it read, “
To My New Granddaughter.
”

“I suggest that you read it now,” Allistaire said. “And with your permission, I should probably read it too. There might be something in there that affects my duties in all this.” Smiling, he produced a letter opener and handed it to her.

Her grief suddenly returning in full, Chelsea slit open the yellowed envelope. Inside she found two sharply folded sheets of her grandmother’s personal stationery and a small, nickel-plated key. Like the envelope, the pages had been written upon with a fountain pen:

My Dearest Child,

Forgive me for how I address you in this missive, but you were born just today, and your parents have yet to christen you. If you are reading this, I am at last gone from this world. Do not mourn me unduly, for my life was full—far more so, in fact, than you ever knew.

By now, you realize that you have inherited my property on Lake Evergreen. You may trust in everything that Allistaire tells you, but for reasons that will eventually become clear, you must not allow him—or anyone else—to read this letter. For now, all I can tell you is that I have willed the cottage to you, rather than to your mother, because I am hoping that when you grow older, your capacity for forgiveness will be the greater one. Your mother knows that this is to happen, but she is unaware of the true reasons.

Because you are reading these words in the distant future, I cannot possibly know what twists and turns your life has taken or in what manner you have chosen to live it. Should you wish to sell the cottage, you have my blessing. Nevertheless, you must not relinquish ownership before you follow the instructions that I am about to describe. Only then, my dear, should you decide whether to keep it or to let it go. Please also know that as the years go by, I will do my very best to be there every step of the way, watching you, guiding you, and mentoring you.

Although it will be many years before you become a woman, I already sense that there will grow a strong bond between us—perhaps even greater than the one I already share with your mother. Regardless of what you may have heard, be assured that Lake Evergreen is a wonderful place. Because of personal reasons, I have not visited my cabin for many years, nor will I ever do so again. But that is all right, because it has now become yours. And, as you will soon learn, it was best that the cottage has lain undisturbed until this day, when you are at last old enough to understand.

Travel to Lake Evergreen soon, my dear granddaughter, and be sure to go there alone. When you arrive, go to the guest bedroom and move the bed aside. You will notice three certain floorboards, easily identifiable because their joints are scratched and worn. When you remove them, you will find an old tin box; its lock can be opened with the key you now possess. Inside the box are some additional things that I wish to bequeath to you. And like the cottage, only after much consideration should you decide what to do with them.

Whatever decision you choose to make, I’m sure it will be the right one. My soul has been bothered these many years, but I hope that placing this letter and my beloved cottage in your care will finally grant me a measure of peace. Lastly, my child, know that my thoughts and prayers go with you.

Your loving grandmother,

Brooke Bartlett

Stunned, Chelsea refolded the pages. Despite her overpowering grief, she knew one thing. She would trust in her grandmother’s instructions and follow them to the letter. After collecting herself, she placed the letter and the mysterious key back in the envelope.

“May I also read it?” Allistaire asked compassionately.

Her grandmother’s written warning still fresh in her mind, Chelsea shook her head. “No,” she answered.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “There might be something in it that—”

“No,” Chelsea said insistently.

Although taken aback, Allistaire relented. “Very well,” he said. “Do you have any instructions for me?”

Chelsea looked down at the envelope for a time, thinking. “Leave things as they are for now,” she said. “After the funeral, I’m going to Lake Evergreen. When I get back, we’ll talk again.”

“Please inform me before you go,” Allistaire requested, “because Jacques and Margot will want to greet you. You’ll need their help at first.”

“Who?” Chelsea asked.

“Jacques Fabienne and his wife, Margot,” Reynolds answered. “They’re your grandmother’s—or should I now say
your—
caretakers.”

Chelsea placed the precious envelope inside her purse and stood to go.

As Allistaire shook her hand, he said, “I hope that you find your answers.”

“So do I,” Chelsea answered.
Whatever they might be . . .

Chapter 2

O
n leaving Reynolds’s law office, Chelsea got into her Mustang convertible and lowered the top. She then headed away from downtown and toward Fayetteville, one of Syracuse’s most upscale suburbs. As she drove, her hands started shaking again. This time, however, it was less a result of her grandmother’s passing and more because of the mysterious letter and key that lay inside her handbag. In an attempt to calm down, she took a deep breath and eased her death grip on the steering wheel. Doing so helped a little, but nothing could fully stem the sense of unrest that had come with Brooke’s unexpected message from the past.

Her grandmother’s death had hit Chelsea harder than she could have ever imagined. The funeral was scheduled for tomorrow, and she dreaded it. Chelsea’s other three grandparents had also passed, but the death of “Gram” had been especially devastating. The tragedy had rattled Chelsea to her very core, causing her to finally shed the youthful sense of immortality that everyone seems to harbor for a time.

Today was June 1, but as far as the weather was concerned, summer had officially arrived. As with most upstate winters, the previous one had been harsh and uncompromising, causing Syracusans to emerge from their hibernations like sleepy bears, stretching and blinking in the sun’s unfamiliar warmth. The trees were at last showing their leaves, softball leagues were forming, and it seemed that everyone was smiling again. It was a lovely time of year, and had it not been for her grandmother Brooke’s death, Chelsea would have been happy too.

The only child of Lucy and Adam Enright, Chelsea had enjoyed a rather privileged upbringing. Her father owned several large auto dealerships, though he spent little time at them these days, preferring instead to oversee things from his downtown corporate office. Still a robust man, depending on the season he could be found bird or deer hunting, skiing the local slopes, or attacking the golf course at his country club.

To her father’s disappointment, Chelsea had never expressed any interest in the family business, preferring instead to receive her MFA and teaching credentials at Syracuse University. Teaching helped to fulfill her, and she enjoyed having her summers free. Because of Brooke’s inherited wealth and Adam’s financial success, Chelsea’s mother, Lucy, had never worked, instead immersing herself in the Syracuse social scene. She was a fixture at fashion luncheons, charity group meetings, and her much-beloved bridge club games.

Ironically, Chelsea’s family’s social standing had seemingly cursed her love life more than it had helped it. She oftentimes wished that she could meet a good man who had never heard of the Enrights, but the longer she remained in Syracuse the more discouraged she became. Although Syracuse claimed nearly one hundred fifty thousand residents, it seemed that everyone already knew everyone else. Moreover, news and gossip traveled with the speed of light—especially when it concerned the relatively wealthy.

Putting her thoughts aside, Chelsea at last guided her convertible up a long knoll and onto a huge circular drive, where she parked among the host of cars already there. Since her grandmother Brooke’s death, the Enright house had been bombarded with friends, relatives, and the food everyone had brought. At first glance, today appeared no different.

Before getting out of her car, Chelsea took the key her grandmother had included with the letter from her purse and hung it on her cherished silver necklace, also a gift from her grandmother. She then safely tucked both treasures back inside her blouse. Having Brooke’s mysterious key lying directly over her heart felt right, somehow.

Knowing that she would need to redo her hair and makeup, she gazed at her face in the rearview mirror. Her wavy, dark red hair was long and parted on one side. High cheekbones, large green eyes, and a sensuous mouth completed her lovely portrait. Today she was clothed in tan Ralph Lauren slacks, a white silk blouse, and shiny brown pumps.

As Chelsea walked across the driveway, she admired the lovely home in which she had been raised. Built entirely of stone, it closely resembled a small English manor house. Professional gardeners maintained the immaculately trimmed lawn and colorful landscaping, and the house sat atop a hill, allowing for a magnificent view. When Chelsea’s parents divorced, Adam had graciously transferred full ownership to Lucy.

Until she started teaching, Chelsea had lived here all her life. She had loved growing up in this wonderful place and although she now owned a perfectly lovely town house of her own, every time she visited, she was reminded of how much she missed it. After crossing the brick driveway, she opened one of the stately double doors and walked inside.

As expected, she encountered a subdued atmosphere. Appropriate music was softly playing and there were many visitors, most of whom she recognized. They seemed to be about equally divided into those who were glumly milling about by themselves and others who were congregating in mournful little groups. While making her way across the foyer and into the kitchen, Chelsea was compassionately greeted by many of them and she responded in kind. The kitchen was also busy and hugely overloaded with food. For some reason, casseroles seemed to be the most popular offerings. She sighed a bit as she stared at it all.

I’m sure that my mother and father appreciate all this,
she thought
. But I could never understand why people always bring so much food to those whose terrible grief has totally robbed them of their appetites . . .

On seeing that a makeshift bar had been set up on the kitchen island, she poured two fingers of single-malt scotch. She took an appreciative sip before walking on into the living room.

By almost any standard, the Enright living room was immense. Its greatest attributes were an emerald-green rug, dark colonial furniture, and a huge marble fireplace. After making the rounds of those who had congregated there, Chelsea stepped out onto the equally large sunporch that adjoined the living room’s far side. Here, she hoped to find some solitude.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked both the swimming pool and the tennis court, and beyond the sloping hill, there lay a wonderfully expansive view of Syracuse’s southeastern side. Taking refuge in one of the many overstuffed chairs, she swallowed another welcome sip of scotch. For a time, she wished that she could simply melt away into the chair cushions and become invisible to all who might wish to offer up yet more depressing condolences. She hadn’t seen her mother yet, but that would happen soon enough.

A few moments later, Lucy’s two shih tzus happily arrived and began nuzzling Chelsea in an urgent quest for food. Her mother had named them Rhett and Scarlett, and although they were not Chelsea’s type of dog, she liked them well enough.

When she reached down to pet Rhett, a familiar voice said, “God, how I dislike small dogs! I don’t know why your mother got them, but that’s Lucy for you. Give me a big old gundog every time. Speaking of which, how’s Dolly these days?”

Chelsea looked up to see her father, Adam, standing beside her chair. “She’s fine, Dad,” she answered.

Adam Enright bent down and kissed his daughter’s cheek. “And Syracuse’s most eligible bachelorette?” he asked. “How’s she doing?”

Chelsea rustled up a little smile. Seeing her father always brightened her mood, no matter the circumstances.

“When I meet her, I’ll ask,” she answered. “Have you been here long?”

Adam shook his head. “I just arrived.” He pulled a chair closer and sat down. “How are you holding up, kiddo?”

“I hate clichés, but I’m doing about as well as can be expected,” she answered.

“Yeah, me too,” Adam answered.

“And Mom?”Chelsea asked.

“She’s still devastated,” Adam answered. “But I always knew that would be the case. They were practically joined at the hip.”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes . . . ,” she said sadly.

Chelsea looked lovingly at her father. He was a tall, fit man in his early sixties with short gray hair, deep blue eyes, and a strong jaw. He had been her rock while she was growing up, and Chelsea thought he looked especially handsome today in a black polo shirt, gray slacks, and cordovan loafers.