The Inheritance

Still, she persevered. Some of the boxes contained carefully wrapped vinyl long-playing records; others, neatly folded newspapers. The contents of the second closet were even less interesting: old cookbooks, recipe cards and envelopes of discount coupons that had expired years ago. But at the bottom of the last box in the closet, turned upside down as if to conceal its discovery even longer, was a cardboard-framed black-and-white photograph of two girls. The little princesses.

One sat in a rocking chair; the other stood behind to the right, with an arm draped lovingly over her sister’s shoulders. They were identical from the tip of their sculpted blond curls to the toes of their shiny patent shoes. Their lacy dresses came to just below the knee. Each girl was holding the stem of a single rose bloom.

Roslyn turned the photo over to ease it out of the cardboard frame. Someone had written, in spidery script, “June Rose and Ida Mae, June 12, 1915, fifth birthday.”

“Find something interesting?”

Roslyn craned her neck. Sophie was standing in the doorway with a tray of cold drinks. Roslyn held out the photograph, which Sophie took after placing the tray onto the vanity.

“Oh, my,” she said, then flipped the picture over to read the inscription. “Aren’t they just the perfect little—”

“Princesses.”

Sophie looked down at Roslyn and grinned. “I’d never have thought of Miss Ida as that, but you sure can see it in this picture. Where’d you find it?”

“At the very bottom of a box. You know, Sophie, it’s obvious that my aunt was a pack rat, saving a ton of useless stuff. But where are all the things from her childhood? I mean, even my mother, who wasn’t at all sentimental, saved some favorite stuffed animals and baby clothes of mine.”

Sophie shook her head, handed the photograph back to Roslyn and sank down onto the edge of the bed. “Miss Ida talked a lot about her family and all the antiques and treasures in this house, but she never once said her sister’s name aloud. I knew from what other people in town told me over the years that there was a twin sister living in Chicago and that there must have been a falling out between the two.”

“Must have been some falling out,” murmured Roslyn, “for her to get rid of the memory of that twin so completely.”

“I guess it’s hard for you to find out all this, seeing as how that twin was your very own grandmother.”

Grandma Dutton’s solemn face appeared in the room. Hard to reconcile that face with one of those little girls, Roslyn thought. And which one would she have been? She peered closely at the photo.

“Trying to decide who’s who?”

Roslyn glanced up at Sophie, whose smile was a mix of humor and sympathy. “Just curious,” she said.

“Well, the writing starts off with June Rose, so maybe she’s the one standing just to the left. Assuming that the order of the names matches the left to right order of the picture.”

“Perhaps, though it hardly matters, does it? They were so identical in looks.”

Sophie pursed her lips. “Maybe it mattered to them,” she said.

Roslyn studied the picture a moment longer, wondering what it might have been like to grow up as a mirror to another person. Would you feel you could never escape that other face? She almost shuddered at the thought.

The rumble of a truck engine broke the silence. “Jack!” Sophie announced, pleasure ringing in her voice. She heaved herself off the bed and grabbed the tray. “We’ll have our snack down in the kitchen,” she said, bustling out the door.

Roslyn stared at the picture in her hand, mesmerized by the dimpled faces smiling so expectantly at the camera. Five years old and so much to look forward to. But something happened to ruin that closeness. What had come between two identical twins to make them virtually renounce each other?

She sighed, pushing herself up from the floor. Coming to Plainsville had definitely raised a lot of questions. Unfortunately, they were questions that seemed destined never to be answered.

JACK WAS comfortable in a kitchen chair, one hand clutching a glass of orange juice and the other reaching for a muffin when Roslyn came into the room. He started to get to his feet, but Roslyn smiled and waved him down.

“Please,” she said, “you make me feel I’m attending a board meeting. And work is still a day or so away.”

He had a sudden picture of her then, in one of those nice-fitting, tailored suits, walking confidently into a room of executives. The image made him realize how far apart Chicago and Plainsville really were. Jack swallowed the lump of muffin in his throat.

“Sophie’s been telling me you two have worked all morning cleaning out closets,” he began, as she sat down in the chair opposite him. “Guess your aunt saved a lot of stuff.”

“Everything but what mattered most, I’m afraid. For some reason, there’s nothing but an old photograph of my grandmother and aunt as five-year-olds. At least, nothing I’ve found so far.”

“I know Miss Ida kept photo albums. I used to see her poring over them some days,” Sophie said.

“There were a few in the boxes. Maybe I’ll take them back to Chicago with me,” Roslyn said.

Jack avoided Sophie’s face, afraid she might wink or something. She hadn’t made any bones about who she wanted to take over the Petersen home, even though it rightfully belonged to Roslyn. He’d spent a whole day arguing the point with her when they’d first learned the terms of the will.

The house should go to the person who’d taken care of it, Sophie had asserted. The person who’d cherished it. And of course, he couldn’t deny that he was that person. He’d always loved the Petersen home, even as a kid when Grandpa Henry brought him to visit and the three would have iced tea on the veranda. He always sat on the swing and pushed it back and forth with the tips of his sneakers.

Still, he’d pointed out, he had no connection by blood to Miss Ida, and family had to count for something. Sophie had snorted at that remark. If Miss Ida loved her family so much, why hadn’t she kept in touch? Why leave a house to someone you never even met? And he hadn’t been able to think of a damn thing to say to that, except that maybe this great-niece would learn to love Plainsville. Sophie, as usual, got the last word. Or snort.

And now that niece was smiling nicely at him from across the table with eyes that must be the color of a sea somewhere, though not one he’d ever seen. Kind of a blend of blue and green, he decided, but the dominant shade depended on the light. He started to think about what tubes of paint he’d mix to get that shade when he realized she was talking to him.

“Hmm?” he asked, staring first at Roslyn then at Sophie, who was smiling broadly.

“I was saying that we ought to discuss the will. My return ticket’s for Sunday and—”

“Maybe I’ll go upstairs and finish up that front bedroom,” Sophie interrupted and swept out the door quicker than Jack had ever seen the housekeeper move.

He felt uncomfortable, the way Roslyn so bluntly got to the point. No small talk or preamble. Though he doubted she was the small talk kind of woman. Which was another thing that attracted him to her. That and a few other attributes, he had to admit.