Connor
The tensionin the room was suffocating me. I could feel each tick of the clock as the seconds trickled by. I tried to distract myself by reading a magazine, but Calum’s restlessness rolled off him in waves. It was making Dad irritable. When Cal started tapping out the rhythm to “Blackbird” by Paul McCartney on the arm of the chair, Dad lost his composure.
“Could you stop doing that?” he snapped, leaning around Mom and me to scowl.
“Michael, leave him be. He’s fine.” Mom frowned.
“He fidgets more than a two-year-old.” Mom sighed, closing her eyes as if she was mustering the strength to deal with him. When she opened them again, she leveled a look at him that had him snapping his mouth shut and retreating.
Calum continued tapping his fingers. I joined him, my manicured nails tapping out the same beat as I hummed. Dad’s jaw clenched, but he kept silent.
The telephone rang, and Cal and I fell silent as the receptionist picked it up. She listened for a beat before setting the phone back down. She stood and walked over, her heels clicking against the old hardwood floors.
“Mr. Willowby will see you now,” she said. She led us to a conference room, directing us to the four empty chairs on the one side of the long table. A few minutes later, Mr. Willowby walked into the room carrying a leather folder.
He sat down across from us, adjusting his silver-wired glasses. He peered at us with a solemn smile.
“Good morning. Thank you all for coming together so quickly. Mr. Murphy discussed in great detail what he wanted for his estate. Now, typically how these things go is that I’ll read the will out loud, and at the end of it you will have the opportunity to ask questions.”
We all nodded, and Mr. Willowby cleared his throat, looking at my mother. “Maeve. You’re aware that your father appointed you as his executor?”
“I am,” Mom said. Dad put his hand on her knee, comforting her.
“He ensured his funeral expenses were covered and arranged before his death, so you will not have to do that. However, there are some tasks he’s left you with.” Mom nodded again, and Cal exhaled deeply, as if pained.
I glanced at him but had to look away quickly. The grief on his face matched the grief in my heart.
Mr. Willowby began reading the will. “This is the Last Will and Testament of me, Frank David Murphy, of Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia. I hereby cancel any previous wills I have made of every kind and nature. I appoint Maeve Siobhan Jacobs, to look after my estate and I hereinafter refer to her as “my Executor.” The executor is to pay all taxes and any remaining debt post-mortem from my estate. My house at 255 Main Street, Mahone Bay is to be left to my granddaughter, Connor Mae Jacobs, along with the Bechstein piano. My music books, my album collection, and my instruments—exempting the Bechstein and Steinway pianos—are to be left to my grandson, Calum Michael Jacobs. My remaining estate is to be divided and left to Maeve Jacobs, my granddaughter, Connor Mae Jacobs, and my great-grandson, Asher Morrison, to be held in trust by Calum Michael Jacobs until he’s of age.”
Mom and I gasped following this proclamation. Gramps had known about Asher? But how…
“How—” Cal started to speak but was interrupted by our father.
“Were you just pretending you didn’t know you had a kid?” Dad demanded, glaring daggers at him.
“Michael!” Mom snapped, sending an embarrassed, apologetic look to Mr. Willowby. He didn’t seem disturbed or surprised by the outburst, he merely shifted in his seat and cleared his throat, trying to get us back on track.
“Now, it can take some time for the taxes to be paid and everything squared with the estate, but the deed to the house is right here. In your case, Connor, all you have to do is sign it, and the house is legally yours.” He set the will down and picked up the deed to the house, sliding it across the table in front of me.
“As for you,” Mr. Willowby said, turning his attention to Calum. “I have a bunch of documents for you to sign for your son’s inheritance.” Cal nodded, raking his fingers through his hair.
The room got quiet as everyone signed the documents they were required to sign. Dad left about halfway through that process—his signature wasn’t needed—and he had to be at work.
The keys to Gramps’s house felt heavy in my hand. My mind was a swirling mess. As I followed my brother and mother out to the parking lot, I half-listened to them talking.
“Did Gramps ever mention knowing about Asher?” Mom asked as we stepped out onto the stone pathway that led to the parking lot. My ears perked up, and I looked at my brother. He seemed just as flabbergasted as the rest of us had been.
“Not directly. He’s always told me to come home and make amends with Harper, but he never said a thing about Asher.” Even in his last letter, he hadn’t blurted the truth on its pages, but rather had encouraged Calum to speak to her.
“Does Harper know?”
“I doubt it, Mom. She would have said something if she did. She didn’t intentionally hide, she just…”
“Didn’t seek.” Mom nodded, falling silent with her thoughts.
Somehow, Gramps had known. And for some reason, he’d kept that knowledge to himself.
We were nearly at Calum’s Jeep when she spoke again. “Maybe he found out some other way and didn’t tell anyone because he didn’t think it was his place?”
