1
Eva
I inherited a maple grove.
A man named Lionel, the only lawyer in this entire town, sits across a massive wooden desk, blinking at me from behind coke-bottle glasses. I, Eva Storm, am the only beneficiary of a dilapidated maple syrup operation deep in the Catskills.
“We have been trying to reach you for some time,” he says, frowning at the paperwork.
I perch on my seat, worried it will collapse and dump me into a stack of yellowed files on the frayed carpet.
I’ve been trying to ignore the certified mail that keeps showing up at my sister’s house back in Pittsburgh. I thought it was something to do with my mother, and I really didn’t want to get involved. Turns out the father I never met has died after decades of ignoring the property he inherited from other long-lost relatives.
Lionel blinks some more, owlish against his dark brown skin. “Are you ready to sign the documents?”
I reach into the purse on my lap and pull out a gel pen with purple, sparkly ink. “I guess I might as well.” I twist the pen lid a few times, taking it all in. One signature and I become responsible for a massive old house set on a dozen acres of land. My mind whirs, wondering how long it will take me to organize a real estate sale.
Lionel coughs. “Legal documents require blue ink.” He slides a chewed-up ballpoint pen across the desk, and I take a minute to wonder who gnawed on it.
I sign with a flourish, and Lionel nods. “Very good, Ms. Storm. Welcome to Fork Lick.”
My boots crunch on the gravel in the parking lot outside as I make my way to my sister’s car. I was supposed to buy it from her, but that’s on hold until I figure out my finances among all this maple sap. I pull out my phone to text the Storm Sisters Group Chat, knowing they are probably dying for information.
That’s an exaggeration. They’re all at work.
I own a farm. Orchard? Is it a factory?
I stare at the screen, watching in frustration as the message slowly sends. The service here is spotty. I unlock the car and toss the paperwork onto the passenger seat while I wait for one of them to reply. We have different absentee fathers, and Mom gave us all her last name, which is about the only thing she gave us. My sperm donor kicked the bucket and left me to clean up the mess.
Eila
Have you seen it yet?
Eden
Are there bees?
Esther
Did you find a realtor who can sell it for you?
Of course, Esther is already pushing me to sell. I chuck my phone onto the heap of paperwork, turn on the engine, and slowly navigate to the former home of Walter and June Pierce.
I’m part of the Pierce family. It feels strange to have relatives I never knew. They had entire lives—ran a business and died while I was in Pittsburgh, mooching a bedroom from my big sister.
It’s… unsettling.
I turn onto the lane—this place has lanes! How fun is that?—and drive past a cute farm, then a tidy yard with an actual mailbox on a wooden post that reads Thorne. It has rose bushes underneath, dormant in the February chill.
Then I get to my driveway. It’s more like a group of potholes strung together with crumbling asphalt. Esther’s car creaks and groans as the tires jut in and out of the dips. I give up about halfway to the house and cut the engine, pulling the emergency brake before hiking the rest of the journey.
Lionel gave me the keys, but the front door is ajar when I arrive. If this were the city, I’d worry the house was full of drug users, but something tells me raccoons are more likely to be the squatters. I freeze in the entryway, where a framed photo of a couple hangs crookedly on a wall with faded floral wallpaper. In the sun-bleached photo, a middle-aged man rocking a bushy mustache kisses the cheek of a middle-aged woman whose smile lights up the entire frame.
This must be Walter and June, beautiful and happy in this moment amidst the ruins. I trace my fingers along my own jaw, trying to decide if I have either of their noses. I guess only Walter is related to me by blood. I’m struck by an overwhelming sadness at all this absence in my life. And at the fact that the father who abandoned my pregnant mother also abandoned his responsibilities to Pierce Acres.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone to call Esther, who thankfully answers right away.
“Hey, kiddo. You all right?” The reception is terrible, but the warmth of Esther’s familiar voice settles my nerves.
