“You look as if my mother took you by surprise,” Brandon said as he sat behind the desk and observed her through a gap in the monitor lineup.
She forced another smile. “It hadn’t occurred to me that anyone would remember my mother. Let alone, me, when I was a kid.”
“My mom grew up here. My dad didn’t, but he was here every summer from the time he was born, which I guess counts.” His light green eyes swept the room. “How his ancestors managed to amass six generations of stuff—some of which is still here—amazes me.”
“It’s lovely,” Maddie said. “Did you spend summers here, too?”
“I did. The rest of the time we were in Boston until my dad retired ten years ago. That’s when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, and my parents came back here for good. The following year, my dad died, but as you can see, my mother stayed. I’m on- and off-island a lot in the summer, less off-season. I had a wife, but she . . . let’s just say she preferred to stay put. No kids, which made things easier.” He laughed. “Sorry. That was way too much information.”
Maddie tried to look empathetic but wasn’t sure if she succeeded.
“Anyway . . . ,” Brandon began again, as he picked up a small stack of papers neatly layered on the desk, “as I said in my letter, your grandmother was quite a lady.”
“I don’t remember her very well. I was five when my mother . . . died—after that, I didn’t come back to the Vineyard. Until now.” She swallowed her embarrassment. “I . . . I was told that my grandmother died years ago.”
Brandon nodded again, as if he already knew that. Or perhaps he was just being kind. Still, Maddie supposed that the island was a small community, especially off-season; maybe Grandma Nancy had fabricated a story the way Maddie’s father had—if that was what he’d done.
“I’m so sorry, Maddie. My letter must have been a shock.”
She said it was.
“Well,” he continued, sidestepping a question of had-shebeen-lied-to-and-if-so-why, “thanks for coming all the way out here. I figured you might want to see the cottage before we met. No matter what you decide to do with it.”
She hesitated.
“Also,” he continued, “now that you’re here, if you have any questions, we can meet again. Unfortunately, I’m back and forth to Boston a lot right now, but I’ll help however I can. Once we receive the death certificate, Nancy can be cremated. Then you can go forward with scattering her ashes, and we can settle the estate.”
“Thank you,” she said. She raised her chin—a trick she’d once taught herself to help shore up confidence. “Actually, I’d like to sell the place as soon as possible. It’s a busy time of year for me; the fall semester at Green Hills will be starting soon, and I’ll need to go back to work.” She hoped he didn’t think she was being impatient, greedy, or, worst of all, disrespectful of her grandmother.
“Well, you can’t put the cottage on the market until the certificate arrives, but you’ll be pleased to know it should sell quickly. It goes without saying that the location is highly desirable. And I don’t think I mentioned that Nancy put her estate into a trust for you, so there shouldn’t be any entanglements or lag time if you decide to sell.”
She’d just told him that she planned to sell. Hadn’t he been listening? She fidgeted with the small pearl bracelet on her wrist.
“Not knowing what your plans would be,” he continued, “I haven’t had the cottage appraised yet. My best guess is it will go for over a million. One-four. Or one-five.”
Maddie must have heard him wrong. Did he mean a milliondollars? A millionand a half? For that tiny old house? She wondered if he’d seen it lately.
“And, of course, there are the other properties,” he added.
“Other properties?” Maddie asked, her words popping out in a squeak.
“Your grandmother also owned two parcels in Aquinnah. They aren’t on tribal land, so you’re free to sell it. One is about two acres; the other is close to three. They’re near the water, so together their market value is around three to four million. Give or take. Add that to the cottage and . . .”
Maddie no longer wanted to listen. She knew how to do math. But had her grandmother known the value of her untapped wealth?
Three to four million dollars?
Plus the cottage?
Her heart started to palpitate. To date, Maddie’s 401(k) was just shy of one hundred thousand dollars, which she thought was pretty good, considering she’d only started working full-time eight years ago. Prior to that, she’d been an adjunct for a few years and hadn’t saved a dime. Before that, she was an adult student, trying to make up for having married a man who hadn’t wanted his wife to work but to serve on charitable boards and play golf. Not that there was anything wrong with those things, but they hadn’t done a damn thing to build financial independence for her. She hadn’t even scored in the divorce settlement, foregoing alimony for more child support and for Owen to pay all of Rafe’s education.
She stood up abruptly. “Thank you for the information, Mr. Morgan. I need a day or two to think about this.” The truth was, her stomach was now in three-to-four-million-plus-the-cottage knots. Give or take.
He stood, too. He was taller than she was, nearly as tall as Rafe. He had a kind face. A gentle face. She hoped she hadn’t insulted him. But she couldn’t listen any longer.
“Wait,” he said. “Let me give you something. . . .” He shuffled through the papers and extracted a few. “These are copies of the assessors’ parcel maps for the land in Aquinnah. It will give you an idea of the scope of the lots. And where they’re located. As you can see, one is on the opposite side of the basin, not far from the cottage and close to the bike ferry dock; the other is off Clay Pit Road, near Lobsterville Beach.”
She glanced at the maps, but the lines and squiggles, the numbers and landmarks meant nothing to her. She turned without taking them and simply said, “I’ll be in touch.” Then she darted from the room too fast; she nearly bumped into his mother, who was approaching, balancing a tray that was rattling. It held a small plate of what looked like homemade biscuits and glasses filled with ice.
