Last fall my grandfather granted me permission to explore the possibility of turning Norland Park into a luxury resort. I made a site visit with an architect from my firm. The proposal was drawn and the entitlements granted, but it’s been six months and my grandpa still hasn’t agreed to sell. I’m afraid he’s having second thoughts. Afterall, the rustic campground has been in the family for generations. The location my great-great-great-grandfather selected to homestead was heartbreakingly beautiful, but the steep terrain was not ideal for farming. His grandson was the first to build cabins for tourists and a hotel on six square miles of the most scenic land along the California coast.
I’m beginning to think that we should cut our losses and scrap the whole project. It’s common to cancel projects in my business—even some more advanced than this one. But I feel more responsibility this time around. The land has been in my family for five generations, and we haven’t done anything with it. Right now, there’s nothing more than a run-down hotel and a dumpy campground on it. The resort is surprisingly profitable, but it has the potential to be so much more. Last fall grandpa seemed on board with the plan to renovate the park, but I fear his mind is changing. He’s been dragging his feet on selling the property. Lucinda expects me to pressure him into selling. But I won’t. I couldn’t even if I tried. No one can change grandpa’s mind.
When my ninety-three-year-old grandpa was hospitalized with double pneumonia two weeks ago, my boss couldn’t hide her excitement. She knows that my mom will inherit the property. They are friendly acquaintances and have similar cut-throat instincts. They go way back to when they both worked together at the same residential real estate firm. Lucinda knows my mom will sell Norland Park in a heartbeat.
“How much longer?” My boss’s impatient voice comes through my phone.
“I can’t say.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, take one deep breath and then another before handing my ticket to the valet outside the hospital. “I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Any chance we’re wrong about the will?” she asks.
“No, grandpa has made it clear. My mom inherits everything.”
***
My grandpa died just a few dayslater. But my momdidn’tinherit everything, though to be clear she inherited a lot: Grandpa’s home in Sacramento, his collection of vintage cars, a cabin in Utah, another home in Santa Barbara, and Norland Park. She got all of it—except for a two-story farmhouse at the edge of the park built in 1907 by my great-great-grandfather. The century-old structure, Bumble Cottage, sits high at the edge of the redwood forest overlooking the sea. In our plans to upgrade the resort, Bumble Cottage is to be torn down and replaced by a farm-to-table restaurant with a world-class view of the ocean.
This morning—two months after grandpa’s death and one week out from finalizing the sale of Norland Park—grandpa’s lawyer informed my mom that she was not, in fact, inheriting Bumble Cottage. For some reason my grandfather bequeathed that small piece of property to me.
“I can’t believe it,” my mom says over the phone. “I would have been on the lawyer’s case to get through probate if I had known there were surprises like this in the will.” She’s calling me from her new place—Grandpa’s house in Santa Barbara. She moved there in June. “He swore up and down he wouldn’t leaveyou a penny.” This is true. Both my mom and grandpa are big believers in the myth of the self-made man. Grandpa loved to say, “Nothing stunts a young man’s growth more than money,” along with his other favorite line: “The struggle makes the man.”
To be clear, I’m not struggling—at all. No matter how much my grandpa and mom loved to give lip service to their tough-love philosophy, I’ve lived a charmed life—and they made it happen. Even though my mom made it clear that she wouldn’t be offering me a job at her business. “That way, when you’ve built your own corporation, you can have the satisfaction of knowing you’ve earned it yourself.”
I’ve never bothered to tell her that I have no interest in ever owning my own business. She just assumes that everyone’s dream is to own their business and make more money than their parents. What other dream is there?
She also would argue vehemently with me if I ever pointed out that I couldn’t really say I’ve made it on my own. My whole life has been one staggering piece of good luck followed by more good luck, beginning with having Barbara Norland as my mom. No one who has ever met my mom would call her motherly—including me. But she is fierce, practical, and committed. And so selfish that it’s nearly a virtue.
As her son, I benefited from her singular focus on success. I got the best of everything: best school, best teachers, even really good friends. I think the other kids felt sorry for me because I had such a scary mom. Her diva behavior at PTA meetings set the bar extremely low for me. Everyone expected me to be an entitled brat. By simply being your average decent human being, I exceeded expectations.
So though my mom likes to tell anyone who is listening how incredibly independent and successful her only son is, it’s all a fairy tale. Don’t get me wrong, I’m doing fine. But with my mid-level job at a real estate development company—a job Ihighly suspect I only got because my boss knew of my family’s connection to Norland Park—I’m a poor relation compared to my mom and her father.
Bumble Cottage changes all that.
She told me the news two minutes ago. I’m still in shock. I shut the door to my office. I need a moment to take this in.
It’s not a big home by my mom’s standard—four bedrooms and two baths on a couple of acres—but the location means it’s worth millions. Of course, I’ll sell it to Steele Properties, and we can move forward with the Norland Project as planned. But I can’t believe my grandpa left it to me. The value of the cottage might be lunch money for my mom, but for me, it’s a game changer. I’m already thinking of how I’ll spend the money. I’ll pay off my townhouse. And I could start a college account for my half-siblings. I’m excited thinking about the possibilities.
“The only silver lining I can think of,” my mom says, “is that nowIwon’t have to kick the tenants out.” This brings my daydreaming to a screeching halt.
“Tenants?” I groan.
My mom cackles. “Edward, you’re such a coward.”
“I know I am.” Growing up with my mom and grandfather who never bothered to think of people’s feelings, I always tried to compensate for their sharp tongues by being overly accommodating. The positive spin on this is that I’m a peacemaker. The hard truth: I’m conflict avoidant.
“You could always just give them a phone call, or send a letter,” suggests my mom. “Though I was planning on doing it in person. I think that’s a little more classy.”
“Remind me again who lives in this cottage?”
“The Greenwoods.” Immediately my mind goes to grandpa’s cryptic comments about enchanting women.
“And they are?”
“You know Nora, his third wife,” my mom explains. “It’sher son’s family. Dad always had a soft spot for them. I don’t know why. It’s not like Ralph was really his stepchild. He was already grown up when Dad married Nora, and the marriage only lasted a couple of years. But he let them live in the cottage rent-free for decades!”
“That doesn’t sound like grandpa.”
“I think he felt sorry for them. Ralph was a struggling actor and Maggie an artist, and they had two little girls to support. And then I think Ralph died. But that was years ago. No reason for them to still be there rent-free. They’re nothing more than elegant squatters,” my mom scoffs. “Some people have all the luck.”
