“Maybe, but beyond sentiment and weirdness, there’s practicality. I’m just months into establishing my own business. What am I going to do with a house in Maine? A house,” she added, “you keep calling a manor. Which implies a big house in Maine I wouldn’t be financially able to afford or maintain.”
“There’s a trust for that.”
“Excuse me?”
“Collin established a trust for the maintenance of the manor. It’s very well-funded and broad-based. I should know, as I’m the trustee. Practicalities such as utilities, taxes, insurance will continue to be paid out of the trust. Repairs, any necessary or desired changes—paint, for example, or other upkeep and personal taste options? You’ll find the trustee very open, as his client instructed.”
“I—”
“As his heir, you’ll inherit the rest of his estate, including a five-percent interest in the Poole businesses. This percentage is a token, a maintaining of tradition. He left the rest of his interest to your cousins, and that is substantial.”
Then he paused, adjusted his glasses. “Your inheritance is contingent upon you taking up residence in the manor for a period no less than three years, for no less than forty weeks per year.”
“Live there?” The shocks just kept coming. “I’m supposed to just pick up and move? To Maine?
“You can contest the will. I’m a good lawyer, Sonya, so the terms are tightly knit as my friend and client wished. But you can contest it, and may prevail there. It would cost you a great deal of money and time. On a personal level, I’ll tell you I wish he’d taken my advice—as his friend and lawyer—and contacted you.”
“I can just say no. I could just refuse to accept any of it.”
“Of course. I hope you won’t.” He took two thick packets out of his briefcase. “I have a copy of his will, financial data, information on the businesses, the house. Photos, an inventory of the contents of the house.”
He smiled at her. “A great deal of legal nonsense, which I’ll be happy to explain once you’ve had time to absorb all of this.”
“Right now? I think that might take years.”
“It’s a beautiful home, Sonya. Over the many years, the Pooles have added to the original structure, maintained it meticulously. It holds so much history. Your history. It was your uncle’s deep hope that you’d accept this legacy and carry it forward.”
He rose. “My information, including my cell phone number, is in the packets. Please contact me, or have your attorney—which I advise you to retain—contact me. I’d be happy to meet with you and your attorney, and will be here through Thursday. I can and will come back at your convenience, or meet with you at my own office, at the manor, wherever it suits you.”
She got up to take his coat from the closet. “You have to know this is crazy. All of it.”
“He was of sound mind. Sound enough to make his wishes and terms clear and precise.” He put on his coat, pulled the ear-flap hat over his head. “You haven’t asked how much. How much the house is worth, the trust, the interest in the business, and so on. I find that very interesting.”
“It’s not real. Or doesn’t seem like it.”
“It’s very real. Look through the information, take time to think, hire a good lawyer.” He held out a hand for hers. “We’ll talk again.”
She shut the door, then just stood. Waited to wake up. But it hadn’t been a dream, she admitted. No hallucination, not when those packets sat on her table.
Though she barely felt her legs, she walked back, opened one. And pulled out a many-paged, blue-backed legal document.
The Last Will and Testament of Collin Arthur Poole.
It occurred to her she’d never seen an actual will, much less read one.
She sat, and though it resulted in a banging headache, read every word.
He’d left—bequeathed—some things to his lifelong friend. A specific painting titled Boys at Sea, an antique chess set and board, a first-edition copy of H. G. Wells’s The Time Machine.
Other bequests—a carnelian bowl, antique pearl earrings—to a Corrine Whitmer Doyle. Probably the friend’s wife, Sonya thought.
Separate bequests to Oliver Henry Doyle II, and to a Paula Mortimore Doyle. Another painting, some jewelry.
More yet to Oliver Henry Doyle III. Son? A Louisville Slugger, signed by Mickey Mantle, eight Matchbox cars, circa 1975. To an Anna Rose Doyle, a pearl necklace.