Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
R ose turned her filthy Jeep onto the gravel drive towards the only place she considered home.
A fresh layer of rain and mud coated her side windows.
She parked in front of a white cottage, one of three that stood in a row.
Hers had faded pink roses out front. All had been homes for on-site staff of the Briar House estate years before.
Only the gardener’s cottage, now hers, was kept up enough to live in.
The one beside it had a tree branch growing out a window.
Ivy and thorny vines engulfed the one on the end.
Rose’s peony print rain boots sank a half-inch into mud when she got out of her Jeep.
Rain hit the top of her head. She leaned back in to grab her damp raincoat from the back of the passenger seat.
She slipped it on over her black dress, pulling her hair out from beneath its collar.
Both hems hit just above her knees when she straightened.
She lifted her face to the gray sky and closed her eyes. Raindrops ran down her cheeks in skinny rivulets. She needed this. Just a few seconds.
She opened her eyes and faced Briar House.
Swaths of rain sliced across its faded blue siding, making it look as if it too mourned.
Its maroon front door held a large white wreath that underlined that feeling.
Passed down through four generations, the three-story blue Victorian trimmed in white had stood since 1917.
Overgrown yellow roses planted between the World Wars wound upward over the wraparound porch.
Those that climbed gave the house its name.
Rose brushed rain from her cheeks as she moved forward and walked through puddles she’d jumped in as a child.
Thunder rumbled as she climbed the three steps to the side porch. The kitchen screen door creaked with resistance when she pulled it open and stepped in. Closing it, she set her jacket and rain boots inside the door.
Silence greeted her, the counters and sink empty of freshly picked berries and baked goods. No Ms. Tess or Olivia this morning. They would be here soon alongside her brothers and sisters. Most of their small town would follow.
Rose stepped from the kitchen into the heart of the house, the three-story square chamber that connected every room on the downstairs level.
The scent of Murphy’s oil soap lingered from the last visit by the cleaning service.
In the middle stood the dark, square-shaped staircase that held its own record of all comings and goings through the years.
In the opposite corner, the morning room stood open.
Sunlit triangles entered the hall via the open room.
Rose stepped inside. Her fingers touched the back of Magnolia’s favorite blue chintz chair.
The tea tray sat in place on the inlaid table close by, waiting for guests to entertain.
Rose didn’t dare sit down. She swallowed tears back.
Nine days since Magnolia passed. Eleven since they’d had tea and scones together.
The doctors had been confident she would recover. They’d also assumed that she would survive pneumonia once they diagnosed her. They’d been wrong.
She pressed her palms to the corners of her eyes as she took the dark-stained rails upward.
On the second floor, the double doors to Magnolia’s suite stood open.
She made the sharp turn to keep climbing, careful to avoid the phone table in the corner and the functional corded black telephone on top.
Memories of childhood, the lingering floral scent of Magnolia’s perfume, chased her.
Rose had only been six years old when their parents died in a car accident during an ice storm.
She remembered her own hand in one of Magnolia’s, her brother, Thorne, on the other side as they climbed the stairs.
Both their rooms were on the third floor.
Grandmother showed Thorne to his room, then Rose to hers.
There was a room between them, likely for a nanny generations before.
Hers was a small squarish room with one angled wall, all bright from the array of windows opposite.
Magnolia had opened a half-sized door on the angled wall to show her the cubby that was big enough to sit in.
Rose’s bedroom door stood open now. She stepped inside, the woven wool rug beneath buffered the creak of the wooden floor. Her rose-patterned quilt lay atop the twin bed. A vase of flowers sat on the white antique dresser. She hadn’t slept here since she’d fixed up the old gardener’s cottage.
A new burgundy cushion padded the window seat where she’d once gazed at the stars and watched for her best friend’s arrival on summer days.
Rose pulled open the half-sized door on the angled wall and pulled the string for a light that Magnolia’s own father had put in years before. She crouched down to climb inside, pulled the door closed behind her, put her head in her hands, and wept.
Later, Broome found her standing in front of her window. The floor creaked as he entered.
The sky above had blended into dark smears of gray. Below, a parade of dark-clothed figures approached the house, many carrying umbrellas.
She turned. Her brother stood tall and somber beside her, his tie loosened, the top button of his white shirt undone.
He was the oldest of their lot, with a fierce sort of face, hazel eyes, and hints of silver in his brown hair.
Only his wife and their three children softened the prominent lines around his eyes.
“Do they need help downstairs?”
He shook his head. “Livie’s got it. Some other women from town are helping.”
His hands disappeared inside his pockets, a habit that precluded serious conversations. “We need to talk.”
“What’s going on?”
He hesitated, then said, “The reading of the will.”
Rose knew what he was about to say. Briar House wouldn’t go to Broome as expected.
She’d known that when he and Simi custom-designed a 4,000 square foot home with an architect on the northern edge of Asheville.
Darling Simi called it their dream castle.
Broome called it The Fortress. He’d added a six-foot wrought iron fence and security cameras to make it so.
With Magnolia gone, based on their birth order, the house and the acreage surrounding would go to Aspen.
Rose blocked thoughts of what Aspen and her husband Gavin would do to make this property their dream residence. She’d seen their house up at Opal Point. It lacked a soul.
That brought up other things she didn’t want to think about. She’d need a new place to live. Those thoughts needed blocking as well.
Today was about Magnolia.
Her voice sounded flat when she said, “I understand.”
Broome swore. “You understand nothing.” His tone was harsh. “I expect things to go to hell.”
This was news. She met his riled eyes, saw his concern. “Oh.”
“The lawyers will be here at three,” he said. “Our guests will be gone by then. We’ll meet in the dining room. Dinner will be delivered at five-thirty.”
His hands remained in his pockets. She bit her lip.
Rose felt as if she were a young child again.
As the oldest, Broome served as more of a father figure to his siblings after their parents died.
Six years her senior, he took the role seriously, determined to be their role model and mentor.
That hadn’t changed when they reached adulthood.
His next words seemed forced, as if he’d rather speak of anything else. “This evening will be—it’ll be difficult. If you need to talk Rose—” He paused, but didn’t meet her gaze. “Call me or come to dinner. I’ll do what I can to help.”
He left the room. Uneasiness filled her. Sincerity, stammered words, and hands shoved deep in pockets? Broome never stammered.
What had Magnolia done?