He Thought I Was an Orphan Until I Went Home novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Van Dorn Hill

Rory drives her to an estate she has never seen and a lawyer reads her a will. Her grandfather's letter says he wrote nine times, and the first thing on her new calendar is a Monday meeting with her ex-husband.

"My name is Rory Gannon," the big man said, holding the truck door open. "I managed the farm for your grandfather."

"I don't have a grandfather."

"You had one for twenty-eight years," Rory said. "He just didn't get to meet you."

The rain was running down my neck, and I had a bag on my shoulder and no other offers.

I got in.

The truck smelled like apples, wet dog and coffee.

There was a thermos in the cup holder, and he poured me a cup without asking.

"Drink it," he said. "You're shaking."

"I'm cold."

"Sure," he said, and pulled away from the curb.

We drove north for forty minutes, past the river and a dark line of orchards.

He did not make small talk.

When we turned between two limestone gateposts, the road climbed through rows of bare apple trees.

At the top of the hill there was a house of gray stone with every window lit.

It was bigger than the Tallmadge house, the garage and the whole street put together.

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah," said Rory.

A woman in a wool suit stood in the front hall with a leather folder.

She said she was the trust's lawyer.

She said she was sorry for my loss, and that she had been trying to reach me for five weeks.

"Five weeks?" I said. "I don't have a voicemail from anyone."

"We wrote to you three times at the Tallmadge house," she said. "Nobody answered."

I thought about that, and I put it away to think about later.

She took me into a library with a stone fireplace and ten thousand books.

The will was short.

Augustus Van Dorn had left the house, the land, the cider barn, the inn and the fund to his only grandchild.

Her name was Ada Mead, born Ada Van Dorn.

There was one condition.

For twelve months, Rory Gannon would be co-trustee, and no acre could be sold without his signature.

"That's all?" I said.

"That is all," the lawyer said.

"Why him?"

"Mr. Van Dorn trusted him."

I looked at Rory.

He was leaning against the bookshelves with his arms folded and his hat in his hand.

He showed no interest in power, only a quiet weariness that made him look like he wanted to be somewhere else.

"I'm not going to sell anything," I said. "I don't know what I'd sell."

"Good," Rory said. "Then we'll get along."

The lawyer left a sealed envelope on the desk and went to find her car.

On the front, in shaky blue ink, it said Ada.

My hands were not steady when I opened it.

It was two pages, written by someone who had learned penmanship in 1950.

"Dear Ada. I am your mother's father.

I did not speak to her for fifteen years, and that is the worst thing I have done in a long life.

I found out that you existed five years ago.

I have written you nine times since.

If you are reading this, none of those letters was answered, and I understand why.

I was a stranger. I was an old fool with a lawyer.

The hill is yours. Rory will explain what you need to know.

Please do not give it up because of me. I loved your mother, and I did not tell her so.

Augustus."

I read it twice, and then I put it down very gently on the desk.

"Nine letters," I said.

"I know," Rory said.

"He wrote to me nine times, and nobody ever answered him?"

"I don't know what he sent," Rory said. "I only know he never heard back."

"So he spent five years deciding I didn't care," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word.

"I think he spent five years afraid you wouldn't."

I turned away and looked at the fire so that he wouldn't see my face.

He didn't say anything else.

He just stood there until I was ready, which took a long time.

At midnight he showed me to a bedroom on the second floor with a window over the orchard.

"Breakfast is at six," he said. "The housekeeper's gone home. I'm no cook, but the eggs are fresh."

"Thank you," I said. "For coming to get me."

"I should have come five years ago," he said, and stopped, as if he hadn't meant to say it.

Then he nodded and shut the door.

I lay in a bed that was not mine, in a house that was now apparently mine, and I did not sleep.

In the morning there was a note on the nightstand in Rory's blocky writing.

"Library desk. Your calendar. Don't be mad."

I went down in my socks.

The lawyer had left a leather planner open to Monday.

There was one appointment, in blue ink, underlined twice.

"10:00 a.m. Local Business Fund request. A. Tallmadge and D. Larkin. Tallmadge-Larkin Hospitality. Three million."

I stared at my husband's name in the housekeeper's neat handwriting.

Then I heard a mug set down behind me.

"Surprise," Rory said quietly.

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