Everyone wants to see the body.
All day, townies have filtered through the doors of the manor, kneeling at Gram’s casket. Flowers cover it, roses of course. Uncle Arbor picked them, but I wish he hadn’t. Gram would have been rolling her eyes.
I can’t believe—
Stop. I can’t keep slipping into denial. The past week has felt like a dream. I’ve cried. Screamed. Lain staring at the ceiling. I skipped every shift and ignored Miles’s texts because I could barely summon the energy to pick up my phone. Despite the police inspecting the manor and finding no signs of foul play, Frank urged me to stay with Uncle Arbor for the week so further investigations could take place. As of this morning, they came up with nothing.
It’s been a week since I’ve been back, but it could have been thirty for how foreign everything feels. The manor feels different without Gram. Like someone else’s home and not the one I’ve lived in for nearly a year.
I plop into Gram’s studded leather desk chair, my shoulders slumping in the solitude of her office. I had to escape the unending stream of people who have been handing us bouquets and chocolates and gifts. Like it’s fucking Valentine’s Day and not the visiting hours of my grandmother’s wake.
I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. It’s more than we ever got for Dad.
After five spins in the highbacked-chair, the tightness in my chest releases enough to gulp down the stale air. Behind me is a bay window taking up the entire back wall, the late-day sun streaking through and shining directly on the crystalline vase full of wilted roses sitting on the end of Gram’s desk. Technicolor light splashes across the smooth wooden surface. It’s massive, more like a dining room table, made of antique rosewood from before it was illegal to cut down the rare trees. The coloring is beautiful, alternating between rich dark hues and reddish lighter ones. The family lore is that my great-great-grandmother Hyacinth herself went to Madagascar to cut down the very trees that made it.
There are still papers on it, requests from businesses in town for investments and Rosewood Inc. documents. There’s also one pen. I run my finger over the custom silver barrel, Gram’s initials IHR carved into it. A tiny smile edges at my lips. No one but me would know that the ink within it disappears only minutes after writing.
“How’re you doing, Calla?”
I jump at Uncle Arbor’s voice, my bare knee smacking the underside of the desk painfully. It rattles the vase, and a few dried red petals fall, like drops of blood against the white papers strewn over the desk.
“Not my name,” I say, although it does draw a teeny smile.
“Used to call you that all the time when you were little.” He chuckles, holding out a chocolate-dipped strawberry someone sent; I shake my head at the offer. He pops it in his mouth, his gaze roaming the large room. In front of the desk are two forest-green wingback chairs. I wonder if he recalls sitting in the left one while Dad always took the right during meetings with Gram. When we were little and would sleep over, Daisy and I used to eavesdrop in the hall until our not-so-subtle giggles were heard and we’d get scooped up and tucked back into bed in our rooms across the hall from each other upstairs.
He passes the chairs, stepping up to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases built into the walls adjacent to the door and window. They’re mostly packed with editions of Rosewood Inc. catalogs, prior to everything being fully digital. Before I learned how to read, I used to point to issues and Gram would hand them to me, letting me gaze longingly at the pictures. It’s one of my first memories of the office—me upon her knee, a fall edition from years before I was born open on the desk, my finger trailing over a dark red coat that came to the model’s ankles.
Some days, that’s all I remember from my childhood. Coats and fabrics and days running through the winding halls of the manor, sometimes with Daisy, sometimes without. But always Gram just around the corner, whether in the office, or the great room, or soaking in sun on the patio. Never far.
Tears prick my eyes.
“How are you doing?” I ask my uncle before I can sink into a grief spiral. He’s spent the past week getting arrangements in order, speaking to the police and funeral director and Frank so often I’ve barely seen him. I can tell it weighs on him, especially since he was the one who found Gram unresponsive on the floor of the great room last Sunday morning when he went to help clean up from the party after dropping me off at work. His green eyes are strained and bloodshot, a look I’m mirroring. While I wear a simple black dress with a lace hem, he’s donned a fitted suit, an outfit I’ve seen him in more often than not since he’s one of the advisers for the Rosetown Council. On it sits some of the town’s most influential individuals, all of whom have passed through today to give their condolences.
“As good as can be,” Uncle Arbor replies, giving me a weak smile. “You taking cover in here?”
A week ago, I would have never admitted needing to “take cover.” But now, I nod. I’m certain opening my mouth will also open my tear ducts.
“Me too,” he sighs, sitting on the corner of the desk.
“I should have known.”
The words come out fast and harsh, a wave of tears rising like I knew they would. He pauses mid eye rub, frowning.
“Known what?”
“That Gram was sick!” I burst. “That something was wrong. I’ve been with her every day. And I didn’t notice anything. Just like—”
I break off, unable to finish. But from the way his eyes soften, Uncle Arbor knows. Just like Dad.
“It’s not your fault,” he tells me. “You heard what the coroner said. Coronary artery disease is common, especially in women her age. Many people live with it for years. We couldn’t have anticipated Mom’s heart attack. It’s unfortunate and terrible that she never told us, but that’s how she was.” He places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Knowing her, she probably didn’t want us to worry. Especially you. She has been under a lot of stress with the company. I just wish she would have asked me for help. Unfortunately, it’s never been her strong suit.”
“She could have told me.” I wipe my eyes. Maybe if I knew, I wouldn’t have let things end the way they did between us at her party. My last words to her weren’t anything special. Not an I love you or even a full apology. Just me, embarrassed and confused, wasting my last moments with one of the people I love most.
It’s a nasty habit I have.
A throat clears across the room. Daisy stands in the doorway, the setting sun turning her hair bright orange. Her eyes burn into me, smoky with shadow, her lips pressed in a thin, tight line. “Frank wants us all in the great room,” she clips. “Now.”
She turns without a second glance, stomping down the hall. From beside me, Uncle Arbor scrubs a hand down his face. I don’t remember the exact time the problems started between them, but it only got worse after Daisy’s mom—Aunt Janelle—up and left four years ago. Mom following suit just confirms more Rosewood lore: We’re not lucky in love. Everyone either dies or ditches.
I remember that summer vividly. We were about to be freshmen, and Daisy and I went from hanging out nearly every day to a few times a week, and then hardly at all. I’d find out she was making plans without me. I stopped getting invited over. I’d come to the manor to swim and be with Gram, and she’d say she was coming but never show up. Her mom leaving changed her. And I understand it now. Because Mom leaving after Dad died changed me, too. It brought me closer to Uncle Arbor and pushed Daisy further away than she already was.
“Let’s see what’s going on,” he says now, leading the way out of Gram’s study.
I go to follow, but my shin bangs into something. A muffled curse escapes, and I glare at the bottom left drawer of the desk that’s slightly open and empty. I rub the sore spot on my leg, nudging it shut with my foot.
We walk down the hallway to the great room, portraits of all the Rosewood women who went before me on the walls, the first two painted by a famous French artist who also has a big piece in the Rosetown Museum of Fine Art. The portraits start with Gram’s grandmother Hyacinth Rosewood. She married and refused to take her husband’s name, which was a big deal back in the day. He died young and left her a bunch of money, so she quit her seamstress clothing-factory job and spent it on founding Rosewood Inc. Built her own factory on a plot of land where nothing else existed before. Because of the jobs the factory created, people moved nearby and more houses were built. She saw an opportunity and seized it, founding Rosetown, a place that prospered as more people invested in the idea of a sparkling town on the edge of Massachusetts overlooking the Atlantic.
I stride past the next oil portrait, Gram’s mom, Petunia Rosewood. The beginning of a tradition of flower names and Hyacinth’s only heir. From the icy remarks Gram made about her, I don’t think they had the best relationship. Petunia married young, kept the Rosewood last name, had Gram, and then divorced her husband three years later. Gram’s never outwardly said it, but Petunia almost tanked Rosewood Inc. Apparently, money management wasn’t her specialty. Gram started working when she was sixteen, taking over the business in every facet except legally. As her own connections were fostered, she slowly built it back up into the thriving empire it is today. Petunia had more interest in the bottom of a bottle. She paid for it, too, dying of liver disease by the time she was sixty.
In one last stride, I’m at Gram, an amused smile on her painted lips. By the time she married my grandfather, she didn’t need money or support. She had been the sole proprietor of the business for years. She kept the Rosewood name, made international deals that eventually brought our factory to London, and juggled raising twin boys the entire time. I’ve never known a woman as powerful and accomplished. She was perfect. She had to be.
So do I, if I ever want to follow in her footsteps.
“What’s going on?” Uncle Arbor asks Frank as we enter the room.
The huge grandfather clock in the corner shows calling hours ended ten minutes ago. Frank must have shuffled any lingering townspeople out immediately, because it’s just us, Daisy, and two other women I haven’t seen around town before.
My stomach twists as I take in the scene. A briefcase lies on one of the round tables, which just a little over a week ago was laden with charcuterie for the party. The women stand stoically, waiting for what’s to come.
“We were able to rush the process of reading the will,” Frank says.
A heavy silence descends over us, tension coating the air like humidity. I glance to where Gram’s casket was, but it’s gone, already taken to the church.
Frank clears his throat, gesturing to one of the large mahogany tufted leather couches. “If you’d like to take a seat, we can begin.”
Daisy perches on the edge of a velvet emerald chaise, and Uncle Arbor sits in the center of the couch, so I lower myself to sit on the arm. My entire body coils, so much that my abs physically hurt.
One of the women opens the briefcase. She pulls out a large envelope, then three letters stamped with red wax seals. The Rosewood crest—a circle with a rose in full bloom and a single thorn on its stem.
Frank takes the envelope from her, pulling a letter opener from his dress shirt pocket. I recognize it as Gram’s favorite, gilded in gold with the handle twisting into a small rosebud. He must have snagged it from her desk earlier.
Using the sharp tip, he neatly slices open the envelope, extracting a piece of paper and clearing his throat to read it.
“‘Last will and testament of Iris Hyacinth Rosewood. I, Iris Hyacinth Rosewood, residing at One Rosewood Lane, Rosetown, Massachusetts, being of sound mind, declare this to be my last will and testament. I revoke all wills and codicils previously made by me. Article one . . .’”
I can hardly breathe. I’ve been through all of this before, after Dad died. I remember sitting in this very room, listening to the reveal that every crumb of his money had gone into his financial business and he’d put our house as collateral. When it went under, our family and half the town who’d listened to him lost everything. It put us in massive debt. Mom was devastated. He’d never even told her.
I can’t help the sting of anger that rises at this memory. And I hate it, because he’s dead and I miss him so much that sometimes it knocks the breath from my lungs. But he kept everything from us, every secret and lie. When he said he couldn’t pay for the Milan program, I thought it was because I had done something wrong. If he had just said something then, not tried to carry it all on his own—
I focus back on Frank. Gram assigned Frank as her personal representative to administer the will. No one argues. He’s the only one we would trust.
He pauses, and I know what comes next. “‘Article two.’”
The room falls silent, electrified. I might as well be hovering over the couch, that’s how lightly I’m sitting on it. My hands are clammy, the dying rays leaking through the windows no match against the AC.
“To Daisy Rosewood, my granddaughter and daughter of Arbor Rosewood, I devise, bequeath, and give my white Mercedes-Benz and the letter addressed accordingly.”
My jaw hangs. Gram barely even drove her own car, let alone let any of us drive it. To pass the beautiful custom ride off to Daisy is guaranteeing a future of curb hitting and mailbox plowing.
“The White Rose,” Daisy gasps, our nickname for the vehicle hanging in the air. But her expression shifts as Frank clears his throat, ready to move on. “That’s it?”
Uncle Arbor’s gaze is stern. “That’s a wonderful inheritance,” he says curtly, although really, when dealing with a fortune that equals close to a quarter of a billion dollars, I’m not sure it is. From the muscle that jumps in his jaw, he knows it. “Frank, please continue.”
I swallow, my gaze darting to my uncle before I can help it. I always wondered what would happen to the fortune. It makes sense that Gram would split it between her sons. With Dad gone, I can’t help but hope I might get his portion.
“‘To Arbor Rosewood, my son, I devise, bequeath, and—’”
My breath feels stuck in my chest. If Uncle Arbor gets all of it, I can’t be mad. I know he’ll use it to take care of me. Maybe he’d even pay for me to go to FIT. But still, there’s a feeling in my chest, uncomfortable and too close to the entitled girl I was last summer. Wanting everything. Expecting everything.
She died with Dad. I made sure of it. And yet, that poison still lurks deep inside me. The hunger of never having enough.
Greed.
Frank continues. “‘Give the key in my bedroom safe and the letter addressed accordingly.’”
I don’t have time to cover my gasp. Daisy’s jaw is on the floor. My uncle stammers, something I’ve never seen him do before. “Certainly, there must be—”
“That’s all, Mr. Rosewood,” Frank smoothly cuts him off. “Shall we move on?”
All eyes rotate to me. But the only gaze I care about is Uncle Arbor’s. His eyes bleed with hurt.
“Of course.” He flashes a tight smile that might as well be plastic.
I don’t know what the key might lead to, but I hope it’s something good. He doesn’t need the money anyway, not like I do. Gram probably figured that.
“Just one left.” Frank glances at me.
Holy shit. That means Gram left me everything.
I can’t help the thrill that shoots through me.
“‘To Lily Rosewood,’” Frank begins.
My nails dig into the leather of the arm to keep me from falling off.
“‘My granddaughter and daughter to my late son, Alder Rosewood, I devise, bequeath, and—’”
After this moment, my life will change forever. I will be the sole owner of the deeply protected Rosewood fortune. The manor will be mine. I’ll have Gram’s prized seat on the board of Rosewood Inc. Everything I’ve ever wanted.
But, suddenly, the thrill is replaced by a wave of nausea. I didn’t want it like this. My favorite person dead. We were supposed to run Rosewood Inc. together. She barely even brushed the surface teaching me. I know nothing about business. Or owning a manor.
Or being in charge of an entire fortune.
Frank looks over the paper at me. My breath is caught in a bubble in my lungs as he speaks the words that will alter my world forever. “‘Give my ruby necklace, a priceless Rosewood heirloom passed down from my grandmother before me, and the letter addressed accordingly.’”
Silence. My pulse storms in my ears, waiting for Frank to go on.
But nothing comes. Frank clears his throat, lowering the paper. Uncle Arbor looks at me perplexed. I . . . don’t know how I look.
Probably like I’m about to throw up, which isn’t far off from how I feel.
“That can’t be everything,” Uncle Arbor protests. “What about the manor? Rosewood Inc.? How about the entire fucking estate?”
It’s rare I hear my uncle swear, but his frustration jolts Daisy into action.
“It didn’t just disappear,” she adds. The leather beneath me most definitely has tiny cuts from my nails.
Frank turns the paper over. “There are a few last sentiments from Iris.”
“Yes, go on!” Uncle Arbor’s voice booms. A nervous laugh escapes him, as if he’s had twelve cups of coffee and only now realizes it wasn’t decaf. “Jesus, Frank.”
Frank swallows. “‘Article three. As for the remainder of my belongings, including but not limited to my manor in Rosetown, Massachusetts; my villa in Venice, Italy; Rosewood Inc.; my place on the board; and the properties and factory under the name; and the remainder of my estate and accrued wealth, currently valued at two hundred forty-seven million dollars, the receiver will be determined at a later date under privately specified circumstances.’”
“What?” It bursts from my mouth before I can stop it. “What does that mean?”
“Frank, this is bullshit.” Uncle Arbor jumps to his feet. “At a later date? She’s gone! Who’s deciding this for her? When was this written?”
To Frank’s credit, he stays stoically calm. “This version was approved July thirtieth, last year.”
Daisy chokes, her horrified gaze flickering to me. “Wasn’t that—”
“The week after Dad died,” I breathe.
Frank nods. “However, revisions were made May fifteenth, this year.”
Uncle Arbor starts arguing, but I don’t have the energy. Instead, terror saps the fight from my bones. It makes sense that Gram would have changed her will following Dad’s death, but why alter it again?
“I am not finished yet,” Frank raises his voice over the din of Uncle Arbor.
“Fine! Finish!” Uncle Arbor plops back on the couch. His face is red, hair mussed and more silver than auburn. Mine might match soon.
Frank makes a show of clearing his throat, reading the rest of the page. “In the meantime, I request that Rosewood Manor be closed to the public and the family. The sole caveat to this rule will be Frank Archer, who I request seek security detail to make sure this holds true.”
“But I live here,” I breathe, unable to hide my horror. “Where am I supposed to go?”
“Perhaps you can stay with your uncle like you have been this week, Miss Rosewood.”
“No way!” Daisy exclaims, at the same time that Uncle Arbor says, “Of course.”
He gives me a look of reassurance that I’m not suddenly homeless before standing to address Frank. “Where’s the money? We can at least challenge that. It’s within our rights. We’ll go to the bank, fill out—”
“Unfortunately, that won’t be an option,” Frank says.
Uncle Arbor strides forward, stopping across the table from him. “Why not?”
Discomfort flashes across Frank’s face. “It is not in its original accounts.”
We suck in one collective breath.
“Was it stolen?” Daisy asks.
Frank shakes his head. “No, not to my knowledge. From what I can tell after speaking with Iris’s accountant earlier this week, she had been steadily removing her assets over the past year. Currently, her accounts are down to a thousand dollars, the minimum.”
“Where is it, then?” I push myself up from the arm of the couch, legs jelly beneath me. “She had to have put it somewhere.”
“In this house, probably,” Uncle Arbor states. He turns toward the archway leading to the rest of the house. “I can think of a few places—”
The two women who have been silent up until now step forward, blocking his path. Their jaws are set, and their hands move to their hips simultaneously. They have guns.
Oh my God.
Uncle Arbor barks out a laugh. “What is this?”
“Iris made it clear that Rosewood Manor will be closed for the foreseeable future,” Frank says.
He takes the three letters, jamming one into Uncle Arbor’s hands, one into Daisy’s, then finally my own. I stare at it, wishing it could do something, anything at all, to fill the crater-size hole in my chest.
Frank gestures to the doors. “Your inheritance items will be given as soon as I am able.”
Betrayal burns away the numbing haze. Gram wouldn’t have done this. I jump up, reaching for the paper myself to read, but one of the women stands before me suddenly. “This way, ma’am.” Ma’am. Not Miss Rosewood, or even my name. Ma’am.
“There’s been a mistake,” I choke out, her hand a steady pressure on the small of my back. A threatening pressure. “Gram wouldn’t do this to us. I have things here, my sewing machine and clothes and sketchbook and—Can I just go to my room?”
“We’ll drop anything of yours off along with your inheritance. Thank you for understanding.”
It’s the ultimate shutdown. I’m led out for the second time in under two weeks, stewing in the betrayal.
The women keep pushing us out until we have no choice but to climb into Uncle Arbor’s Mercedes. He grips the wheel tightly as Daisy takes the passenger seat and I get in the back. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard it hurts. I twist to look at the manor disappearing behind us as Uncle Arbor drives us away.
“Why would she do this?” I sputter. “She couldn’t have made it all just disappear, right?”
Uncle Arbor shakes his head, knuckles white around the wheel. He has no idea, and the fact that Gram left him and me in the dark is so unsettling I swallow down bile.
“Maybe the legend is true,” Daisy says flatly. “That Hyacinth hid the fortune.”