I knew that dad wouldn’t agree to talk. He had told me that his parents had been clear: their meager fortune would go to Taylor,  and the Foxglove property, with its costly taxes and upkeep, would go to Dad. Yet the wording of the will, when they finally opened it, was ambiguous. Now it seemed Taylor also felt entitled to a share of Foxglove.

Deciding that an awkward conversation was better than letting family tension ruin our Foxglove summer, I left the dishes to Collin and walked up the stairs, mentally rehearsing a speech that urged Taylor to keep the peace with Dad. I shivered in my t-shirt and shorts, inadequate for the day’s uncharacteristic chill.

I opened the creaky door to her room. “Taylor,” I called, entering and finding it empty. The dresser that my great-grandfather had once carved stood in the corner of the room, covered in makeup containers, toiletries, and a coaster-less glass of water.  Not wanting its condensation to ruin the wooden surface, I picked up the glass, noticing an open, single-sheet letter beside it.

The letter, headed by a Macksfield Insurance logo, offered a quote for the value of the Foxglove house in the case of a fire. In the margin below the text was a neat, hand-written note: “Royella and Taylor, I’m still working on calculations for the value of the trees as requested. Will get back to you shortly. –Jeb.”

To be continued in the next column…