The mountains surrounding Foxglove were perpetually cloudless in summer, hence the unsettled feeling that descended when we awoke to an overcast day. The forest grove out the kitchen window seemed hazy and the creek’s gurgle—faintly audible from inside—had intensified, as if the water flowed more furiously. My brother Collin and I sipped black coffee while he mixed cheese and vegetables into omelet mix: breakfast for Aunt Taylor, who had arrived late last night for her annual summer stay at Foxglove.

When Taylor finally made it to breakfast, the omelets had grown cold, Dad—who had taken the morning off work to see her—had grown grumpy, and Royella had grown annoyingly chirpy. Taylor’s white spaniel, Button, followed us as we moved outside into the strangely chilled morning air. Wrapping our shoulders in blankets, we settled into mismatched porch furniture.

We picked at the omelets, devoured Royella’s homemade scones, and looked out at the ancient cedars and sugar pines, some with trunks over eight feet in diameter. My eyes rested on the sluggishly fanning wings of a swallowtail, perched on the fir beside a napping Button.

“So how was your drive up here?” Collin asked Taylor.

“Fine,” she said. “Took me almost three hours.”

“Really?” Royella said. “I’ve done it in one.”

“When were you at Table Mountain?” Dad asked Royella, chuckling. “No offense, honey, I just can’t picture it.”

“Me neither,” I said. I too found it hard to believe that Royella, the pastor’s pious widow, had visited Table Mountain, the Indian casino. Taylor usually stopped there for a night on the way to Foxglove.

“I didn’t gamble,” Royella snapped. “We did charity work.”

Taylor abruptly put down her fork, clinking it against the chipped china. “Sorry to change the subject. But—”

“No, please do,” Collin said. Royella slurped her coffee.

“Anyway,” Taylor said, addressing dad, “I wanna talk with you after breakfast.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” she said, “I just wanted to talk about the will and the property and stuff.”

“Not this again,” he grunted as he ripped off a piece of scone.

They began to argue but were interrupted by Button. He let out a frenzied bark and began to yap incessantly. Standing on his hind legs, he clawed at the trunk of an old-growth oak that stood in the yard.

We quieted, listening as a buzzing noise reverberated within the tree, punctuated by Button’s high-pitched barks. Suddenly, Royella jumped to her feet.

“Button, no!” she yelped, running down the porch stairs to the dog. Taylor and Dad sprung up and followed. Royella scooped up the dog. “Stay back,” she commanded the others. “Let’s go inside.”

After safely locking Button in the house, Royella explained that the strange buzzing sound had come from a diamondback rattler. The snake must have crawled into a deep hole within the oak’s expansive trunk.

Taylor gasped when Dad clinically observed that the snake could have injected “up to 800 milligrams of hemotoxic venom” into Button’s soft flesh. Collin rolled his eyes at me, signaling contempt for Dad’s never-ending attempt to impress Royella with his knowledge of mountain life

*

Later, I washed dishes and Collin dried them, wiping away the suds I had missed. We listened to the muffled sounds of Dad and Royella arguing in the next room. “Just talk to her,” I heard Royella exclaim. “She’s your sister, just talk it out.”

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…