“Oh.” I grumbled, giving it a tug. It finally opened, and I let out a little, “Ah!” then held the door so Dad could help Mum inside. It was clear to see that she was going through the motions, and I wondered if she even knew where we were.
Perhaps she needed something stronger than a stiff drink. Although, I wasn’t sure what she needed was necessarily legal, and even giving the legal options without consent probably made it decidedly against the law.
There was no grinding a sleeping pill up into a jam sandwich for me, then.
At least I was in the right place to find out.
I followed them inside to the waiting room where Mr. Porter was already waiting for us. I’d met him once before when I was a teenager and he and his wife had joined Grandpa and my parents for dinner, but it had been as brief as you’d expect for a fourteen-year-old girl who wanted to skip out to see the friends she could only see once a year when she visited for the summer.
About five minutes.
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil,” he said, greeting both of my parents before turning to me. “Miss O’Neil, it’s lovely to see you all again. And, of course, please accept my condolences on your terrible loss.”
“Thank you,” Dad said, bobbing his head in that way people did when they had to acknowledge such a comment. “We’ve just come from the church and my wife isn’t feeling well, so if you don’t mind…”
“Of course, absolutely. Can I offer you some tea? Coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Dad said, glancing at me. “Three cups, Lottie?”
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
Ugh.
I hated tea.
Why had he even asked me that?
And why was I too polite to say no?
Oh, right. I was British, and refusing a cup of tea in this country was borderline treason, that was why.
I was having a bad enough day as it was without getting myself locked up in the Tower of London or something.
“Jane, could you get the O’Neils three cups of tea, please? Actually, would you make a pot? I’ll have one myself,” Mr. Porter asked the young woman behind the reception counter.
“Of course. I’ll bring it in for you,” she replied, and I recognized her voice as the one who’d let us in.
“Thank you,” I said to her as the solicitor ushered my parents through the glass doors into a short hallway. It might have been vintage on the outside, but it was clean and modern on the inside.
I hurried after them just as he was guiding them into a side room, and I gave him a small smile as I dipped into his office. It was larger than I thought it would be, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a rich mahogany that gave an air of elegance to the place.
No Ikea furniture for Mr. Porter, then.
The desk was the same deep wooden tone, and there were three chairs around it—one high-backed leather chair for Mr. Porter, and two leather armchairs with studs at the seams for my parents.
I was just about to ask if I was going to be standing when Mr. Porter produced another armchair from the corner of the room.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, tucking my dress under my thighs as I sat down. It was leather, and the last thing I needed right now was sticky leg syndrome.
Mr. Porter sat on his side of the desk, pulled a file out from the drawer to his right, and looked at the three of us. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“So to summarise,” Mr. Porter said after what felt like forever but was realistically only twenty minutes or so. “To Mr. O’Neil is Mr. Walsh’s old motorcycle and his car, as well as any and all tools in the property.”
Dad bobbed his head. “Thank you.”
“And for Mrs. O’Neil, the primary beneficiary, we have the house and all its contents except those specified otherwise at 23 Sequoia Avenue, the stocks and bonds held in the deceased’s name, and the total sum of four-hundred and ten thousand, seventy-two pounds, and thirteen pence. That is the extent of the bequeathments to you, Mrs. O’Neil. Are you happy with what I’ve told you today?”
Wow. Grandpa was rich.
Mum nodded slowly.
I frowned. “What about the bed and breakfast? I thought he still owned it. Why isn’t that in the list?”
My parents both glanced at me.
“What? Did he sell it, and nobody told me?” I asked, looking around. “Sorry, I—”
“There is one more beneficiary listed in your grandfather’s will, Miss O’Neil.” Mr. Porter flipped the page. “That’s why you’re here, after all.”
Oh.
Clearly, I wasn’t using my brain.
Wait.
What?
“I’m sorry?” I blinked at him. “Grandpa put me in the will?”
Mum nodded slowly.
Well, bugger me.
“‘And to my granddaughter,’” Mr. Porter read, adjusting his glasses. “‘Miss Charlotte Rose O’Neil, I leave The Ivy Bed and Breakfast and all its contents, acreage, and the sum of one hundred thousand pounds exactly.’”
I choked on a bit of spit that had magically lodged itself in my throat at this extremely inconvenient time and smacked myself in the chest as everyone looked at me, alarmed. “I’m okay,” I rasped, quickly tapping the base of my throat. “I think I misheard you.”
“Would you like me to repeat it?” he asked with a hint of a smile on his face.
“No, no, I… My tea.” I reached forwards for my cup and took a big mouthful of the now lukewarm drink, held the gross liquid in my cheeks for a moment, then swallowed it with a wince.
“Are you okay, Lottie?” Dad asked, concern flashing in his eyes.
“No,” I replied slowly. “I don’t understand.”
“If I may?” Mr. Porter offered, removing his glasses. At my father’s nod, he looked at me. “Your grandfather called me eighteen months ago, not long after he found out he would be receiving hospice care in the near future. He expressed his wish that you be the one to inherit the bed and breakfast.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but was he of sound mind? He said some whacky things sometimes.”
“Yes, he was,” he replied with a kind smile. “I spoke with his doctor at the time who confirmed he was able to make that decision, and I suspect your grandfather knew you’d respond like this because he made sure I sought a second opinion. It was the same as the first.”
Smart man.
“Um. Okay.”
“I should assure you that all necessary taxes will be paid from the estate,” he said, setting the file aside. “You will receive everything said in the will once probate is through. Until then, your mother is de facto owner, but I don’t suspect the two of you will have any issues.”
Right.
I was now the owner of a bed and breakfast and one hundred thousand pounds.
Sort of.
“It hasn’t been open in four years,” I said slowly, looking at my parents. “What am I supposed to do with it? I don’t know how to run a bed and breakfast.”
Really, the only thing I could run was my mouth.
Not even a race. Even those fun ones with the colours.
“We can get to that,” Dad said.
“Might we have a moment, Mr. Porter?” Mum asked, almost making me jump.