Polar Bear in the Carriage House Vol 3 of Polar Bear Trilogy

By Charles Petterson

The carriage house on the Bancroft estate stood off-limits for over fifty years. The obvious contents, several vintage automobiles and carriages, were bequeathed to an unknown, future groom of an unborn Bancroft female. Rumors swirled up and down the Hudson River valley that the barn held more than household discards. But, rumors get exaggerated. Right? By marrying Joyce Bancroft, Jason Beckman became the heir. The Bancroft family lawyer, not known for getting his hands soiled, volunteered to take care of unloading the building. In the end, would Jason have been better off just burning the building?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Petterson
• Release date: Apr 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311545794

Charles Petterson

Thanks for visiting my smashwords page. I'm originally from Minneapolis Minnesota. After Graduating from Roosevelt High School in 1963, I joined the Navy. I served in the Atlantic Submarine Force following Nuclear Power training until 1972. I served with Cdr Crispin, Mack, Greene, and Peterson. I participated in operations that were awarded two Meritorious Unit Citations,and a Presidential Unit Citation. I was awarded the Navy/Marine Corps Achievement Medal.I have been married to my wonderful lover and partner, Lynn, for 46 years. We have lived all over the country and settled in the Omaha, NE area in 1988. We currently live with three dogs in rural Harrison County, Iowa.I write alot about the people I met in the Navy and their/my experiences with a touch of spice thrown in to make it interesting.Chuck Petterson, May, 2015

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1Polar Bear in the Carriage House

by

Charles Petterson

Smashwords Edition

Published By:

Charles Petterson on Smashwords

Polar Bear in the Carriage House Copyright © 2015

ISBN 9781311545794

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Dedication. To Lynn, of course.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to Mary Nuzum-Osborn and Veva Larsen for their assistance.

Cover art created by Charles A. Petterson using photographs licensed from GraphicStock.com

Chapter 1

Since my first encounter with the Edward Bancroft family, my presence in their midst has been their major irritant. That’s my take on things. I never had any desire to make their acquaintance or be involved in their lives. Benny forced the situation on me. Subsequent upheavals in their lives because of my being on the scene are just tough luck, and compared to my being shot and blown up because of their connections, their complaints are insignificant. None of it has been intentional, because I had no intentions, one way or the other.

By marrying Joyce Bancroft the contents of the carriage house on the Bancroft estate, a few miles upriver from Ossining, New York, became mine by virtue of provisions in the will of Joyce’s paternal grandfather. Maybe the smart thing to do would have been to call the local historical society, open the doors to the carriage house, tell them to take whatever they wanted, and burn the rest. I never claimed to be smart.

Having a 1934 dual cowl Packard phaeton in my possession was the treat dangling in front of my eyes that silenced any inner voices that may have been shouting, It’s a trap. Not to imply that was the case, because, what the hey? How can one go wrong with four historic vehicles along with a couple of carriages and a sleigh? Plus all of the smaller items that had been sitting undisturbed for at least seventy years waiting for the arrival of the appointed heir: husband of the first granddaughter of Cornelius Manchester Bancroft (Manny), Joyce Bancroft.

Edward Bancroft, C.M.’s younger son, and his wife, Georgia, occupied the mansion on the Hudson River estate and were obligated by terms of C.M.’s will to maintain the residence until the marriages of the first born grandson and previously mentioned granddaughter. Amelia, who married Benjamin (Benny), C.M.’s first and only grandson, inherited the boathouse contents. With covenants satisfied Georgia could drag Edward to a more modern hovel, perhaps located someplace warm in the winter. But, definitely something with less maintenance than one hundred fifty acres and an eight bedroom, six bathroom, four story, twelve thousand square foot, nineteenth century robber-baron stone mansion with inclusive servant’s quarters. A four bedroom guest house accompanies said mansion, of course.

I am the messiah in this little story of an old-money-gone-nuts industrialist who, for reasons nobody knew, stuck his younger son with the burden of an unwieldy property, gave his elder son controlling interest in the business, and left all of the toys to two grand-spouses he would never know. He knew that when he wrote the will. He knew the property would forever be a cinder block hanging from Edward’s neck by a silk velvet cord. I didn’t know the extent of the aggravation and inconvenience. It must have been substantial, because the day Joyce and I repeated our vows in North Dakota, Edward and Georgia gave the servants notice, closed the doors on a moving van, and high-tailed it for Palm Springs.

That’s right; Joyce’s Uncle and Aunt didn’t come to our wedding… and I didn’t miss them.

Chapter 2

We spent our honeymoon in Grand Cayman, courtesy of one of my banks. ‘Thems that have, gets’ is something I heard as a kid, and that certainly is becoming more apparent to me every day. Joyce’s airplane made the trip with one stop in Houston. It may have been coincidence I received a letter a week before the wedding advising me they would consider it their privilege if I used their private villa on Grand Cayman’s Gun Bay, gratis, for up to two weeks. Joyce did not have her heart set on any place special for post nuptial activities, so we replied we would be happy to take advantage of the offer for ten days.

We lounged most of the days, sailed a small boat inside the reef, and snorkeled. In the evenings we went to a nearby hotel for romantic dinners and dancing with dozens of people we didn’t know.

Joyce couldn’t stay away from the architects planning our new house. She wasn’t obsessed to the point she neglected me, but she reluctantly shut off her computer to go sailing a couple of days.

Nobody bothered me electronically for two reasons: One, I kept my communication devices turned off. Two, who would there be who would want to converse? Call me a lazy bum if you will, but I was content to loaf and have my daily massage from Helga the Hun.

My personal banker visited mid-week. She asked if the accommodations were satisfactory, if there was anything lacking, and if there were any transactions for which she could be of assistance. My current balance was just shy of sixteen million Cayman dollars, and she would be happy to forward prospectuses for several worthwhile investments in various parts of the globe.

Joyce offered a gracious thank you for the hospitality and complimented the staff for being efficient and unobtrusive.

A courier from the bank arrived later that same afternoon with a message for me from my Liz Day estate attorney, David Osbourne. "Please call immediately. Why don’t you have your freaking telephone turned on?"

I wrote a note. I’m on my honeymoon. I might turn on my phone in a week. Handle it, whatever it is, and handed it to the courier. I assume you have the return address for Mr. Osbourne. He shrugged, I gave him a generous tip, he said ‘gracias’ and departed.

*****

The following morning we sailed with six couples from the hotel, and one of the gals suggested we organize a race, just for a change of pace. Joyce and I agreed and our little flotilla set off for a spot on the beach where we would gather and then start the race. We all had the same class of boat, so it would be a test of sailing skills.

We have a farm in North Dakota, Joyce said as way of introduction, and we’re on our honeymoon.

My battle scars were being not stared at without comment or challenge by the rising-star investment bankers and attorneys from Boston and New York. One of the women asked, Are you staying at the hotel? Didn’t I see you in the bistro last night, dancing?

Joyce replied, We were there. We’re not at the hotel; Jason’s local bank offered their guest quarters. She pointed in the general direction of the house, The boat belongs to the property.

That brought about skeptical silence. Joyce was mentally sticking out her tongue at them; I could see it in her expression. She has to get over it, and I remind her occasionally.

The race was fun and we finished mid-pack. Everyone agreed to get together for dinner that evening on the patio at the hotel, although I think they were anticipating an invite from Joyce to join us for dinner at the house.

We sailed back to the small pier accompanying the house where Hernandez, the beach attendant, waited to take care of the boat. Mr. Jason, you have guests at the house from the states. Miss Juanita brought clothes to the cabana if you want to freshen.

We rinsed off the salt water and put on clean clothes. Hernandez drove us to the house in the six passenger electric cart.

Two men, inappropriately dressed for the island in their three piece suits, stood as we walked into the house. David Osbourne spoke, Jason, sorry to interrupt your honeymoon-

What the hell are you doing here? Joyce screamed. The answer is no. Whatever this is, and whatever you want, get out of here, right now. You’re not getting another piece of Jason.

I took her hand and directed her stance toward me, Whoa! Settle down, honey. Don’t get worked up over nothing.

She pulled away and got into David’s face,