The Inheritance

By Heidi Hostetter

If you like the Gilmore Girls' Stars Hollow, you’ll love Inlet Beach.

When three sisters arrive to claim the oldest house in town for themselves, you can bet the residents of this tiny beach community will have something to say about it.

For the sisters, it started a letter explaining that they’ve inherited a dilapidated beach house from a relative they don't remember. But complications arise when each sister wants something different from their unexpected gain. Plus, the sisters haven't spoken to each other in a dozen years.

The Inheritance is a story filled with the quirkiness of a small town, the craziness of an imperfect family, and the hope of a second chance.  

Pacific Northwest Writers Association 2015 Literary Contest Finalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: Heidi Hostetter
• Release date: Mar 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996133708

Heidi Hostetter

Heidi Hostetter grew up in New Jersey and spent summers at her grandparents' house on the shore. Every magical thing was there, from sparklers and fireflies at night to whole days spent swimming in the ocean and exploring tide pools. She and her family have recently moved back to the DC-area and live in a one-hundred-year-old house that's definitely haunted.

Book preview

Chapter One

As the etched glass doors slid open, Lydia entered with authority, the snap of her heels echoing against the polished marble floor. As she walked the tiled pathway, she slipped the leather gloves from her fingers and unwound the silk scarf from her neck, tucking both into a lined pocket of her handbag, and focused on the business of shopping.

Striding past a bland display of shapeless winter boots in the shoe department, she glanced with satisfaction at her own boots: hunter green suede with a sharp stiletto heel, perfectly matched to the plaid in her new winter coat.

Rounding the corner to the cosmetic counter and the spicy winter perfumes, Lydia slowed to inhale the comforting scents of clove and cinnamon and felt the pressure uncoil from the base of her neck for the first time all day. Shopping always helped.

Can I help you find something?

Lydia glanced at a saleswoman wielding a perfume spray bottle, her eager smile showcasing a disturbing collection of crooked teeth. Not bothering to hide her disdain, Lydia frowned and walked on.

After a nasty morning, she needed something more than a bottle of perfume or shade of lipstick – something substantial, something that would make a difference.

Maybe a new spring coat.

Inspired, she cut through menswear and was about to step onto the elevator when she caught sight of the one place she couldn’t go, the only place she ached to belong.

Tucked discreetly into a corner on the first floor was an oasis of privilege, framed with delicate curtains in layered shades of gray and white, the entrance guarded by a fierce receptionist whose sole purpose was to shield clients from customers, and Lydia badly wanted to be a part of the first group.

At her office’s Christmas lunch the year before, Lydia had successfully pried a stylist’s name from the wife of one of the senior partners, and by spring, Lydia had saved enough money to buy something small. It was the experience of being pampered and appearing important that she wanted – she had no place to wear the clothes they sold. After waiting three weeks for an appointment, Lydia called into work sick and used the whole morning to get ready.

Arriving precisely on time for her appointment, she had been welcomed by an assistant wearing an elegant black linen sheath accessorized perfectly with a single sterling cuff, and had been guided beyond the curtains to a consultation room. She remembered trying to look unimpressed with such elegance, the matte-silver scones, the leather club chair, and the small side table laid with champagne and fruit, but she hadn’t been sure she was convincing, especially when she saw the pieces they had selected for her; the prices on a few of the dresses were more than her monthly paycheck.

Spanning the entire wall in the dressing room was much more than she had expected – lavish outfits with accessories and shoes instead of the classic, sensibly priced pieces she had hoped for. Evening dresses for benefits she would never attend were paired with delicate sandals and stunning jewelry that she would never wear. And although Lydia had dressed carefully for the appointment, she had known immediately she didn’t belong. She wasn’t a pampered wife living in a house that was too big, on a street with a clever name, making important wardrobe decisions, and hiring staff to entertain her husband’s clients. She was just Lydia Meyer, an underpaid legal researcher with a husband she didn’t like and a house she couldn’t afford.

Arriving late with breezy excuses, the senior stylist – Glenda was her name – entered the room with a plastic smile and a sharp eye. Skeletal and petite, she offered a perfunctory fingertip handshake and went to work immediately, uncovering the real Lydia. With every pointed question, Lydia felt the veneer she’d created seep away, and soon after the stylist was unexpectedly called away, leaving the assistant to attend Lydia, and Lydia felt her pretend life dissolve like snowflakes in the gutter.

Distracted by the memory of her appointment in the Personal Style department, Lydia was unprepared as the escalator separated into steps. She faltered, grabbing the rubber handrail for balance as her foot caught on the teeth of the stair, scuffing the suede of her new boots. Tamping down her frustration, she straightened her shoulders and entered the coat department.

The clutter and the chaos from the after-Christmas sales had been removed. The ugly red sale signs and tacky discounted rounders had been replaced with polished mirrors, soft lighting, and attentive salespeople.

Lydia inhaled and allowed herself to relax. The best part of shopping came before anything was selected. The best part of shopping was the magic of possibility. At this moment she could be anyone, shopping for anything, and able to afford whatever caught her attention.

Can I help you find something? The saleswoman’s voice was jarring and overly-familiar, but Lydia was not there to make friends. She was there to be served.

Standing before her was a disheveled woman stuffed into a tight dark sweater, her cheap polyester skirt strained at the seams and her unnaturally dyed hair was pinned to the side of her head with tacky plastic clips.

This woman had nothing to offer, and Lydia dismissed her with a cool glance and a flick of her fingers. No. Thank you. I’ll look for now.

The manager of the department approached soon after. Lydia quickly assessed her appearance and decided to accept her help. She inhaled deeply and slowly as she pondered her vast choices. I’m looking for a spring coat. Something lightweight but warm, cashmere probably. And in a pastel spring color… she fluttered her fingers in the air as if the exact description eluded her, . . . maybe blue.

A practiced smile slid into place, one so similar to Glenda’s that Lydia’s heart skipped a beat. Of course. My name is Vivien. She inclined her head toward the same woman Lydia had rejected just moments before. Nadia can show you to the dressing room while I find something for you.

The clerk led Lydia to the fitting room without a word. She unlocked the thin slatted door using the key tethered to her wrist. The moment Lydia cleared the threshold, Nadia released the door and it slammed shut.

In a flash, Lydia spun around to open the door, her face burning. "Did you just slam that door?"

No, I didn’t. The woman’s voice was cool, unconcerned, an insolent smile spread across her face. These doors are sometimes not what they seem to be.

For a second too long she held Lydia’s gaze, and it was in that moment Lydia decided to leave. This was not the experience she wanted. Just as she stepped from the dressing room, Vivian breezed down the hallway holding a blue coat in front of her like a trophy. With a look of triumph, she offered it to Lydia. It was delivered only this morning and hasn’t even been moved to the display yet.

Light as a robin’s egg and soft as a whisper, Lydia felt the silk lining slide over her arms and settle perfectly on her shoulders. Vivien fastened the contrasting belt and stepped back so they both could admire Lydia’s reflection. She looked elegant. And important.

No one else has this coat. You will be the first. Vivien draped a silk scarf in a slightly darker shade of blue around the lapels of the coat and the effect was so stunning that Lydia almost forgot to breathe.

As Lydia turned to congratulate Vivien for finding a garment so exquisite, she caught Nadia and Vivien in an unguarded moment. Nadia tilted her head slightly toward Lydia and rolled her eyes; Vivien returned her look with a curl of her lips.

Lydia’s heart squeezed. They knew she was pretending, that she had no use for a blue cashmere spring coat. But she refused to be pitied. Drawing herself to her full height, she shrugged off the coat and handed it back.

Shall I box it up for you? The mask settled back over Vivien’s face so quickly that Lydia could almost believe her expression was real.

Almost.

No. Lydia shook her head. I don’t want it.

As Lydia reached for her things and prepared to leave, Vivien tried again. The cashmere is perfect for you, but I understand that carrying it with you while you shop might be uncomfortable. Might I suggest we have it delivered to your home? It’s a service we offer only to select clients…. Her voice trailed off as she stood beside the door and waited.

Lydia understood she was being manipulated, but at that moment she didn’t care. She’d spent her days alone in the law library researching minutia for attorneys who didn’t appreciate her while rejecting lunch invitations from uneducated secretaries who were beneath her. She felt like the classic British governess: better than a servant, not quite family.

She followed the women to the register, watching the price tag flutter in their wake and trying to read the numbers. She hadn’t planned to buy anything today. She didn’t have money to buy. All she wanted was to be served.

Vivien slid behind the counter and removed a thick ivory notecard from a drawer. Uncapping a silver pen, she asked, Where would you like this delivered?

For the briefest moment, Lydia imagined she lived in one of the big houses in the neighborhood her little house overlooked. She could pretend that someone would be at the house to sign for the package and whisk it upstairs to hang it in her cedar closet, and soon she would wear it to a charity luncheon. But in reality, if it were delivered and left on the doorstep of her house, it would be stolen.

Actually, I have an event I can wear it to tomorrow, so I’d like to take it with me. The event was work, and no one would see her at all.

Both Vivien and Nadia pretended not to care that the cost of the coat had to be spread among three credit cards. Instead they complimented her good taste, describing places she could wear the coat and painting a picture Lydia wished were true.

On the way home, Lydia drove through the Short Hills neighborhood she should have lived in, the one she could have lived in, if the chance hadn’t been stolen from her. Filled with doctors, lawyers, and executives, the houses were set back from the tree-lined street. Behind a wide front yard, the outside was architecturally perfect, the inside professionally decorated, with a lawn service, a live-in staff, and pair of potted evergreens flanking the front door.

But her house wasn’t in this neighborhood.

Her house was in a neighborhood that bordered the one she wanted to live in. In her neighborhood, the streets were threaded with frost-cracks that were never repaired, the trees were spindly and neglected instead of arching gracefully over the street as they should, and the sidewalks were hastily poured concrete instead of carefully laid brick.

They had been able to afford their house only because it had been in foreclosure. Greg’s salary, commission generated from managing client investment accounts, fluctuated wildly and the salary she was paid for her job as a researcher at a law firm was laughable. The first thing she had done after they had moved in was hire a lawn service – one of the big white trucks from the good neighborhood came to her house twice a month and parked where all the neighbors could see.

Today, in fact, in addition to spring clean-up – mowing, edging, and sweeping – the landscapers were supposed to plant spring flowers in the window boxes as well. Just in time for Easter.

But as she drove up to the house, the boxes were empty.

Instead, taped to the glass front of her storm door was a white business-sized envelope that could only be an invoice. If she could see the paper from the top of the driveway, the neighbors could, too. Tightening her grip on the steering wheel she knew the landscapers hadn’t been paid since Thanksgiving, but she had hoped they would come anyway.

She would deal with the invoice but first she had to get past the mailbox. Pulling her car next to the hateful yellow brick, she opened the window, welcoming the cold evening breeze on her hot face. She knew what waited for her inside that mailbox, something she made a point to keep from Greg, but the stack grew bigger and more urgent every day, and keeping it from him was becoming more difficult.

Reaching in, she removed a bundle of letters rubber banded inside a glossy catalog and tossed it onto the passenger seat. As it hit the seat, the band broke and letters exploded onto the floor. She froze. Final notices and past due warnings scattered across her car like landmines; she had never seen so many.

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded in her chest.

Greg could never see this. Most of the bills would have been paid with his January commission, but that was three months past due, and she refused to ask him for it. He would want to know why, and she couldn’t tell him.

Entering the house quickly, she made sure Greg wasn’t home before moving to the living room and spreading the pile on the hardwood floor. She pulled out a final foreclosure notice and set it aside to take care of in the morning, because it looked like they were serious this time. Gathering the rest she worked swiftly, triaging the bills into piles of urgency, one for utility terminations, another for NSF slips, a third for overdue credit card bills.

As she surveyed the piles, she swallowed, pushing down the acid that burned her throat.

This was Greg’s fault.

Everything she had bought in the last five months had been put on credit in anticipation of his January commission. Catering that stupid Thanksgiving Open House, Christmas gifts for his clients and managers, clothes and makeup for her. She might not have bought such extravagant gifts for her managers if she had known his check would be late.

She put the mortgage notice by the telephone to remind herself to call as soon as the bank office opened and pushed everything else under the couch to join similar bills from yesterday’s mail.

As she tossed the last catalog across the room and into the trash, the letter that would change her life fluttered from the pages. The envelope was heavy stock and ivory, her name and address handwritten. Sliding her finger under the flap, she pulled out a single sheet of watermarked stationery. She read the letter through twice before allowing a smile to spread across her face.

A way out had presented itself after all.

And best of all, the letter was addressed to her alone – not to her and Greg.

Chapter Two

Thumbing quickly through the screens on her cell phone, Tyra found the contact she needed and sent a quick text.

Project completed and ready to post. Pls advise location.

It was a stupid project – boring and easy to do – but the client, a tech start-up flush with a recent infusion of cash had promised her a bonus for immediate results, and she knew they were waiting.

The reply came almost immediately, and Tyra started the process. As soon as it posted, she could leave. Her car was packed, her apartment vacant, and there was nothing to keep her here.

This restaurant was quiet in the few hours before the lunch rush and it was the best time to work. The only customers were a scattering of snowbirds, retirees who wintered in the desert to get away from the snow and the cold in the north.

More hot water? Stale brown water sloshed in the stained carafe as the waitress clutched the orange plastic handle. Not this water – this water is for customers who overstay their welcome and forget to tip. She side-eyed a table of three older men hunched over what looked like a cribbage board, and she leaned in, finishing with an exasperated whisper. "They stay for hours."

Tyra pushed the teapot closer to the waitress. Thank you, hot water would be great. She didn’t want more, but she also didn’t want to talk.

After the server left, Tyra watched the men playing cribbage. The tabletop was littered with twisted sugar packets and wadded paper napkins, stubby pencils and scorecards. The men bent over their game with the concentration of generals overseeing a battlefield. There was no friendship in that game, no conversation, no laughing. Each man could have been sitting alone, and Tyra wondered what drew them together.

Her cell phone chirped, signaling a waiting text message, and Tyra flicked to it with her thumb.

Project received, thank you. Pls confirm bank routing for payment.

Tyra sent the information and waited for confirmation. She didn’t like working this way; it seemed nefarious somehow to request payment as soon as the project was delivered. But startups were unpredictable and she couldn’t wait.

Her trip had taken almost three years to plan, and she had dreamed about it for longer than that. A change of climate, a new address, a gamble, and a new start altogether.

The dining room buzzed with hushed conversation and the soft clink of utensils against plates as the few customers finished their meals. The front door opened letting a gust of hot desert air and bright sunshine into the small room. A pair of older women entered, their heads bent together in shared conversation. In unison they walked to a large booth near the wide picture window and settled in. One woman shrugged off her cardigan and draped it casually in the space next to her as the other settled into her seat and anchored her purse firmly in her lap. When their iced tea arrived, the cardigan woman lifted a pink sweetener packet from the box and offered it to her friend. It was accepted with a quick smile of thanks as if it were something routinely done, and Tyra wondered how long you would have to know someone before they knew what sugar you liked. How close you would have to let someone get? What secrets would they have to know? And keep?

The glass front door slammed open letting another rush of hot air into the air conditioned dining room. This time a troop of chattering women entered, herding their drippy toddlers in front of them. Claiming the big center table, they scattered the far end with an assortment of toys so vast it reminded Tyra of the Christmas charity boxes sent to the group home where she used to live.

A toddler’s shriek ripped through the air and the noise hit Tyra’s spine with the force of an explosion. At the same moment, something solid hit the table and skittered to the edge before falling to the floor.

Instinctively Tyra reached for a weapon. Her fingers scrabbled underneath the napkin for the butter knife – dull now, but strong and heavy, easily concealed and easily sharpened. Gathering her legs underneath her, ready to spring from the chair in any direction, she held the knife in her fist and waited.

The sound of someone speaking came to her as if she were underwater, blurry at first but becoming clearer as she focused.

It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. Laying her fingers gently on Tyra’s wrist, the server used her other hand to slide the butter knife from Tyra’s fist. It’s nothing, just a plastic block.

As her vision cleared, she began to recognize the restaurant. The floor was carpet, not concrete. There were no bars on the window, and she could leave when she wanted. Her heart pounded as she forced out the breath she had been holding.

The server pushed a glass of ice water toward her. My husband does that sometimes, when something startles him. Either military or you’ve done time. While Tyra’s heartbeat slowed, the server waited. You got someone you want me call for you? Someone to come get you?

Tyra shook her head. There was nobody she could call, nobody would come. The closest person she knew was twenty-five hundred miles away. Reaching for her water glass, she drank it all. I’m fine now, thank you. I just need to go.

The waitress pulled a notepad from her apron, ripped a page and handed it to Tyra with a deep scowl. I’d leave, too, if they’d let me.

They both watched as one of the mothers scattered cheerios across the table like chicken feed, and one of the boys smashed the pieces into dust with his plastic hammer.

Can you imagine the mess they’re going to leave for me? She shoved her order pad back into her apron pocket and glared at them.

Tyra reached into her back pocket to withdraw a few bills and handed them to the waitress.

The woman unfolded them and eyed her warily. You do know there is no place on earth where a pot of tea costs forty dollars, don’t you?

She pointed her chin at the bag at Tyra’s feet. Wherever you’re going, I wish you luck. You’re a good customer – you don’t leave a mess and you tip way too much. I wish there were more like you. She touched the table top with her fingers. Good luck.

As she walked away, Tyra glanced at the toddler table. Taking advantage of the server’s absence, the mothers packed up quickly and rushed their children out the door, leaving devastation in their wake and no tip on the table.

Reaching into her pocket, Tyra removed a few more bills and left them for the waitress. No bars on the window didn’t always mean free to leave.

As she left the dining room, she chose a path close to the fireplace and the two women who lingered over their early lunch. As the women chatted, they leaned in like school girls sharing a secret, and Tyra again wondered how that kind of friendship happened.

She passed the table, wishing she had the courage to smile at them and knowing at once she wouldn’t.

Slipping her sunglasses on, she crossed the parking lot to her car. After starting the engine and turning on the air conditioning, she pushed speed dial for the first number on her cell phone. As she counted the rings, she directed the cool air to her face.

Yeah? His voice was burly and gruff, and she relaxed the instant she heard it.

Uncle Mike? Her voice sounded pathetically weak so she cleared her throat and tried again. Hi, Uncle Mike, it’s Tyra.

Kit-Kat? Hold ona minute, lemme turn down the idiot box. In the background, she heard the sound of the television being turned down, then the muffled sound of him propping the phone on his shoulder and tilting his head toward it. Everything okay?

I don’t think I can do this, Uncle Mike.

There was a silence then she heard him draw a deep breath and let it out slowly. After a moment, he spoke. I know. It’s going to be hard, and you don’t have to do this at all. But you’ve been talking about it for years and saving for years, and now it’s time to take your shot. He hesitated, then asked, That girl’s mother talk to you yet?

Tressa Montgomery. Her daughter’s name was Eileen. No, she still won’t talk to me, but she sent me a letter. A little while ago.

Oh yeah? That’s good. What’d the letter say?

Tyra glanced at her backpack. She kept the letter in a zippered pocket inside. It was never far from her. She thanked me for paying her daughter’s medical bills and gave me permission to go on with my own life. Not exactly forgiveness but –

Tyra’s voice trailed off and Uncle Mike finished for her. – but maybe that’s the best she can do. Her daughter wasn’t exactly blameless you know. She understands that and as a mother it’s got to be hard to work through.

Yeah.

Okay, Kit-Kat. Enough of this. You weren’t the only one, and you’ve paid for your part in this already. Let’s start moving forward. Now when are you leaving?

I’m on my way out of town now.

Oh yeah? You got enough dough?

Tyra laughed. Yes, Uncle Mike. I’ve got enough money.

Uncle Mike drove a forklift in a lumberyard in Bayonne, New Jersey, and Aunt Patty waitressed at a diner nearby. Every day for thirty years, he walked two blocks to the diner where she worked so she could make him a hot lunch and sit with him while he ate. After her release, Tyra stayed with Uncle Mike and Aunt Patty until she figured out what she wanted to do. She decided that what she wanted were her sisters.

All right, then. Uncle Mike paused. So what’re ya waiting for?

Okay, I’m going. Give Aunt Patty my best.

I will, Kit. And remember, you’ve worked hard for this, but that don’t mean it’ll be easy. Maureen has her own family and that seems to be all she wants. You might have a better shot with her though, than you do with Lydia. He scoffed. "Lydia’s just like her mother. And I can say that because your mother was my baby sister, may she rest in peace. Nothing was ever good enough for her. That’s not bad if you’re willing