Inheritance

By Amy Bjorklund Reeder and Mia Jacobson

Inheritance is the first book in the Ryan Family Trilogy, a series of three novels that detail the fictional Ryan family through their Inheritance, Impact, and Legacy in the modern world. The three Ryan siblings each face obstacles in their personal lives and come to a greater appreciation of their faith. Themes explored include the following:

What do we really inherit from our parents?

Using fiction to promote Catholic apologetics.

How our Christian faith gives us strength and clarity of focus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798888517116

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Part 1

Chapter 1: The Obituary

Chapter 2: Phillip

Chapter 3: Violet

Chapter 4: Cash

Chapter 5: Neil and Peg

Chapter 6: Phillip

Chapter 7: Violet

Chapter 8: Cash

Chapter 9: Neil and Peg

Chapter 10: Phillip

Chapter 11: Violet

Chapter 12: Cash

Chapter 13: Neil and Peg

Chapter 14: Phillip

Chapter 15: Violet

Chapter 16: Cash

Chapter 17: Neil and Peg

Chapter 18: Phillip

Chapter 19: Violet

Chapter 20: Cash

Chapter 21: Neil and Peg, 1976

Chapter 22: Phillip

Chapter 23: Violet

Chapter 24: Cash

Chapter 25: Neil and Peg, 1976

Chapter 26: Phillip

Chapter 27: Violet

Chapter 28: Cash

Chapter 29: Neil and Peg, 1976

Chapter 30: Phillip

Chapter 31: Cash

Chapter 32: Violet

Chapter 33: Carol, 1976

Chapter 34: Neil and Peg 2021

Chapter 35: Phillip

Chapter 36: Violet

Chapter 37: Cash

Chapter 38: Neil and Peg, 2021

Part 2

Chapter 39: Phillip

Chapter 40: Violet

Chapter 41: Cash

Chapter 42: Neil and Peg, 1984

Chapter 43: Phillip

Chapter 44: Violet

Chapter 45: Cash

Chapter 46: Neil and Peg, 2016

Chapter 47: Phillip

Chapter 48: Violet

Chapter 49: Cash

Chapter 50: Neil and Cornelius, 1958

Chapter 51: Phillip

Chapter 52: Violet

Chapter 53: Cash

Chapter 54: Carol and Rick, 1976

Chapter 55: Neil and Peg, 1976

Chapter 56: Phillip

Chapter 57: Violet

Chapter 58: Cash

Chapter 59: Neil and Peg, 1976

Chapter 60: Phillip

Chapter 61: Violet

Chapter 62: Cash

Chapter 63: Cash and Rick

Chapter 64: Phillip

Chapter 65: Violet

Chapter 66: Cash

Chapter 67: Phillip, Violet, and Cash

Chapter 68: Cash 1991

Chapter 69: Phillip

Chapter 70: Violet

Chapter 71: Cash

Chapter 72: Cash and Rick

Chapter 73: Phillip

Chapter 74: Phillip, Violet, and Cash—2022

Chapter 75: Neil and Peg 2020

Beloved Cheesecake

Inheritance Discussion Questions

About the Author

Endnotes

Inheritance

Amy Bjorklund Reeder Illustrated by Mia Jacobson

ISBN 979-8-88851-710-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88851-711-6 (Digital)

Copyright © 2023 Amy Bjorklund Reeder

All rights reserved

First Edition

All biblical citations are from The Catholic Study Bible, 3rd Ed., New American Bible Revised Edition, Oxford University Press.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Covenant Books

11661 Hwy 707

Murrells Inlet, SC 29576

www.covenantbooks.com

To my parents

Part 1

Chapter 1

The Obituary

Mr. and Mrs. Neil (Cornelius) Ryan and Margaret (Peg) Ryan (nee Flannery) died peacefully from COVID-19 within two days of each other, on April 7 and 9, respectively, 2021.

Neil and Peg are survived by their son Phillip Ryan and his wife, Nancy Ryan; their daughter Violet Booth and her husband, Stewart Booth; and their son Cash Ryan and his wife, Ivy Ryan.

Born in 1946 in San Francisco, Neil and Peg enjoyed growing up together in the Excelsior District. High school sweethearts, they graduated from West Excelsior High together in 1963. They married in 1967 and settled in Pacifica, where they raised their family. Neil worked for Golden Gate Transit until his retirement in 1990 when he began driving a school bus for the children of Pacifica. Neil always said the best part of his day was greeting the kids and ensuring them safe rides to and from school. Peg pursued a degree in education and received her teaching credential from SF State in 1970. A beloved instructor and mentor to many, she taught the children of Pacifica's public schools until her retirement in 2000. Neil was an active member of the men's club at his church. Countless spaghetti dinners and fundraisers were organized by Neil, who had the gift of constantly receiving the answer yes when he sought support for people in need. Peg's love for her children led to her creating a church outreach supporting mothers in crisis pregnancies by helping them through birth and beyond. Neil and Peg raised their three children unconditionally, and their anchor-like presence in our lives will be sorely missed.

Neil and Peg embodied the Christian spirit, giving generously of themselves to people in need. Everyone benefitted from their warm, open home and warm, loving, outstretched arms. In that spirit, their memorial will be open to all on Wednesday, April 14, at 11:00 a.m., at Christ the Redeemer Church, Pacifica, with a reception following outside, under the covered entrance to the parish hall. Masks required. Memorial gifts to the COVID-19 outreach at Christ the Redeemer Church, Pacifica, preferred. (Published by the Pacifica Gazette, April 11, 2021)

Chapter 2

Phillip

Can't you go any faster?

Phillip hated being late. Lateness was a quality of lazy people, and Phillip was far from lazy. He impatiently sighed and rechecked the time on his iPhone while curtly insisting to his Uber driver that the faster route would have been through the tunnel. At fifty, Phillip was more handsome and fit than most men half his age. He demanded it of himself, just as he demanded punctuality and preciseness in his life as if he were a living and breathing Swiss timepiece.

Wearing a navy suit (slim, modern fit), white shirt, and striped tie, Phillip looked every bit a conservative associate. Immaculately groomed, he exuded power and polish but never flash. He always recalled the words of his mentor, Mr. Collins, who had once told him, A man is not a peacock. While the other associates flashed gaudy yellow gold, jeweled watches, Phillip preferred a traditional stainless Rolex Submariner on his wrist. They would boast about their sexual exploits while Phillip kept his close to the vest. Not because he was a gentleman but because it was none of their business.

An overachiever with unparalleled self-control, Phillip was type A and proud of it. Even though it was the week between Christmas 2020 and the new year, he was back at work. Leaving downtown San Francisco for his attorney's office in Pacific Heights was a necessary jaunt, albeit a real pain in this weather. As the rain poured down on the Uber's glass sunroof, he cursed the weather, his driver, and all of the cars ahead of him in traffic.

Five minutes late for the meeting was unacceptable, even though the others would be ten minutes later than him, so none would be the wiser. The Uber driver left him at the front entrance, and Phillip walked in and was greeted by the receptionist. She led him upstairs to Ms. Stone's mahogany wood-paneled office. Phillip restlessly tapped his fingers on her resolute-style partner's desk while he scrolled through his phone, searching for the latest stock report. Finally, the others arrived, including his ice-queen attorney Shelly Stone and her assistant Tara Ridgeway. Phillip shook Shelly's cold hand and shared a private, knowing glance with Tara. Knowing she would see Phillip on their roster of clients today, Tara wore her tightest postage stamp-sized skirt and most translucent blouse. Next to enter the office was J. D. Reynolds, opposing counsel, and his client Bill Bates, owner and editor of a small, worthless, dying newspaper. Reynolds and Bates looked like a tired, unmade bed—all rumpled and stubbly. Phillip was suing Bates for defamation, and they were currently at the negotiation stage of the mediation process. He didn't need the damages that would ultimately be awarded him; he just wanted to see Bates up to his armpits in attorney's fees and wracked with anxiety. This case would ruin the puny weekly paper, which was just fine by Phillip.

A bonus to these meetings was Phillip's seeing Tara, who made sure to unbutton her blouse and lean way across the table to push documents over for his signature. Married for ten years to his wife Nancy, Phillip had an unapologetic wandering eye for any young, fit, and interested female. Tara was a favorite, and unlike all the rest, she was intelligent and great for conversation, but there wasn't time today to meet for their occasional lunchtime hookup. Phillip knew she'd keep on him until he gave her what she wanted the next time he came around. Luckily, negotiations were clearly going in his favor, so the meeting quickly concluded, and Phillip returned to his office.

The top floor of the Flint and Collins building in downtown San Francisco housed the offices of Capital Investments, where Phillip was currently an associate. He happened to enter the elevator at the same moment as the security director Jack, who cheerfully said, Good afternoon and Happy New Year, Mr. Ryan.

Phillip replied, Yep, thirtieth floor.

Phillip neither knew the man by name nor cared to make any conversation as the elevator made its way up the shaft.

Under these high ceilings and fluorescent lights, Phillip felt truly at home. He sat at his desk, which was a reflection of him, all hard edges and deliberately uncluttered. Even though it was only two days after December 25, he had ordered the maintenance staff to remove the Christmas décor from his office. His holiday bonus had been enormous, a well-deserved reflection of the hard work he'd put in all year making his investor's portfolios grow and diversify. He shuddered thinking of last week's family Christmas back at his parents' home in Pacifica.

The small house where he grew up was filled with people eating too much, drinking too much, and singing off-key to cloying old Christmas music. The place had been far too warm. His mom and dad made the traditional boring menu every year: roast beef and potatoes. His mom made the same fattening cheesecake, a family tradition passed down from her mother. There was the inevitable case of PBR and jugs of cheap red wine. They took turns reading the Gospel accounts of Jesus's birth from the musty old family Bible. Even the Christmas tree had the exact string of lights and the ancient angel on top that had been in service for as long as he could remember.

He had made conversation with his sister Violet and her husband, Stewart, and pretended to care about what they'd been up to lately in their little world. And of course, he'd seen his little brother Cash and his wife, Ivy, and listened to Mom and Dad rave about Cash's work at his nonprofit. It was enough to make you want to run screaming from the place.

Ivy had even hinted that they were still trying to get pregnant! It would be a challenge to raise a child on their income. Phillip and his wife, Nancy, had decided long ago that kids weren't for them. No time, no interest. Always an agreeable companion, Nancy had accompanied him to the family Christmas celebration and had helped him produce an excuse to avoid going to church with the rest of them after dinner. And so, they made their obligatory appearance and left as soon as possible to get back home to work off the calories on their Pelotons and shower off the funk of the holiday.

The next day at work, a young mailroom intern pushed the mail cart around the office and happened to wish Phillip (Mr. Ryan, as he addressed him with a nervous, unconfident voice) a Happy New Year. Feeling the season's warmth for an uncharacteristic minute, Phillip struck up a conversation with the young man, asking him about his interest in the company.

I've seen you around here for a while now. Your internship's got to be almost over. What's next?

The intern, struggling to find the right words, started talking about his plans to go skiing in Heavenly in the new year with his brother.

Phillip interrupted him, saying, I meant your work plans.

I'd like to apply for an entry-level job here.

Got your BA yet?

Not yet, sir, but I'm working toward it.

Then completely unsolicited, Phillip continued, I wasn't born into the world of investment banking, he boasted. I graduated top of my class in high school, was accepted to San Francisco State on full scholarship, and received a degree in finance. I've put my job before everything in my life, and I don't let anyone get in my way. I made myself every bit of the man I am today.

The young man summoned the courage to ask, What advice do you have for someone like me, Mr. Ryan?

Work your ass off, and even then, you probably won't ever land a job here. Money is our bottom line, and getting rich and making our clients rich is the only reason we're here. No one cares about your family or your personal life. We work 24-7, and we never rest. I haven't met many people who have what it takes.

Oblivious to this wasted opportunity for mentorship and goodwill at the turn of the calendar page to 2021, Phillip walked away and left the intern speechless and deflated.

Chapter 3

Violet

Violet's assistant, Paige, parked at the corner of East Highland and Verona to retrieve the signboards for the open homes in the neighborhood. As she placed them in the trunk of her SUV, her cell rang. It was her boss, Violet Booth. Violet didn't waste time with salutations or pleasantries.

How'd the open house go up on Verona?

Not good, Mrs. Booth. Only a few nosy neighbors stopped in. COVID keeps everyone isolated except for the bravest and most curious of the looky-loos. The pouring rain didn't help either.

Violet replied, I'm at the inspection in the Marina. See you back at the office, and don't be late. Oh, and grab me a latte with an extra shot.

Yes, Mrs. Booth, said Paige. Violet was no-nonsense. She knew better than to make conversation or ask how her boss was doing.

After leaving the home inspector without so much as a Happy New Year or even thanks, Violet sighed as she walked in her impossibly high Manolo Blahniks to her car. Her Tango Red Audi A3 was an enjoyable perk of her having made herself a successful businesswoman. Only her family knew that her real first name was Bridget, but since childhood, she insisted on being addressed by her middle name Violet. As she crossed the street and approached the car, it sensed that her key was near and unlocked itself. Placing her things in the trunk, she sighed, thinking about the current state of the market.

COVID was tearing into her bottom line this year like nothing she had ever seen. As a determined younger woman, Violet completed real estate classes and earned her real estate license shortly after graduating high school. Her parents had offered to send her to college, but she declined, saying that she would blaze her own trail. She worked for one of the big Bay Area firms for about ten years and then branched out to open her own company, Booth Real Estate. She amassed a fortune in commissions over time, put most of it away in savings, and invested in more real estate. She had seen the market rise and fall in its natural ebb and flow through the years—but not like this. This was becoming bleak.

COVID threatened to shut down open houses and destroy the real estate market altogether. She couldn't understand everyone's hysteria over it. After all, Violet thought, wasn't it just the flu? Wasn't it just the morbidly obese and people who were already really sick who were dying from it? If one more person asks me to wear a mask, she thought, I'll lose it for sure. Even her husband, Stewart, was on her lately to protect herself from contracting COVID. They argued the matter until he backed off and let it go.

Stewart was Violet's husband for eight years now but more (less?) than a husband to her; he was her handyman. A once successful construction crew member, he directly answered her beck and call, helping her clients produce turnkey homes for sale. It didn't hurt, Violet thought, that they could charge a fortune for his services. After all, most people aren't that handy at DIY or as eager to please as Stewart.

Impatiently waiting at the red light at the hub, Violet looked away with disgust at the homeless begging on the streets of San Francisco. There seemed to be more of them than ever these days. For a moment, she remembered how her mom and dad would always give a beggar a few dollars. Her parents would ask them their names and make eye contact with them. Her dad used to say, You could be the only face of Jesus they see today. Nonsense, thought Violet, as she averted her gaze, pretending not to see them as they waved to her and offered her greetings. Merry Christmas! God bless you! they said as she drove off, her wallet full of cash and the driver's window sealed tight.

Booth Realty was located in a nineteenth-century Victorian mansion in central Burlingame, restored to its former glory by Stewart. Here, forty-seven-year-old Violet held court as the president and CFO. Two years ago, she appointed an executive vice president, Sandra Wickes, who proved herself consistently a top earner in the South Bay in the late '90s and into the 2010s. Violet and Sandra worked well together, not out of friendship or even camaraderie, but because of the connections and experience that each of them brought to the business. They knew little about each other's private lives and never bothered to ask, even at Christmas. Booth Realty employed an impressive team of associates and assistants, like Violet's assistant, Paige, who luckily had returned to the office before Violet with about ten minutes to spare. This allowed her a chance to rush down to one of the local cafés and get Violet her latte.

Decaf oat milk latte with an extra shot of espresso and one of the vegan gluten-free madeleines, please.

Paige hoped for a second that the treat would please her impossible-to-please boss but then thought the better of it. She used the café restroom while the latte was being prepared so she wouldn't need a break on her return to the office. She washed her hands and checked her face in the mirror. Paige had a perfect complexion and could get away with no makeup but added a small amount of lip stain to be fresh and ready for hurricane Violet.

Violet rushed past the receptionist who greeted her, Good afternoon, Mrs. Booth, as she made her way to her upstairs office. She saw the shoreline from her bay window with its intricately stained-glass border. Impeccably appointed in tasteful patterns and colors, the Booth Realty office was gorgeous. Violet's office was situated in the former primary suite.

Entering her office, she tossed her Stella McCartney green vegan leather coat onto the back of a loveseat. She went into the washroom to check her hair and face. Violet was not a classically beautiful woman, but she made a very striking presence. Her shoulder-length hair was marigold red and styled as a severe face-framing bob. Her figure was tall and slender. Today, she wore a tight celadon green cashmere sweater tucked into a belted slim black skirt. She looked into the mirror, applied lip gloss, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Walking toward her desk, she settled into her magnificent chair. Here, she was more a queen than a businesswoman.

Stewart had purposefully arranged for her chair to sit higher than the clients' seats on the opposite side of her desk. She thought he needn't have bothered, as she was always the most important person in the room. She noticed the latte and the bonus madeleine and relished them without thanking Paige for her thoughtfulness. At this point in the day, and with only the one meeting left on her schedule, she could have buzzed Paige and told her to take the rest of the day off but didn't even consider it.

This afternoon's meeting was with old friends of her parents, Hank and Selena Garner, who had made a fortune on Apple stock back in the '80s. When Violet was a child, she grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Pacifica next door to the Garners. She went to school with their kids, and they even went to the same church. Even though she had been friends with their little girl (what was her name? Violet thought), she had done nothing to keep in touch once they moved on. All these years later, the Garners had looked her up entirely out of the blue to represent them in purchasing a large estate in Hillsborough. They figured that any daughter of their old friends Neil and Peg Ryan would represent them honestly and kindly.

As the Garners arrived at Booth Realty and were shown upstairs, Violet realized she would never have