Chapter 3

Susan Carter passed away two days after signing the will.

The funeral was simple, as she' d requested.

A handful of regulars from the diner, a few distant relatives I barely knew, Mr. Davies, Mark and me.

Jack stood by the graveside, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, looking suitably bereaved.

I felt a strange numbness, a hollow ache where grief should have been.

Or maybe this was grief, twisted and complicated by a lifetime of unspoken hurts.

After everyone had left, I lingered by the freshly turned earth.

Mark put his arm around me. "You okay?"

I nodded, but I wasn' t. Not really.

How could I be okay when my own mother had, with her dying breath, essentially erased me?

A week later, Mark and I went to the old house on Elm Street.

Jack was already there, a SOLD sign leaning against the porch railing. He' d wasted no time.

He was whistling as he carried a box of his things out to a flashy, though clearly used, tour van parked at the curb.

"Hey, sis! Mark!" he called out, a wide, unconvincing grin on his face. "Just clearing out some of my stuff. The realtor says we got a good offer, quick close."

He didn' t say "my house" or "my money," but it was implied in his possessive tone.

"What about Mom' s things?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Oh, that. Most of it' s junk, you know? I told the realtor they could clear it out. Less hassle."

My stomach tightened. "She left me the recipe books and the cedar chest in the attic, Jack. I want them."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Attic' s this way. Help yourself to the... heirlooms."

The sarcasm in his voice was thick. He clearly thought it was a joke.

Mark shot him a warning look, but Jack just smirked.

The attic was hot, dusty, and crammed with forgotten objects from generations past.

Cobwebs draped everything like ghostly shrouds.

In the far corner, under the eaves, sat an old cedar chest.

It was heavy. Mark helped me drag it to the center of the room, near the single dusty window.

"You sure you want this stuff, Em?" Mark asked gently, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"It' s what she left me," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "It' s all she left me."

I knelt and lifted the heavy lid.

The scent of old cedar and lavender filled the air.

On top lay a pile of neatly folded, yellowed linens.

Beneath them, the recipe books.

There were three of them, leather-bound, the pages filled with spidery handwriting, archaic measurements, and faded ink.

" 'Receipt for a Good Pound Cake,' " I read aloud. " 'Take Ten Eggs...' "

It felt like holding a piece of a forgotten world.

Mark, ever the pragmatist, but also endlessly supportive, peered over my shoulder.

"Could be interesting. Maybe some good old-fashioned recipes in there."

I wasn't so sure. They just looked old and difficult.

I dug deeper into the chest.

Beneath more linens, I found them.

A series of journals, bound in faded cloth, and a large, flat portfolio tied with a ribbon.

I opened one of the journals. The same spidery handwriting, dated 1888.

It was a daily account of life, observations about the weather, the town, the planting of a garden.

Then I opened the portfolio.

It was filled with botanical illustrations, dozens of them, exquisitely detailed drawings of wildflowers, herbs, and trees.

Each one was labeled with its common and Latin name, and notes about its properties and uses.

Pressed flowers, still holding a hint of their color, were tucked between some of_the pages.

The artistry was breathtaking.

"Wow," Mark breathed, looking at a delicate rendering of a Lady' s Slipper. "Who did these?"

A small, faded inscription on the inside cover of the portfolio read: "Flora of Ashton County, by Elara Thornton."

A great-aunt, Mom had said. Elara. I vaguely remembered Mom mentioning a "crazy old Aunt Elara who drew flowers."

She' d always said it with a dismissive laugh, as if Elara was just another eccentric in our family tree.

There was no hint that these drawings were anything special.

I closed the portfolio, a strange feeling stirring within me.

These items felt... significant. Not in monetary terms, necessarily, but in a way I couldn' t yet define.

They were a tangible link to a past I knew little about, to a woman I' d never met but whose meticulous work now lay in my hands.

"What do you think?" I asked Mark, my voice hushed.

He picked up one of the journals, flipping through the pages carefully.

"I don' t know, Em. But... this looks like more than just old stuff."

He paused, then said, "You know, I saw this thing on a history show once. About rare Americana, old documents and things. Sometimes they' re worth a lot."

I almost laughed. Us? Having something valuable? After a lifetime of scraping by?

"I doubt it, Mark. Mom would have known. She would have sold them if they were worth anything. For Jack, probably."

The bitterness was still there, a sour taste in my mouth.

But Mark persisted. "It wouldn' t hurt to get them looked at, would it? What if your mom didn' t know? Or what if..." He trailed off, a thoughtful look on his face.

"What if what?"

"What if she left them to you for a reason, Emily? You' re the one who loves history, like she said. You' re the teacher."

I considered his words. Could it be possible?

Could this seemingly worthless inheritance hold a secret, a different kind of legacy?

It seemed too far-fetched. Too much like a movie plot.

But looking at the beautiful, precise illustrations, at the carefully penned words in the journals, a tiny spark of curiosity, something other than pain, began to glow within me.