Something About Sophie (3 page)

“Yes.”

“We all adored him, but he mortified Elizabeth, I think.” She started their walk across the cemetery lawn toward her car. “I imagine it would embarrass any young girl to have such a friendly, playful father, but we all thought she was the luckiest girl alive. Mr. Kingston was a real character.”

“I got that from what Dr. McCarren was saying.”

“Please. My dad is Dr. McCarren or Dr. Joe. I'm ‘Doc' at most, but more often it's just Drew, which suits me fine.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And I see I'm holding my mother up. She asked me to go out to BelleEllen with her and my sister.”

“Well, it's always good to see you, sweetie. Say hi to your mom and Ava for me,” Jesse said, flinging a friendly arm around his neck for a hug. “Don't work too hard.”

“Okay.”

“I'll say goodbye, too.” Sophie extended her hand and, again, took pleasure in the way his engulfed hers. “I've enjoyed talking with you. And thank you again, for looking for the letter.”

“No problem. I'm sorry I couldn't find one for you. I hope we get a chance to talk again before you leave town.”

“I'd like that, too, but I'll be leaving as soon as I've seen Mr. Metzer tomorrow morning.”

He nodded. “In that case, have a safe trip home.”

She returned to Jesse's side and he walked off in the opposite direction. Hardly half a minute later, they turned their heads to catch each other looking back, smiled at
what if
and went on their way.

T
he expected members of Reverend Arthur Cubeck's family arrived at Graham Metzer's office. He herded them into a small conference room with barely enough mismatched chairs, apparently gathered from every room in the building, to seat everyone in no specific order—first come, next seated.

Jesse's overnighters had come and gone early—leaving her with chores to do and no good excuse for Sophie to hang around. She took the time-killing ten-block walk from the B&B and still arrived ten minutes early. It was a warm day but still early enough in June to be pleasant and not miserably humid.

She'd awoken dreading this meeting, wishing she hadn't agreed to come. Sifting through a small catalog of good excuses to avoid it had failed, so she ultimately had to haul herself up and into the shower. A queasy stomach warned her that it might be wise to skip breakfast, and later it decided to churn and growl while she sat and waited for the others to arrive.

Truly, her curiosity aside, she had no real interest in knowing who her birth mother was. Not really, not anymore anyway. Once upon a time and in a moment of teenage rage and rebellion, she'd threatened to seek her out; live with
her
until she was eighteen. She'd broken her mother's heart, made her cry and crushed any further thoughts she had about the woman. She was grateful for her life, but she felt no deep need to thank her in person or to know what could only have been the sad and difficult circumstances of her birth. If the woman had wanted her to know any of it, she'd had plenty of opportunity and many methods of doing so. It seemed pointless—and was very uncomfortable—to expose her now, and in this way.

Hollis, his wife, and teenaged children had arrived before her. Their expressions were perplexed and defensive before and after she was introduced to them. Before they could ask, she answered, “I don't know why I'm here. Your father wrote and asked me to come—not to this, but to see him—but he'd already passed away before I got a chance to talk with him.” She faltered. “I'm sorry for your loss, by the way. I should have said that first. But . . . so, anyway . . . I don't know why I'm here.”

“What's your connection?” asked Hollis, a wiry-built man who looked to be in his early forties, with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes. He must have been his mother's son, as he didn't look like the pictures she'd seen of his father.

“To your father? I never met him.”

“Your parents?”

“Not that I know of . . . at least not my dad or he would have said something when I told him why I was coming down here to—” She stopped abruptly.

“To what?”

“Talk to your dad.”

“About . . . ?”

“Well, I don't know exactly. He said he needed to talk about my mother, my birth mother. I'm adopted. When my parents lived in Charlottesville, going to school, at the university? That's when they got me and we moved to Ohio, right after they graduated. That's where my mom's family was . . . is still, actually.” She could feel the blood begin to drain from her face, her skin breaking out in a cold sweat. Dear God, what if what Arthur Cubeck wanted to say about her birth mother was that
he
was her birth
father
? That would certainly be something to get off his chest—a minister, in a small town, with children older than she was? Oh, yeah.
Now
she really didn't want to be there. “My . . . my parents were told that my birth mother was a young girl, a teenager.”
Aw, God!
What had the man been thinking to announce his indiscretion with a teenager to his children, to the public? She could jump in her car and speed out of town, but his reputation would be ruined, forever, and his children—“My dad would have said something if he'd ever met yours—he's good with names, never forgets anybody. A letter would have been enough.”

The tension at the base of her neck seeped into her temples and began to throb as Craig and Lucy Chamberlin entered, without their children, and sat on the opposite side of the table from Hollis. They greeted the family quietly and, of course, looked at her curiously but asked no questions. So Hollis's wife, Jane, explained, “She's here to find out who her birth mother is.”

They smiled, nodded, looked even more bewildered, and were far more polite than the Florida cousins who came twenty minutes late, squabbled over the remaining chairs, and then turned to Mr. Metzer asking, “Who's that?”

With a gentle smile, he said, “That young lady's name is Sophie Shepard from Marion, Ohio. Ms. Shepard, you met Hollis and his family, so let me introduce you to the others.”

He went around the table and when he was finished, Richard Hollister, Jesse's yellow-tie-guy from the day before, reiterated, “But
who
is she? What's she doing here?”

“She came at my request. She is one of the beneficiaries named in Arthur's will—which I will proceed to read without further ado.” Hollis leaned forward, looked at her with new curiosity but said nothing. The lawyer sat and cleared his throat, looking anxious, Sophie noted. And who wouldn't with Rude Richard glowering at your elbow? “In the packets before you are copies of The Last Will and Testament of Arthur William Cubeck, which you may take with you.”

His copy was in a black folder, which he opened in front of him. He got through the date and the parts about a sound mind and a free will before Richard interrupted.

“I am sixty-eight years old, man, and this is time I will never get back. Get on with it.”

Graham Metzer looked to Hollis, who shrugged and nodded, simultaneously frowning at his second cousin. He flipped two pages saying, “Very well. As designated executor of the estate and Arthur's friend of thirty years, I will receive a ten-thousand-dollar stipend beyond the fees entailed by my office in dealing with the will. After an appropriate probate period, during which all outstanding liens, debts, taxes, and charitable donations have been executed, the remaining estate will be divided as follows.” Again he cleared his voice and glanced around the room uneasily. “ ‘Article A: Apart from Article B of this document, my son, Hollister David Cubeck, shall receive a full half of my entire estate without entailment; the other half to be held in trust by Craig James Chamberlin for the children of my daughter, Julie Marie Cubeck, deceased: Charles Arthur and Janet Ellen Chamberlin until such time as they reach their majority and their father sees fit.' ” He looked up.

“That's it?” Richard looked at his brother, George, who was looking decidedly worried. “Half and half, that's it? That rat bastard got that money from his mama who got it from
our
grandfather. We have a right to some of it, by God.”

With a mutinous look to his right, Graham began to read again. “ ‘Article B: The property known as BelleEllen, the house and the twenty acres plotted at the time of its purchase, I do bequeath to Ms. Sophia Amelia Shepard as a token of the enormous obligation I owe her. She may do with it as she pleases. Title fees and taxes for a period of five years shall be set aside during the probate period of this document.' ”

She coughed back the laugh that she knew was totally inappropriate for this particular out-of-body experience. This news was absurd and unnatural—and so
not
funny. She couldn't make any sense of it.

It felt like hours before she could do more than sit and listen to nitrogen and oxygen molecules bouncing off the walls and crashing into one another—and it was a feat of courage to shift her gaze from face to face around the table as she prepared for attack.

The sound of Richard Hollister's hand hitting the table was like a sonic boom that woke the entire room and everyone spoke at once.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Are you sure that's right?”

“His mind must have been very weak at the end. Doesn't that say
of sound mind
? We can go to court and prove he wasn't thinking straight.”

“That rat bastard. Damn him to hell.”

“I don't understand.”

“Maybe you could read it again? Maybe you missed a line?”

“BelleEllen should stay in the family.” That statement came down on the room like a giant anvil. All heads turned to Sophie.

“Don't look at me. I don't understand it any more than you do.” But she was beginning to understand it quite well.

So was Hollis. He studied her from his end of the table, looking for a family resemblance, she suspected—his brother-in-law, Craig, seemed still to be doing the math. And for the first time, ever in her life, she felt shame in who she was.

While those closest to the minister grew silent in their uncertainty, his cousins became more adamant: Richard took the lead; the others were his backup singers.

“He figured that because I own a hardware store and George runs a Publix supermarket, that we're morons, that we wouldn't know he was pulling a fast one. But I have a lawyer, too, you know. I knew he was going to hatch some sort of rat-bastard plan to cheat us out of our money.”

George's lips moved, but under his booming brother you could hardly hear him. “He always thought he was better than us because Grandpa Hollister disowned our daddy—”

“I'll take you all, and this . . . this”—Richard picked up the large white envelope in front of him and tossed it to the center of the table— “this piece of shit to court.”

“—when he was a boy. A teenager. Nineteen, I think. But still, you know teenagers make mistakes.” George frowned. “We never did know what it was, that mistake, but teenage boys make 'em all the time. Ask anyone.”

“You won't see a dime of it. Not one single dime.”

“We have needs, too.”

“This isn't fair,” the wives chimed in.

“I should have killed that son of a bitch a long time ago when I had the chance. If I'd known he was going to cut me out completely, I would have. You can bet on that.”

“They used to be good friends, when they were younger,” added George.

“They were, that's true.” George's wife confirmed it.

“But see, Arthur inherited his grandpa's money from his mama and got all stuck up and selfish.”

Graham Metzer sat listening, patient and stoic, waiting for the exhibition to wind down; confident the will was solid and unbreakable.

The cousins went on, but Sophie wandered off into her thoughts.

So
this
was what Arthur wanted to confess to her. He was her birth father. Why else would he leave her BelleEllen? What else could his
enormous obligation
to her be?

Maybe if she'd come sooner, she could have told him it didn't matter to her, that she had a perfectly wonderful, truly great dad already. Maybe if she'd come earlier, they could have spared his family the pain of knowing he'd— What? Made a mistake? Impregnated a teenager? Cheated on his wife? Dishonored his ministry?

Gross, appalling sins all. She knew she should be outraged, furious, whatever else someone in her position ought to be feeling—but frankly, at that moment, she simply wasn't.

Her emotions were turning sympathetically toward Arthur. She couldn't stop thinking that his life had clearly been far worse than hers. Far, far worse to be weighted down by sins so huge—even by a man marginally as good and kind and reverent as the town believed him to be. It must have been excruciating for him.

And no doubt he deserved it, no doubt at all. But how much sorrow and torment and penance did one soul have to endure before he received a grain of forgiveness? Even now, in death, his memory would continue to suffer. She wasn't saying he was entitled to forgiveness, only that
she
absolved him of those perpetrated against her—which was no more than creating her life.

And maybe, if she'd come earlier, she could have eased him of
that
pain.

So she sat and let the rhetoric wash over and roll off her until Richard Hollister stood and sent his chair clattering against the wall while he shouted, “You haven't heard the last of this. None of you. I still don't know who the hell
you
are, missy, but I'm telling you, like I'm telling all of you, not to get too comfortable with what that old fool read today because it isn't yours. It'll never be yours.”

And with that he stomped out the room, bumping and shoving those in his path, which was almost everyone in the room. His wife, brother, and sister-in-law climbed over and around the furniture to catch up with him; and when the trail became too narrow for the larger lady to get by, Craig stood, taking his pregnant wife with him, to let her pass.