Page 3 of Buried Roots

“I showed him.” My lips split into a grin. But when I glance at my car, my stomach plummets.

I’m all alone, in the backwoods, with no Triple A… and stuck in a ditch.

2

The Inheritance

Abrokenheel,aripped button-up silk shirt, and two sweaty armpits later, I have this godforsaken car back on the road. Pops didn’t lie—the floor mat for traction worked… eventually. So, yeah. After changing heels, I’m back on the road with a trashed floor mat. I’ll have to get a new one.

When I drive around a bend, I see the white van ahead, pulled off to the side of the road.

Oh my god.

Owen stayed and waited for me, which is ridiculously adorable or totally creepy. Both? I slow to a crawl as I drive by him, waving when our eyes meet.

Shock passes over his face, and I give him a two-finger salute before driving away. The GPS says I’ll reach my destination in two minutes. After a few more curves in the road, a long driveway appears with a canopy of giant magnolia trees, its leaves blushed in shades of pink. No kidding—it’s 55 Lilac Lane, so I pull onto the bricked road, like I’m entering some storybook castle.

Thiscan’tbe mine. It must be the probate lawyer’s place. Or maybe this is all some con job—I should be careful. But after living out of my car for a few months in Queens, I know how to take care of myself. With my finances and my fists.

I inhale as I take it in. Grand columns flank the white Victorian mansion with arched sash windows and wrought-iron Romeo and Juliet balconies. But it’s the extravagant turrets on both ends of the home that give it the castle look. Crape myrtles blooming in ivory and the evergreen mountains make the place inarguably storybook.

There’s a vintage Rolls Royce parked in the turnabout driveway, which probably belongs to the lawyer, too. I grab my purse and step out of the car in my fresh pair of heels. The warm wind hits my face as I brush off my ripped shirt, and my hair whips, something I normally don’t like. But right now, it’s sublime. “Wow,” I say to no one.

Peering around, I inspect the aging mansion in front of me, realizing it actually needs a lot of TLC with its peeling paint and fallen shutters.

“Willow Dawson?” It’s the voice of the lawyer, Roy Livingston, whom I’ve had several phone conversations with.

I turn to see a fragile, balding man wearing a bow tie and linen suit shuffling along with a briefcase. He extends his hand, a genuine smile spreading across his face when he says, “Roy Livingston. It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

Okay, so he doesn’t look like a swindler, not that I expected that from his gentle, hoarse voice. I approach before shaking his hand. “Yes, I’m Willow. It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Livingston.”

“Please. Call me Roy.”

“Okay, Roy.” My eyes continue to roam the scene behind him, spotting a lake in the distance. “It’s beautiful here.”

He inhales sharply. “Well, glad you like it, young lady—because this place is yours.”

“Thishouse?”

“The house… and the fifty acres around it.”

“What?“ I squawk, my brain short-circuiting. I fight to inhale as I go still, but my heart definitely doesn’t. A starburst of gratitude explodes inside me, and I stammer, “I don’t know what to say. This is too much.” People like me don’t get things like this.

Roy pats my shoulder, a light chuckle whisking out of him.

Ihaveto be related to the owner, Bo Underwood. I Googled him, and outside of finding an obituary that said he was preceded in death by Lily, his loving wife, along with a statement about the buildings in downtown Violet Moon he constructed, I found nothing. But I know too good to be true doesn’t exist, as I’ve learned the hard way. “I just can’t believe it.”

Roy points to the swing that hangs on the home’s expansive weather-beaten porch. “Sit with me?”

“Of course.”

Once we’re seated and I’ve shown him my driver’s license and social security card, he takes a packet out of his briefcase and holds out the paperwork. Pointing to a few line items, he says, “That’s your name. And your social security number matches.”

I study it. “Yes. Both.”

The lawyer shuffles through the papers, stopping on a page full of scribbles. “So, unfortunately, Bo hand wrote his will, and his penmanship left a little to be desired. Some places are a bit hard to decipher.” Roy points at a line on the page. “For example, here, he wrote, ‘Lily’s wing,’ but I think that’s supposed to be ‘ring,’ which we couldn’t find, by the way.”

“Okay…” I trail off, thinking. I told Mr. Livingston about my closed adoption. When he didn’t know why Bo willed me property, I asked him if he’d do me the favor of sending in hair samples of Bo and Lily to see if their DNA matched mine. After finding their hairbrushes last week, kindly, Roy did. My mouth curves when I say, “I don’t have the DNA results yet, but thank you so much for helping me out with my odd request.”

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