Page 4 of Buried Roots

“Sure, of course.”

As my eyes roam “my” stunning estate, a shock-induced numbness spreads over my face, lips, and limbs, making it difficult for me to continue a coherent conversation. My mouth utters, “So, are we really,reallysure this all belongs to me?”

“Since it’s your name and social security number, and no one came forward during probate, I reckon so.” Roy’s big smile deepens the creases around his eyes. “So, Willow Eloise Dawson, you’re the proud owner of this 6,500 square foot house and accompanying fifty-acre barley farm with a barn, two silos, a horse stable, a lake, four purebred Gypsy Vanner horses, and six goats.”

My vision blurs, and I blink to clear it, but it’s useless. A buzzing erupts in my ears, and I feel like I won the lottery.

I guess I just did.

This kind of thing happens to other people, not me.Neverme. I’m the one who had to take a job cleaning toilets at sixteen while I quoted restoration jobs—for three years—before making enough to start my own gig. I begged the owner of my parents’ apartment complex to let me replace my father as the super after he died. Since I was so young and had no references, I had to pay six months’ rent up front for my studio. I’ve worked myself ragged for everything. Well, until now.

“Are you okay, Ms. Dawson?”

I shift my gaze to him, mumbling, “I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell me this was the place I was inheriting?”

“I had to see the whites of your eyes first. With an estate this valuable, I couldn’t risk any funny business.”

“Right.” I see his point, but I don’t think two weeks’ stay is going to cut it. “And please. Call me Willow.”

“Surely. Would you like to look around, Willow?”

Hell, yeah, I want to see inside this castle house that, apparently, belongs to me. I mean, come on—I’d want to see it if it didn’t. And it’ll hopefully provide clues as to why Bo Underwood left me this magnificent estate. “Absolutely.”

After Google didn’t give me much info on Bo, I became a member of a records website where I found birth and death certificates for the Underwoods along with the rest of their families. Bo had one older brother who’s now passed, along with his parents. Lily’s maiden name was Sheffield, and she had a brother who died a few months back, and a sister who died very young. Bo and Lily had no children, but as a Hail Mary, I looked up adoption records for a “Willow Underwood” and a “Willow Sheffield.” I found nothing.

After an exhaustive search of property records, I found Bo had a New York address for a few years in the mid-eighties, which could link him to my father. But that doesn’t make sense. If Pops and Bo were close, Pops would’ve told me.

Still. That freakish tree.

When Roy and I step inside, my jaw falls to the scarred oak hardwood floors. “Oh, wow.”

Roy peers around, sighing as he fingers the dust off the ornately carved entry doors before shutting them. “Bo bought this estate because the original owner started this town with his barley farm, selling to bread companies. Then, Bo turned the place organic and began supplying the burgeoning breweries of Violet Moon. This house is a historic landmark, and with his skills, he began restoring it. He only got about halfway there when his wife got sick. A shame because he wanted to turn this place into a visiting ranch with horse lessons, hayrides, and goat milking—for the tourists and the kids of Violet Moon.”

“I read that Bo was a talented builder.” But neither this house—nor the work he did here—was in his obituary. Probably because he never finished it.

“Yes, ma’am. Bo had quite the vision, which you’ll see when you visit downtown Violet Moon.”

I approach the banister of the spiral staircase, which flows to an end with a delicately whittled horse, then run my fingers along the ridges of its mane. “Amazing.”

My gaze floats around as I take in the two-story foyer with a magnificent marble fireplace in dire need of a deep cleaning. The elaborate trim work—aching for a fresh coat of paint—looks like art. The two-story windows, caked in dirt, provide a lush view, and the sunlight streaming in sets the room aglow.

A literal ache to restore the place clutches my chest, and it’s not just because its rich beauty shines through the wear. It’s the feeling blanketing me right now—the intangible one I tell people they should have when they’re about to move into a place. It’s instantaneous—the quieting of your soul when you’ve found home.

I stop myself because I can’t go there. My home is in New York, and as magnificent as this place is, I need to get back. Lost in my thoughts, I realize the antique oil-bronze chandelier of an intricate metalwork design has captured my stare. “Incredible.”

Roy rubs his brow as he looks up at it. “That was hand-crafted by the original owner of the home, and it was in rough shape. Bo refurbished it.”

We make our way to the outdated kitchen. But the tattered art-deco cabinets are rosewood, which means they can be refurbished. With pointy black handles and off-white finishes, the nineties-flashback appliances are freshly cleaned. There’s only one small window, making the space dark.

This room needs more windows and light, but the view is phenomenal—endless trees, mountains, and a lake in the distance. “So much potential,” I utter, my mind filling in all the things that could be done—quartz countertops with an oversized island, maybe two. Top stainless-steel appliances. A chef’s kitchen.

As we continue our tour, I only fall harder for the place. It boasts seven bedrooms, the oversized primary with coffered ceilings and a fireplace. The aging walnut-paneled office with wall-to-wall shelves comes complete with a rolling ladder. There are only three bathrooms, which makes sense. In older homes, they didn’t put many in because of cost, and according to records, this home was built in 1932. But it has such amazing bones with the trim-work, views, and hand-carved doors. And there’s even another spiral staircase in the back of the house, which is not only beautiful, but a great way to fire-safe a home with a second escape route.

The thought makes me feel closer to Bo Underwood. He had impeccable taste, and a pang hits my gut. I wish I could’ve met him.

When we tour the vast, empty basement, I’m shocked. How is there absolutelynothingdown here? Did Bo have some sort of estate sale before he passed?

When Roy and I shuffle out to the back patio, I try to sound casual when I ask, “Do you know anything about the memorial cross on that massive magnolia tree? It’s about three minutes south on Pineview Road.”

---