“I think . . .”

Allistaire leaned back in his chair. He was an attractive man in his early sixties, with a full head of gray hair and a matching, neatly trimmed mustache. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, and a navy suit jacket hung informally from his chair back. A lifelong antiques hound, he had tastefully decorated his law office with a selection of Americana that gave the room a homey, lived-in look.

“Your grandmother Brooke had me amend her will on the day that you were born,” Allistaire explained. “Although she never said why, she wanted you to have the cottage rather than your mother. And for other reasons that she never divulged, after her car crash she never went back.”

“I’m grateful to Gram, but I’m not sure about what to do with a cottage,” Chelsea said. “I was aware that she owned it. But I’ve never seen it, and my inheriting it is a big surprise . . .”

Allistaire shrugged his shoulders. “I understand,” he answered. “But before you pass judgment on a place that you’ve never even seen, let me explain a few things.”

His lawyerly persona now surfacing in full, Allistaire leaned forward and laced his fingers atop the desk.

“As you probably know, your great-grandfather James first owned the cottage,” Allistaire said. “He was the one who had it built, back in the 1930s. Then, in 1943, while your grandmother was still in her in her midtwenties, she had her car accident. Because of the war and having to care for your grandmother, your great-grandparents became too busy to get up there very often. When they died, your grandmother of course inherited the place, but she never returned there. Because of her handicap, she requested that this firm serve as her property manager. The first lawyer who handled it arranged for all of the cottage expenses to be sent here, where they were paid from Brooke’s escrow account. That remains the case today.”

Pausing for a moment, Allistaire took a sip of coffee and collected his thoughts.

He soon continued. “Anyway, sometime around 1946 or 1947, your great-grandparents thought it prudent to hire a young handyman to help look after the place. He’s of French origin and quite ancient now, but believe it or not, he still does a pretty good job. Knows the property like the back of his hand. He oversees any needed repairs, keeps me updated, things like that. When the first attorney retired, your grandmother became my client, and I’ve taken care of all her affairs since then. Even though they never met, the caretaker served your grandmother steadfastly for all that time.

“Also,” he added, “before her recent death, Brooke had the cottage’s appliances and electrical service upgraded, along with the phone service. She realized that she wasn’t getting any younger, and she wanted to know that when you inherited the place, it would be livable—or sellable, should you wish. She even had a dishwasher installed, but otherwise, nothing about the property has changed. It must be an antique-hunter’s dream! Long story short, the place has been uninhabited for over sixty years, and now it’s yours.”

Allistaire gestured toward a thick file that lay atop his desk.

“Everything’s in there,” he said. “Repair bills, Brooke’s will, tax receipts, deed, escrow account statements, your codicil—the works.”

While staring blankly at the folder, Chelsea shook her head. “I still don’t get it,” she said. “That cottage should have gone to my mother.”

Allistaire smiled again. “Perhaps,” he answered.