Chapter 1: Meeting the distribution committee

I'm Brian Driver, age thirty, the owner of several small businesses and real estate in a small upper state New York town. I've never been married,

but I am the father of two children. Mary, the children's grandmother, lives with us.

I've been estranged from my family since I arrived here, nearly eight years ago. I left home because of a girl. She jilted me. My parents never forgave me for abandoning them, and when I disappointed them by fathering a child out of wedlock, they tried to turn my siblings against me.

Until last night, when my mom called with an assignment for me, I hadn't stopped to think how important my family is to me. I couldn't turn her down; she gave the orders and I agreed to follow them. I'm sure that one day we will have a good laugh about the absurdity of that conversation. She was so focused on giving me my instructions that she didn't ask about her grandson or if I was well.

I didn't have a chance to tell her that since I've been here, I've worked my ass off providing for my family, loved one woman, and have earned some recognition in the community I now call my home. Had she inquired, I would have confessed that I've done some things that I'm not proud of.

It's dark at this time of day ... four AM, a good time to reflect on where I've been and where I'm heading.

Where I've been is thirty years of growing up, going to school, falling in love with someone who said she loved me, but didn't, moving east, gaining employment, and meeting neighbors who would take me in and make me a member of their family.

At the center of the people that I counted as my family, was Margaret (Peggy) Mendon Stover, a widow, who for six years, kept me centered, grounded, and anxious to please her.

Another person that gave me reason to get up every morning was Peggy's daughter. Amanda and I connected from the first moment we met, and I would have remained loyal to her even if her mother had rejected me. Fortunately, Peggy not only accepted me, she became my lover, business partner, and she bore me a son. She also permitted me to adopt Amanda, which bound us together for life. Even if her mother would not consent to marriage, Amanda and I shared a special bond.

Peggy was ambitious, and for six years, we prospered. Through her stewardship, our small company grew; making members of our community take notice.

That's not to say that our lives were without strife. Time after time, we experienced death among family and acquaintances. Each time death struck someone down, it became my responsibility to try to explain it to Amanda. Because of our special bond, she accepted what I told her, but the deaths took their toll on her. Amanda became old before her time.

The reason for Peggy's sudden death was impossible for me to explain, and Amanda discovered that I was not the authority she'd always held me up to be. There was the same level of trust between us, but Amanda changed. She became my confidant, my advisor, taking on more responsibility than an eight-year-old should have to bear.

Peggy not only left me with two children to raise, something I was capable of doing, she left me with a complicated group of companies to run, something I was ill-equipped to oversee.

Eventually, through trial and error, and with the help of friends, I was able to get things under control. There was nothing magical about the way it happened. I did some things that I was not proud of. I also got lucky, making friends with one of my advisors. In addition to Henrietta, I received advice from my dead wife, Amanda, and Marian, a young woman who is positioning herself to become my wife.

As I accept the temporary assignment that my parents have bestowed on me, I'm leaving the company in good hands. John Larkin is young, but everything is in place for him to be successful. I have full confidence in his ability and decision making skills. My bookkeeper, Mrs. Nelson, will keep me informed on every facet of the business.

What lies ahead? My instructions are to get everything that my father has coming to him from an aunt, that until last night, I'd never heard of before. Aunt Elsie was preceded in death by Uncle Mackey Peoples, her husband of over a half century. That's all I was told about the two elderly people I was suddenly referring to as Aunt Elsie and Uncle Mackey.

Shouldn't I have been told more? As I drove the last fifty miles, I wondered if Aunt Elsie resembled my father. What did Uncle Mackey look like? What did he do for a living? Had either of them done anything to impact mankind? Was there money involved in the estate? If so, how much money was there? And finally, what had I let my parents get me involved in?

The mortuary was not easy to find, and after getting directions, I arrived late. I was told that the service had been short, and burial was already in progress. I drove to the cemetery as quickly as possible, and saw people getting into their cars.

On the hillside, there was a bright green canopy, with a few mourners sitting on folding chairs. That's when I realized that I was not dressed properly. It had been my intention to change into my suit before entering the service, but circumstances being what they were, I was still wearing the short pants, a short-sleeved shirt with the tail hanging outside of my pants, and sneakers. Anxious to join the mourners, I got out of my truck, and sauntered up the hill.

As I climbed the hill, I noticed there was a breeze that was ruffling the fringe on the canopy. In the distance, the sea was splashing against the rocks, causing white foam to linger until the next wave broke it up. If it hadn't been for the glum expressions on the mourners' faces, the landscape would have been quite pleasant.

The mourners were wearing dark clothes. One of them, hat in hand, obviously a man of God, stepped out to greet me. I was forming an apology for the way I was dressed when he stopped me.

"You must be Mr. Driver. I'm Stewart Martin, the Peoples' Attorney. If you will furnish two forms of identification to my assistant, you may be seated for the reading of the will. Ms. Whitney, will you record Mr. Driver's information?"

I glanced below, noting how another wave was making the white foam break up. My mind was blank, but if I'd had a thought, I would have welcomed the interruption. Her voice was that soothing. Ms. Whitney was also quite lovely.

"Mr. Driver, do you have two forms of identification?"

I produced my driver's license, and watched her record the information. I saw that she was wearing a black outfit. The jacket had a single button, and the skirt had two slits that exposed dark stockings. Her blouse was lavender, with frills at the bust line. My eyes were fixed on her lips when she looked at my picture, and verified that I was a match before handing my license back.

"Mr. Driver, do you have another form of identification?"

"I don't know," I said, searching my wallet.

I heard Mr. Martin tell the group that I was representing my father, Raymond Driver, Elsie Peoples' nephew. "He's driven a long distance on very short notice," the attorney added, to explain the reason I was dressed casually.

I offered Ms. Whitney a business card. In addition to proclaiming that Brian Driver was the president of Driver Markets, Incorporated, it gave the street address, e-mail address, website, and telephone and fax numbers for the business. She frowned, and asked if I had something with my picture on it. I didn't. She asked if she could keep the business card, and I told her that she could.

Mr. Martin was telling the others that my father's share of the estate was forty-four percent, the same percentage as Mr. Arthur Peoples, who was being represented by Ms. Kindle, his daughter, was entitled to receive. In addition to Ms. Whitney, there were three other females in the group. I wondered which one was Ms. Kindle.

Mr. Martin then introduced the others. Ms. Dickens represented the friends of the public library, which was to receive three percent of the proceeds from the estate. Ms. Dickens identified herself by smiling at me. She wore her hair short, parted in the center, with bangs that hid about one-half of her forehead. I estimated her age to be in the upper thirties, and suspected her marital status was single.

Mr. McMahan represented the church where the elderly couple worshiped. He waved to me, something that was unnecessary since he was the only other male present. In addition to thinning hair, his other distinguishing feature was a gap between his front teeth. I assumed that the church was to also receive three percent.

Ms. Meriwether represented the food pantry, and Mr. Martin stipulated that its percentage was three percent. She nodded to me. I nodded back, noting that Ms. Meriwether had long, bleached-blond hair, ample breasts, and appeared to be in her early thirties. I wondered how she became selected to represent the food pantry. From the looks of her gaudy jewelry, she'd married well. Was her husband an important member of the community, an office-holder perhaps? Or, had she performed some illicit task at the back of the food pantry? It was fun to picture Ms. Meriwether on her knees, earning her right to participate in the distribution of Uncle Mackey's and Aunt Elsie's assets.

Now that I knew that Ms. Dickens represented the public library, and Ms. Meriwether represented the food pantry, I was able to identify Ms. Kindle, the one I perceived to be my adversary. She glanced my way, but her expression was indifferent, like she considered me to be an insignificant nuisance, an insect that she could flick away without expending any effort. Her stare could have melted an igloo.

Still, there was something about Ms. Kindle that held my attention. Like Ms. Whitney's lips, I was captivated by the way Ms. Kindle's blond hair framed her slender face, the way her shoulders filled out her jacket, and the way her breasts stood proudly, even in the heat of the August day. A set of rings was attached to her left hand like they were a part of her. I wondered if she ever took them off.

I raised my hand and Mr. Martin encouraged me to speak. "I make the total to be ninety-seven percent. Is someone absent?"

"You are quite right, Mr. Driver. As counsel, and overseer of the funds, my fee is the elusive three percent. However, I will not vote on the decisions you make. My assistant will get you started, and she will look in from time to time to see that everything is running according to the way Mr. and Mrs. Peoples stipulated in the trusts, but Ms. Whitney will serve only as a guide. She has no voting rights.

"Just one final word," he continued. "Mr. Driver and Ms. Kindle are from out of town, and they are entitled to receive living expenses from the estate. But please keep in mind that Mackey and Elsie were fugal people. They would want you to settle their affairs as quickly, and as economically, as possible. All expenditures will be voted on by the group, with the decision ruled by the majority."

I realized, as the meeting was adjourned, that the actual will had not been read. The participants had been introduced, and the percentage of the estate that their organization would receive was quoted, but the flowery language that usually gives the reasons for the award of a specific item or a certain percentage, had been omitted.

I glanced at the way the waves were bouncing off the rocks. They seemed less forceful than before. Was the tide changing?

The others were on their way down the hill when Mr. Martin got my attention. "Mr. Driver, there is a man who has been the next door neighbor to the Peoples for a number of years. I've found Mr. Hubert to be ... ah ... helpful. He knows the property intimately. I would suggest that you accept his help ... ah ... guardedly."

"Ah ... okay," I said, and seeing that was all he had to say on the subject, I thanked him for the information. There were a dozen questions I would have liked to ask him, but I didn't want to be left behind.

As we walked down the hill, I overheard Ms. Dickens, Ms. Meriwether, Mr. McMahan, and even Ms. Whitney, offer Ms. Kindle a ride to the house. I think that we were all surprised when she accepted Mr. McMahan's offer.

Not knowing where we were going, I followed the four cars. After a few minutes, we came to a stop in front of a very plain looking house. White paint was peeling from the clapboards, the roofline looked crooked, and the front windows were clouded. Above the door, there was a black sign that read: 'Circa 1797.'

Another structure stood in back of the house. It reminded me of the barn that Peg and I had replaced when we first went into business together. In other words, it looked dilapidated.

I followed the four women and Mr. McMahan to the side door. Ms. Whitney inserted a key, and the door made a squeaking sound as it swung open.

Inside, we were met with hot, stale air, darkness, and filth. The interior reminded me of Mr. Bennett's house, except that Uncle Mackey's and Aunt Elsie's house was darker. After trying the light switch, and concluding that the electricity had been turned off, I offered to get a flashlight from my truck.

"I think we should meet at the gazebo, and let the house air out," Ms. Whitney suggested, and everyone agreed with her. We opened two doors, and the only window that I was able to budge, and we retired to the gazebo.

It was a hot afternoon, but the shaded gazebo was comfortable. There were bench seats around the perimeter, and everyone had plenty of room.

Ms. Whitney began the meeting by saying we needed to elect a chairman of the group. Mr. McMahan nominated Ms. Kindle to the position. Ms. Meriwether nominated me. A show of hands elected Ms. Kindle. The vote was ninety-one to six. Ms. Dickens and Ms. Meriwether frowned when I voted for Ms. Kindle to be the chair.

Ms. Kindle looked around at the other members of the distribution committee before giving us assurance that she knew how to run a meeting. She didn't come out and say that she was an accomplished parliamentarian.

"I'm a paralegal by profession," she began.

That was good enough for me, and watching the expressions on the ladies' faces, I could see that they felt the same way. Even Ms. Whitney seemed impressed. Mr. McMahan voiced his concurrence. "I knew you were a professional, Ms. Kindle."

Ms. Kindle looked taken aback for a moment. "Let's move right along. What's the first order of business?"

"I move that we have the utilities turned on," I said, and Ms. Meriwether was quick to second the motion.

"Let's not forget the Peoples' desire that we operate as economically as possible," Ms. Dickens said.

"Perhaps we should consider the utilities separately," Ms. Kindle said. "Who's in favor of having the electricity turned on?"

I raised my hand, and saw that Ms. Meriwether had her hand up, too. But she was the only one siding with me. It looked like the vote was going to be forty-seven for, and fifty against turning on the electricity. I stated my argument before Ms. Kindle could ask for the 'against' vote.

"Uncle Mackey and Aunt Elsie also specified that we were to finish this assignment as promptly as possible. I do some of my best work at night, but I can't work in the dark."

"There are plenty of candles in the pantry."

It was a male's voice, and it had come from neither Mr. McMahan nor me. A man holding a set of hedge clippers stepped out from the far side of the gazebo. "Excuse me, I couldn't help overhearing. I'm Charles Hubert, the next door neighbor. I've been meaning to trim the shrubbery since my dear friends departed this earth. Mackey always kept a good supply of candles. I can show you where they're kept if you plan to use them."