“Yes, yes,” Ben muttered.
When Alex turned back, his grandfather was standing close, holding out a large manila envelope. Traces of ancient stains were visible under a layer of gray mortar dust.
“This is intended for you. . on your twenty-seventh birthday.”
Alex stared at the suddenly ominous thing his grandfather was holding out.
“How long have you had this?”
“Nearly nineteen years.”
Alex frowned. “And you kept it walled up in your basement?”
The old man nodded. “To keep it safe until I could give it to you at the proper time. I didn’t want you to grow up knowing about this. Such things, before the right time, can change the course of a young person’s life — change it for the worse.”
Alex planted his hands on his hips. “Ben, why do you do such strange things? What if you’d died? Did you ever think of that? What if you’d died and your house got sold?”
“My will leaves you the house.”
“I know that, but maybe I’d sell it. I would never have known that you had this hidden away down here.”
His grandfather leaned close. “It’s in the will.”
“What’s in the will?”
“The instructions that tell you where this was kept and that it’s yours — but not until your twenty-seventh birthday.” Ben smiled in a cryptic fashion. “Wills are interesting things; you can put a lot of curious things in such documents.”
When his grandfather shoved the envelope at him Alex took it, but only reluctantly. As strange as his grandfather’s behavior sometimes was, this ranked right up there with the strangest. Who would keep papers hidden in the brick wall in his basement? And why?
Alex was suddenly worried about the answers to those questions — and others that were only beginning to formulate in the back of his mind.
“Come on,” his grandfather said as he shuffled back to the workbench. With an arm he swept aside the clutter that covered the work surface. He slapped his palm on the cleared spot on the bench. “Put it here, in the light.”
The flap was torn open — with no attempt to be sneaky about it. Knowing his grandfather, he would have long ago opened the envelope and studied whatever was inside. Alex noticed that the neatly typed address label was made out to his father. He pulled a stack of papers from the envelope. They were clipped together at the top left corner. The cover letter had an embossed logo in faded blue ink saying it was from LANCASTER, BUCKMAN, FENTON, a law firm in Boston.
He tossed the papers on the workbench. “You’ve known all along what this is?” Alex asked, already knowing the answer. “You’ve read it all?”
Ben waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. It’s a transfer of deed. Once it’s executed, you become a landowner.”
Alex was taken aback. “Land?”
“Quite a lot of land, actually.”
Alex was suddenly so full of questions that he couldn’t seem to think straight. “What do you mean, I’ll become a landowner? What land? Why? Whose is it? And why on my twenty-seventh birthday?”
Ben’s brow creased as he paused to consider. “I think it has to do with the seven. Like I said, it went to your mother on her twenty-seventh birthday — because your father had died before his twenty-seventh birthday when it would have gone to him. So, the way I figure it, the seven has to be the key.”
“If it went to my mother, then why is it mine?”
Ben tapped the papers lying on the workbench. “It was supposed to go to her, because your father had passed away, but the title to the land couldn’t be transferred to her.”
“Why not?” Alex asked.
His grandfather lowered his voice as he leaned closer. “Because she was declared mentally incompetent.”
The silence dragged on a moment as Ben let that sink in before he went on.
“The stipulations in this last will and testament specify that the heir to whom the title is transferred must be of sound mind. Your mother was declared not to be of sound mind and has been in that institution ever since. There’s a codicil to the will that stipulates that if the heir in line isn’t able to take ownership of the title to the land because of death or mental incapacitation, then it remains in abeyance until the next heir in line becomes twenty-seven, whereupon it is automatically reassigned to them. If there is no heir, or if they are likewise declared in violation of the stipulations—”
“You mean crazy.”
“Well, yes,” Ben said. “If for any reason the title can’t be transferred to your father, mother, or any of their issue — that means their descendants, and you’re the only one of those — then the land goes to a conservation trust.”
Alex scratched his temple as he tried to take it all in.
“How much land are we talking about?”
“Enough for you to sell it and buy yourself a new car. That’s what you ought to do.” Ben shook a cautionary finger. “This business with the seven is nothing to fool around with, Alex.”
For some inexplicable reason beyond his grandfather’s admonition, Alex didn’t feel at all fortunate at the windfall.
“Where is this land?”
Ben gestured irritably. “Back East. In Maine.”
“Where you used to live?”
“Not exactly. It’s farther inland. It was land that has been in our family forever, but they’re all dead now, so it goes to you.”
“Why not to you?”
Ben shrugged. “Don’t know.” He suddenly grinned and leaned in. “Well, actually, it’s probably because they never liked me. Besides, it’s just as well — I’ve no desire to live there again. Blackflies and mud in the spring, mosquitoes in the summer, and endless snow in the winter. I’ve spent enough of my life hip deep in mud and bugs. The weather here suits me better.”
Alex wondered if the people who made up the will had discounted Ben because they didn’t consider him of sound mind in the first place.
“I’ve heard that autumn is beautiful back East,” Alex said.
Autumn would soon arrive. He wondered if there was enough land to get away and be alone for a while to paint. From time to time Alex liked to hike into wilderness areas to be alone and paint. He liked the way the simplicity of primeval solitude allowed him to lose himself in the scenes he created.
“How much land are we talking about? Is there at least a few acres or so? I’ve heard that some of the land in Maine is pretty expensive.”
“That’s on the coast,” Ben scoffed. “This is inland. Inland the land isn’t worth nearly as much. Still. .”
Alex gingerly lifted the cover letter, as if it might suddenly bite him, and scanned the legal jargon.
“Still,” his grandfather went on, “I’d venture to say that this is enough to buy you a car.” He leaned closer. “Any car you want.”
Alex looked up from the papers. “So how much land is it?”
“A little under fifty thousand acres.”
Alex blinked. “Fifty thousand acres?”
His grandfather nodded. “You’re now one of the largest private landowners in Maine — other than the paper companies. At least, you will be once the title is transferred.”
Alex let out a low whistle at the very thought. “Well, I guess I very well might be able to sell a piece of it and buy me a car. I might even sell enough to build—”
Ben was shaking his head. “Sorry, but you can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Sell a part of it. The covenants to the deed say that you can’t sell any part of it. If you ever want to sell, you have to sell the whole thing, all in one lot, all together and intact, to the conservation trust that’s holding the land. They own the surrounding land.”
“I’d have to sell it all — and just to this one group?” Alex frowned. “Are you sure I couldn’t just sell some of it if I wanted to? Just a little?”