A Verdant Legacy

Bleak. Normally, Cheryl loved overcast weather like today; the soft tones of light, the crisp air—the perfect setting for a cozy read by the fire. Comparatively, today’s lighting was a harsh, tin gray, the air dull like a cold, gray office cubicle. She put the kettle on for what seemed like the umpteenth time that morning but could only have been the third and paced her kitchen—which was really her whole studio—arms crossed and tucked beneath her coziest sweater. This was not how she wanted to be spending her vacation.

Spring break for college students was often depicted as a tropical excursion bordering a bacchanal. Even if Cheryl could afford such a trip, she wouldn’t have chosen a place like the Bahamas. She preferred her New England setting of bricks and ivy, of fall leaves and tassled scarves over sunscreen and packed pools.

Bleak though it was, she supposed it was appropriate given how her break had started. Technically, it was before her break even began. The last Friday of school had had its expectant glow of anticipated freedom dashed by a phone call from her aunt. Cheryl didn’t hate her extended family, but she certainly didn’t like them. A Sentiment given to her by her deceased parents, her aunt, uncle, and their respective families had always appeared rather snobbish. They were always talking about the new remodel or car or business that was happening with the air of someone who had never considered doing the work themselves, let alone actually gotten their manicured hands dirty with plaster, paint, or grout.

So it was with an effort not to groan or sigh that she answered the call to be told her great-grandmother Helen had passed. She hadn’t been too shaken by this news. She had been about as close to her great-ma Helen growing up as any of her extended family, but honestly their visits to her weren’t unpleasant; they were just dampened by the involvement of the other relatives, always carrying on about how she should take care of her health and had she made arrangements “just in case”. As a child, Cheryl hadn’t understood the subtext, but between the wake, the funeral, and the reading of the will, she had been left with ample time to reflect and reminisce.

Great-ma Helen had always worn a cameo necklace. Of whom, Cheryl never knew. She smelled of lavender she had grown and tended in a part of her extensive garden. Sheryl had loved the gardens on her great-grandmother’s estate. It was her great-ma that had taught her the name sof the flowers and herbs that grew throughout: basil, thyme, sage, marjoram, lavender, chamomile, nasturtium, and so on and so forth. She had a particular memory of picking all the honeysuckle off the vines one summer visit to drink the nectar. The gardener had been furious, but great-ma Helen had just laughed and offered him a bud too.

Cheryl couldn’t remember a time in the garden when her great-ma hadn’t been smiling. Even when she had made a mess in the honey shed, all she did was smile and bring snacks to accompany the sticky mess. Cheryl never saw her smile anywhere else—with anyone else. It used to scare her, to see her great-ma’s smiling, crinkled face flatten into something impervious with distant eyes.

It had been years since she saw the rest of her family—not a lot and not enough—at her parents’ funeral. Thankfully, she never had to live with any of them as a ward. But seeing their eyes light up at the reading of he will for great-ma Helen had brought back unwanted memories of another will reading. At least this time, they hadn’t been eyeing her every five seconds. In fact, it had almost been a pleasure to see their faces fall and scrunch when the lawyer, Mr. Faren, announced that all of great-ma Helen’s assets would remain in a trust for an indetermined amount of time. Cheryl thought some of them might devour the soft-spoken man, but he remained resolute in his silence on the matter throughout the furor revealing nothing more.

Cheryl poured the now roiling water and cupped her hands around the mug letting the floating steam warm her face. She had just sat on the sofa one leg tucked beneath her when the doorbell rang. She groaned, not bothering to hide her annoyance. She only had the weekend to enjoy what was left of her holiday. The last thing she needed was people.

The wind slapped her face and a strange buzzing caused her to look up. It was a drone struggling to keep itself aloft in the invisible gusts that buffeted it on its leave. On the doormat was a small box wrapped in brown butcher paper. She picked it up and saw Cheryl Varion written on it in neat calligraphy. Closing the door, she went back to her spot on the sofa and opened it.

Inside was a small wooden box similar in size and weight to a child’s jewelry box. There was a small business-like card resting atop between the ridged edges. It had a bundle of lavender pictured on the front. On the back, it read Open Me in that same cursive script as the packaging.

Cheryl inspected the box. On each of the four sides was an embossed profile of a woman in an oval frame. It smelled of mahogany and lavender. She paused and sniffed again recalling where she had last smelled this particular scent three days ago.

She looked at the portraits again and noticed something different. One woman had her hair braided on the side; another had a high collar. One had a tiara, and the fourth had no noticeable adornments.

She turned the box round and round feeling the grooves of the images. She paused on the woman with her hair up. It looked just like how great-ma used to wear her hair. Cheryl’s fingers stilled. Then rotated the box to look at the woman on the short side with the high collar. It looked exactly like the one great-ma used to wear. She fidgeted with the engraving, pushing and pressing the edges. The image turned. She rotated the lady until it stopped upside down and pressed.

Click.

She shook the box gently. A ridge along the top edge had dislodged. The top panel slid out revealing five sprigs of lavender carved and resting atop the new layer. Cheryl traced the carvings. Each piece could rotate from its top. After fiddling with them for a couple minutes, she stopped to take a sip of her tea, now lukewarm. Her eyes fell on the card that came with the box. Lavender. She pushed the ends of the sprigs together to form a bouquet.

Click.

This time the bottom panel slid out. Flipping the box, Cheryl saw the new panel painted from edge to edge with dozens of small bees. In the center read the same black cursive Who is missing? She turned the box around. Flipped it. Spun it. No answer presented itself. She put the box aside and went to turn on the kettle. Her eyes fell on the bear-shaped container of honey next to her now-empty mug on the counter.

A bear?

No. There was no bear on the box.

She reviewed the information. There was a lavender bunch that had already been used. There were the cameo button profiles. The high collar one had been the start. That left the braided one, the plain one, and the crowned one. Crown. Queen.

She padded back to the sofa and picked up the box. There was no queen bee painted in the cacophony of drones. She turned to the portraits and once more rotated the crowned lady and pushed.

Click.

The carved braided woman popped out. Cheryl pulled and it came out as a hollow tube. A small piece of paper was rolled up inside. Unfurling it, Cheryl saw a drawing of a honeysuckle vine in bloom and a ten-digit number.

Throwing caution to the wind, she dialed.

Rrrring. Rrrring. “Hello,” said a calm older male voice. “This is Richard Faren.”

“Mr. Faren, this is Cheryl Varion.”

“Miss Varion. I was hoping you’d call.”

“You were?”

“Yes. But first, Miss Varion, could you open your front door? With the box, of course.”

“Mr. Faren, what’s going on? How do you know about the box?”

“Rest assured, I’ll explain. As you might have guessed, it was your great-grandmother Helen who devised this ploy.”

She opened the door to find the drone returned and hovering at eye level.

“Please show the box to the drone.”

She shifted the phone between her ear and shoulder. “What does this have to do with great-ma?”

“Rotate the box, please.”

She did.

“I see. Miss Varion, what plant is drawn on the paper with this number?”

“A honeysuckle vine. Mr. Faren—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but could you rotate the last portrait?”

“What?”

“The last portrait. I hate to sound rude, but we really don’t have time to dawdle.”

Cheryl hadn’t seen Mr. Faren too often, but he hadn’t seemed like a man who wasted time. She turned the box to face the plain woman. It didn’t budge.

“It won’t turn.”

“The other way, dear lady. Press the top.”

She pushed the top, and it went in. The carving didn’t rotate like a clock but rather backwards on a pin hinge that ran through the middle exposing the wood to have an ovular shape. On the reverse side was a carving of a honeysuckle flower. “Is this what you needed?” she asked showing the image to the camera on the drone.

“Yes, Miss Varion, perfect,” he said with an audible sigh of relief.

“Will you tell me what’s going on now?”

“Certainly. I apologize for the cloak and dagger nature of this. Your great-grandmother Helen devised this puzzle box as a way of testing her descendants, and, I suspect, messing with them. Simply put, whoever solved it first would be named the heir of her estate.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Perhaps. Brilliance and insanity often run close together. Regardless, it was her wish that only someone who knew her for her and not for her possessions could open the box and call this specific number.”

“What if I had smashed the box?”

“Your uncle already did that not two minutes after receiving his box. That’s partly why I had you show the box to the drone.”

“Partly?”

“Yes, the other reason is to prevent what your aunt and her husband tried to do. Your aunt had someone else open it for her. Her husband tried to pass off one of his kids’ boxes as his after he destroyed it. The reason I had you flip the last portrait was because each box was identical apart from the image on the back and on the piece of paper. If someone presented the wrong image or combination, they would be disqualified.”

“You could have just had them reopen the assembly for the drone.”

“True, but Helen did always like a touch of drama.”

Cheryl could have sworn he was smiling on the other end.

“Nevertheless, Miss Varion, you are now the sole inheritor of Helen Gertrude Varion’s trust, whose assets liquid or otherwise may be estimated at a total of 2.3 million dollars. I’ll need you to sign the official paperwork come Monday. When could you come by the office? Miss Varion?”

Cheryl gasped suddenly. She hadn’t realized she had stopped breathing. “Uh… Would 4 be okay?”

“4 would be perfect. I’ll see you then. And Miss Varion, I feel compelled to tell you, Helen hoped you’d be the one to inherit.”

“She did?”

“Yes. But she knew if she just willed everything to you outright, the rest of the family would make a fuss trying to dispute the will. That’s part of the reason she created this plot as well – to tangle them up in their own behaviors thus invalidating their own right to inherit.”

“What if I hadn’t solved it? What if no one did?”

“Then no one would inherit, officially. They might scrounge some trinkets, but the majority would be tied up in government politics or given to selected charities or scholarships including one for you and your education. At the least, she ensured you could start your own life. Additionally, if more than one relation completed it, then there were predetermined split portions for you to share the inheritance.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Faren.”

“You’re most welcome. Have a good weekend, Miss Varion.”

Cheryl stood frozen in her doorway, just watching the drone fly off into the distance. She noticed it was no longer fighting any wind gusts. The weather had calmed. The sun was out. Cheryl thought she would indeed have a good weekend and plant some honeysuckle and lavender.