It rained all morning. The drops hit the black umbrellas like soft drumming. Emma stood close to the grave, watching her grandmother's coffin. Her hands were locked together, and she didn't know if she was feeling sad, guilty, or both.
Her grandmother, Margaret Whitmore, had always been a strong woman. She was strict, proud, and didn't let people push her around. Emma had not been very close to her, but she still loved her. Their time together had been short and far apart. Now there would be no more time at all.
When the priest finished, people began to leave. Emma stayed a little longer. She looked at the black ribbon on the flowers she brought, blowing in the wind. The grass was wet and soft under her shoes. Sarah, her cousin, touched her shoulder and told her they were going to the lawyer's office.
The ride into town was quiet. The smell in the car was of wet clothes and coffee. No one talked. No one even looked at each other.
Mr. Hargrove's office was warm and smelled of old books. He had been the family lawyer for many years. He told them the will would be read now, just as Margaret had asked.
First, he spoke of smaller things. Sarah would get some old jewelry. Michael, Emma's brother, would get a small amount of money. Then he looked at Emma and read her part. To my granddaughter Emma Whitmore, I leave my home — the Whitmore Estate — with all its contents.
For a few seconds, Emma didn't understand. She looked at her mother, but her mother didn't look back. Sarah's smile was gone. Michael frowned. Everyone had thought the house would go to Emma's mother.
Emma asked why her, but Mr. Hargrove only said that it was what Margaret wanted.
After signing some papers, Emma held the keys in her hand. They felt heavy and cold. She knew it was more than just a house she had been given. Something was waiting for her there, and she was not sure if she was ready for it.