Crumbling Deception, page 14
I turn to look at the cabbie, David. He doesn’t even seem phased. He just chuckles and looks at me through the rearview mirror. He leans back. "People only throw rotten things at you if they hate you, you know."
I don’t even like cleaning the dust or dew off my car.
I squint at the vehicle. “Who’s in the car? The devil? Hitler incarnate?”
“I have no idea.” The crowd finally thins out and he lurches the cab forward, jolting me back against my seat.
As the cab eases its way through the fading chaos of what I think is a Rotten Fruit Festival, my mind shifts to the task awaiting me at Mr. Livingstone's mansion. Two days ago, that unexpected letter arrived at my doorstep without an addressee.
Inside, I found a stack of documents bearing my name—titles to a grand estate just a few hours from my apartment. The top letter was odd and rubbed me the wrong way.
I hope this meets you in peace.
I am writing to you with a proposition of utmost significance. Enclosed within this envelope, you will find legal documents pertaining to the magnificent mansion of Mr. Livingstone. It may come as a surprise, but destiny has chosen you as the rightful heir to this grand estate.
You see, Mr. Livingstone has no immediate family. In his final moments of mental clarity, he entrusted me with the responsibility of locating the deserving owner of his beloved mansion. Through an extensive search and meticulous considerations, fate has guided me to you.
The moment I laid eyes on your name, I knew you were the one meant to inherit this glorious property. Your reputation as a person of integrity, wisdom, and compassion has reached far and wide, aligning perfectly with the values cherished by Mr. Livingstone throughout his life.
By signing the enclosed documents now, you will not only assume ownership of the mansion but also become the steward of its history and the legacy it holds.
Yours Faithfully,
Anna Butler
The Estate’s Lawyer
As the cab jolts along the bumpy road, my mind wanders from “where in the heck my reputation was the topic of conversation” to the serene view out of the cab window. I watch the scenery change from the chaos of the fruit festival to a serene and quiet atmosphere. David slows to a stop opposite the town center, and I peer out the window, my eyes widening at the sight before me.
A lofty double gate with an inscription mounted at the top and written in bold letters “LIVINGSTONE ESTATE” stares back at me. The grounds alone are magnificent. A spiraling wonder of bushes across the open gate makes me realize how poor I am living in the confines of my shabby two-bedroom flat in New York City. A straight cobblestone road lined with trees, their branches reaching out to form a natural canopy overhead, leads to the front view of the estate. Here, green ferns and plants line the area, adding to the jaw-dropping sight of the mansion further back on the estate.
This place is amazing, I think to myself as I gaze at the perfectly planted array. My eye catches a young man with heavily sun-kissed skin, tending to the garden on one side. He is tall with a muscled body that makes him look like a heavyweight champion. He waves at our cab and flashes me a friendly smile. Does he wave at every single person who passes by the garden?
The trees that line the road filter the sunlight, casting shadows on the ground as we move. There are also occasional benches and picnic tables inviting travelers to stop and take a break along the outside of the gate.
“Here we are.” David makes an abrupt stop in front of the mansion.
I reach into my purse and pull out some money to pay. David chuckles again. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m glad you’re in Picklesquare and I hope you enjoy your time here.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you.” Grateful, I slide my last few dollars back into my wallet.
“But be very careful in this part of town. Mr. Livingstone’s mansion is the last place anyone visits in Picklesquare.” His face darkens and his eyes no longer glisten.
I frown at his statement. “What do you mean by that?”
But before he can answer, a car drives into the compound and stops directly beside the cab. A black Ford with bits of fruit on its windshield. The car at the festival!
Out steps a young woman with fiery red hair. Her face is scrunched up in a deep frown as though she has been forced to gulp something bitter. She mumbles some words to herself and backs away from the car as if it were a piece of trash.
"Excuse me," I call out to her, hoping to find out how to avoid such a fiasco myself. "Are you alright?"
The woman turns to face me, her eyes narrowing in annoyance. "I'm fine. Just another day in Picklesquare where kids love to throw rotten fruit at my car. Well, I guess I’m glad it didn’t end up like the last time…”
The last time was worse than this?
The red-haired woman must have seen the look on my face, urging her to tell me what had happened the last time. Her face breaks into a tired smile. “I don’t think you need to know about that now. I’m Anna Butler, by the way. You seem to be from out of town. What’s your name?”
Anna!
Here is the estate’s lawyer, the same person who sent the letter to me. Surely, she knows what’s going on!
"Charlotte Miller," I reply, returning the smile and trying to hide my anxiety.
Her eyes grow to the size of saucers, recognizing my name. "Charlotte, huh? You're the one who inherited Mr. Livingstone's mansion, right?"
I feel the scrutiny of her gaze as she takes in my petite frame, from the dark brown curls that fall across my face to the tennies shoes that adorn my feet. "Yes, but I believe there's been a mistake. I'm not related to Mr. Livingstone or…”
Anna interrupts me. “Let’s go in, shall we?”
Unable to interject, I follow her up the stairs as David sets my luggage just inside the door. He vanishes without saying goodbye.
As soon as I enter the huge doors to the mansion, I feel like I've time-traveled to a fancy 18th-century plantation! The entrance hall has a cool wooden staircase and fancy designs on the ceiling that look like they are from a fairy tale. Sunlight peeks in through pretty stained-glass windows, making the rugs on the floor bask in a rainbow explosion.
The drawing room is all vintage vibes, with cozy velvet couches, fancy tables, and chandeliers that scream "upscale party." And the dining room? Oh boy! It has a massive wooden table that has probably seen more food than a buffet line.
And Mr. Livingstone wants to give me all this?
It couldn’t be worse than a nightmare. I wouldn’t know how to preserve the rugs from the dust of my shoes nor would I know how to save the velvet couches from being stained with my breakfast or lunch.
“This has to be a mistake,” I whisper, taking in the magnificence of the room again and again.
Anna raises an eyebrow, placing her jacket carefully on the back of the couch. An amused smile plays on her lips now. "You think it's a mistake? I've been waiting for you. Did you bring the signed documents?”
I frown, trying to make sense of her words. "But why would I inherit anything from someone I'm not related to? I don’t even know what he looks like!"
"Ah, that's the million-dollar question though, isn't it? You signed the documents though, right? It’s important that you signed them,” Anna says with a forced smile.
“No, I haven’t. I want meet Mr. Livingstone because I do not intend to sign them. I still believe it is a mistake.” I try not to shake.
Anna sighs, and I can see a frown returning to her face. She is probably wishing the teenagers were still throwing rotten fruit at her. It would be better than facing an obstinate stranger who was rejecting a mansion!
“Unfortunately, it's late now, and he doesn't receive visitors after sundown. You'll have to wait until morning. But I’ll set you up in a room for the night.”
"Very well. I suppose I understand. But I want to see Mr. Livingstone first thing tomorrow morning."
“That will not be a problem,” Anna answers.
A sound soon echoes into the room where we are standing. I hear from the upper floor a “tap tap” that keeps on moving above us. I raise my head, “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Anna quickly whispers, but I can tell from her voice that she is scared.
David’s words ring in my head again. “Mr. Livingstone’s mansion is the last place anyone visits in Picklesquare.”
The sound soon stops, again immersing us in the deep silence of the mansion’s living room. I look at Anna but this time, her friendly smile is back on her face.
“Let me show you to your room.” Anna walks out of the room.
We walk through a long passage that leads into the innermost part of the mansion. On each side of us, white stone walls adorned with intricate carvings line the passageway. The huge windows in the mansion go from the floor all the way up to the ceiling.
They must let in a lot of light during the day, offering a beautiful view of the outside scenery. It must make the rooms feel connected to nature.
“Here you go,” Anna says as we get to a door in one of the hallways.
She opens it for me and steps aside, while gesturing to me to go inside. Greeted by the warmth of a big room that could comfortably take in my entire one-bedroom flat, my eyes feel permanently stuck open now. The furniture is antique but well-maintained and retains its original beauty.
The walls are adorned with beautiful paintings and intricate tapestries, and the floors are made of polished wood that gleam in the light from the lamp. The room is glorious, a reminder of a bygone era, a time when elegance and refinement were prized above all else. The big bed in the room is large enough for five people to fit across it, but still the room looks spacious.
As welcoming as the room feels, something seems a bit off. I shake off that feeling and continue touring the room with my eyes until Anna calls my name.
“Oh! Thanks,” I reply as she opens the bathroom door on the left wall.
“The chef is running a warm bath for you. Also, tell her what you would like to eat for dinner.”
I walk to the bed, running my hand over the comfy bedsheets. “Thank you.” I sit down on the bed, barely knowing what to do with myself.
After a few minutes, a young lady in a white uniform and hair packed in a bun, knocks quietly on the bathroom door.
“Your bath is ready, Miss Miller,” she announces, a polite smile stretching across her face.
Just like the gardener, she has no problem beaming at me as though we’ve been friends since forever. Maybe this place isn’t bad after all.
“It’s Charlotte. Are you the chef?”
“Yes’m, Diana Milligan, the chef of the Livingstone estate.”
Diana leads me into the bathroom where a tub filled with water is waiting for me. The water is steaming and the bubbles smell like roses. Diana leaves and I hurriedly get into the water. I take a breath and try to relax, letting the water wash away my stress from the journey. It is so quiet in the bathroom that I can even hear myself breathing.
The bubbles feel really nice against my skin, like a soft massage tending to the knots in my muscles. I sink into the water and sigh.
Slipping into a ratty band shirt and shorts from high school, I feel completely underdressed standing in front of the mirror at the sink. I don’t think these could be real gold faucets, but the vanity could certainly be real marble.
I don’t want to leave, but I guess I’d have to buy a new wardrobe if I wanted to stay…
I must have spent almost an eternity in the tub because Diana has set out my evening meal on the table already by the time I get back into the room.
How did she already make this? I really thought she was bluffing when she said she could make my favorite meal.
I lift the plate cover to reveal a tender, juicy steak with a thick mushroom sauce. Roasted garlic mashed potatoes and a blend of seasonal vegetables are on another plate, with a chocolate lava cake on another.
It is the meal of royals, and today, I’m definitely living like one!
One bite and my taste buds are immediately awakened by the explosion of flavors. The food is expertly seasoned, with just the right amount of spices and herbs. I can tell that the ingredients are fresh and high-quality and that the dish has been prepared with care and attention to detail.
Perfection! I could get used to this…
As I dig into the food, I question why the mansion still seems off, despite its friendly inhabitants. I can’t wait to meet Mr. Livingstone and hand over the documents and be free from this whole mansion debacle.
Even if I were the rightful heir, how am I supposed to keep this place up?
As I eat, I think about every possible reason that made Mr. Livingstone choose me to inherit his mansion. Nothing comes to my head as I had nothing that tied me to Picklesquare. Only my grandmother, who lived in this same town before her mysterious disappearance seventy years ago, could be a link. But my mom was taken to live with my aunt in Upstate New York shortly afterward, and we never came to visit this town after she had me.
Should I find Anna to say good night? She probably still hates me…
Thinking back to her car, I figure she might still be busy.
I’ll just wait till morning to see her and Mr. Livingstone.
As I lay on my bed, my mind drifts to the life I have in New York City. I run a small bookstore, my sanctuary in the heart of a busy city. It is my haven filled with the amazing scent of old books and the soft rustle of pages turning. The cozy store is always adorned with stacks of novels, memoirs, and poetry collections, whispering tales of distant lands and captivating characters.
But it wasn't just the books that made the bookstore special. My cat, Clara, always lit up the place with her vibrant presence. Clara and I were like two peas in a pod, her furry paws always tagging along behind me.
This was until she died five months ago. Her death was a huge blow to me, and I haven’t recovered from it. I miss stroking Clara’s fur and hearing her purr at the sight of me.
But maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe fate has brought me to Mr. Livingstone’s mansion for something I’ve yet to uncover.
Read it here!
My Favorite Banana Bread
Ingredients
2 cups (250g) all-purpose flour (spooned & leveled)
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 cup (8 Tbsp; 113g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature
3/4 cup (150g) packed light or dark brown sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
1/3 cup (80g) plain yogurt or sour cream, at room temperature
2 cups (460g) mashed bananas (about 4 large ripe bananas)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
optional: 3/4 cup (100g) chopped pecans or walnuts
Instructions
Adjust the oven rack to the lower third position and preheat the oven to 350°F (177°C). Lowering the oven rack prevents the top of your bread from browning too much, too soon. Grease a metal 9×5-inch loaf pan with nonstick spray. Set aside.
Whisk the flour, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon together in a medium bowl. Set aside.
Using a handheld or stand mixer fitted with a paddle or whisk attachment, beat the butter and brown sugar together on high speed until smooth and creamy, about 2 minutes. With the mixer running on medium speed, add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition. Then beat in the yogurt, mashed bananas, and vanilla extract until combined.
With the mixer running on low speed, slowly beat the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients until no flour pockets remain. Do not over-mix. Fold in the nuts, if using.
Pour and spread the batter into the prepared baking pan. Bake for 60–65 minutes, making sure to loosely cover the bread with aluminum foil halfway through to prevent the top from getting too brown. The bread is done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean with only a few small moist crumbs. This may be after 60–65 minutes depending on your oven, so begin checking every 5 minutes around the 60-minute mark.
Remove bread from the oven and allow the bread to cool in the pan set on a wire rack for 1 hour. Remove bread from the pan and cool bread directly on the wire rack until ready to slice and serve.
Cover and store banana bread at room temperature for 2 days or in the refrigerator for up to 1 week. Banana bread tastes best on day 2 after the flavors have settled together.
Notes
Butter: If needed, you can use salted butter in this recipe with no other changes needed. I’ve also successfully reduced the butter down to 6 Tablespoons (85g) with no issue (just as tasty).
Brown Sugar: This is not an overly sweet quick bread. If you want a sweeter banana bread, increase to 1 cup (200g) brown sugar. Feel free to replace some or all of the brown sugar with regular white granulated sugar.
Cream Cheese Frosting: This banana bread also tastes fantastic with cream cheese frosting on top! To make it, beat 4 ounces (112g) of softened cream cheese and 1/4 cup (60g) of softened unsalted butter together on medium speed until smooth. Beat in 1 cup (120g) of confectioners sugar, 1/2 teaspoon of pure vanilla extract, and a pinch of salt until combined. Spread on cooled loaf.
Banana Bread Muffins: Use this banana bread recipe to make 15 banana bread muffins. Spoon the batter into a lined or greased muffin pan (fill each to the top with batter) and bake for 5 minutes at 425°F (218°C); then, keeping the muffins in the oven, reduce the oven temperature to 350°F (177°C). Bake for an additional 16–17 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. The total bake time for the banana bread muffins is about 21–23 minutes. The initial burst of hot air helps those muffins rise nice and tall!
