Necessary Evil by Killarney Traynor Read Free Book Online Page A

and snacks every day for anywhere from five to
fifteen finicky little girls, and scheduling the ever-increasing number of
lessons. I couldn’t afford to turn people away. By the end of May, I was
putting in fourteen hour days and seriously considering hiring two more
part-time helpers.
    Added to this were the usual daily
irritations. Despite the letter’s authentication, we were still getting
requests from people to use the farm for everything ranging from filming horror
movies to excavating on the off chance that there actually was treasure. By
this point, I was immune to their passionate pleas and annoyed by their
persistence. I had ordered Aunt Susanna to deny any requests that came by
phone, and I deleted the email requests without replying. When Professor
Randall’s email came in, I must have followed the usual procedure and trashed
it right away. I don’t remember ever seeing it.
    I have a particularly sharp memory of the
early morning run on that Wednesday in May. It was a clear, unseasonably cool
day, and my breath came out in gusts of condensation as I pushed along the
riding trail. As I rounded the corner and headed back to the farmhouse, it
loomed before me in clear relief against the foggy early morning, a solid,
squat Colonial salt-house with additions marring its otherwise pure look.
    I remember pausing at the gate that
separates the horse farmyard from the main yard, chilled with sweat and hungry.
The house was quiet, dark windows accenting the dark blue paint that, yet
again, needed new coat.
    It’s an antiquarian’s dream, our house.
Built in the 1600s, it had stood through the revolutions, wars, and climate
changes of America’s rambunctious history, housing generation after generation
of stalwart Chases. They were the archetype - in my opinion at least - of the
original settlers: hardworking, quiet, civic-minded, and stubborn.
    I loved the house. I loved it for more
than just the sentimental memories of a happy childhood spent within its secure
four walls. I loved the ideas it represented, its history, up to Alexander
Chase. Of course, I loved the people who lived in it when I was child: my aunt
and uncle had done the bulk of raising me, and I thought of them as more my
parents than my real ones.
    My biggest regret has always been that my
name is Warwick. As a child, I’d write “Chase” on my kindergarten school
papers, and argue with my teacher about the legality of it. When she sent me
home with a note to my guardians, I begged Uncle Michael to change my name.
    I’ll never forget the look on his face as
he answered, “Would if I could, Maddie. I would if I could.”
    He probably would have. My aunt and uncle
loved children, yet were never able to have any of their own. If it wasn’t for
me, they probably would have adopted one, but they never did and now they had
no one to carry on their own legacy.
    No one, that is, but me. I suppose that’s
why I was so bound and determined to keep the farm open and working. I wasn’t a
Chase, so even if I did have children, they wouldn’t have the name. The farm
was my uncle’s one legacy, and I had appointed myself guardian of it.
    Vowing to preserve something is one thing.
Bringing it about is quite another. I’d always known that Susanna and Michael
Chase were not very interested in money, but I’d never known how close they
played everything. Every month was a long, knock-down drag-out fight between
me, the checkbook, and the bank, and the struggle was starting to tell on me.
Even I could see that. My hobbies and interests had dwindled to almost nothing,
my back was constantly stiff from both the burden and the broken mattress I
couldn’t afford to replace. A line had etched itself on my face, my romantic
prospects (excepting, perhaps, the long-shot Joe Tremonti) were practically
null, and my hands had grown calloused with time and work. Despite my best
efforts, my manners had grown more brusque , almost
rude.
    Relinquishing the fight was not an