The Scarlatti Inheritance

As a child, I hated summers because I hated being chubby. But the one solace I had was that it was the time of year when my relatives would come over from the U.K. and my sense of family expanded exponentially. Typically it would be my maternal grandparents who would baby sit my sister and me and of course let us away with murder for three glorious months. Every once in a while we would have extra visitors as well.

One summer, it was my cousin Fiona and her then boyfriend Mike who came over. Their visit was a unique experience for my sister and me because they were older, but they weren’t old. So basically they were up for anything, Ontario Place, Canada’s Wonderland, water pistols at dawn.

Every once in a while, my sister and I take a moment to recall Mike and Fiona’s visit, specifically the night our family got into a game of charades, and more importantly we relive our decisive, - nay - bone crushing victory.

I had to be in my very early teens, which would have made my sister about 10 or 11. Mike’s evil plan was to submit a charade that “they’ll never get.” It was a book: The Scarlatti Inheritance. I’d never heard of it.

Fool. How little he knew of our power. My sister started the charade. We were in the zone.

“Three words. First word.”

My sister then did a timeout sign with her hands.

“The”. Myrtle nodded.

“Second word. Three syllables. First syllable.”

Myrtle pointed to the scar on her arm.

“Scar.” She then did the taffy move in charades that denotes the word is longer than the one you have just said.

“Scarring. Scarred. Scarlet.”

Myrtle nodded.

“Third syllable.”

Myrtle, in a stroke of pure dramatic brilliance, mimed the drinking of a cup of tea, even throwing in the flourish of a raised pinky finger.

“Tea. The Scarlet-Tea.”

Myrtle nodded. Her pace quickened now. We still had time.

“Third word. Four syllables.”

Myrtle mimed her hand going into her other hand.

“In?”

Myrtle nodded.

“Second syllable.” Myrtle pointed at Fiona.

“Girl. She……Her.”

She nodded frantically. We were close.

Myrtle started pulling that taffy as if her life depended on it.

“Four syllables. In her….In her.”

I said the only four syllable word I knew that could work.

“Inheritance! The Scarlet-Tea Inheritance?” I questioned and proclaimed at the same time.

To this day, my sister and I still laugh about it.