Savannah Secrets

“You don’t understand,” Joanna threw back bitterly. “She’s humiliating us before this bastard, making us, her legitimate heirs, beg. It’s disgraceful.”

“I think you’re becoming unnecessarily dramatic,” Meredith answered quietly. “Soon we’ll have more information on Gallagher and get a better idea of where matters stand. But for now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient.”

It took Meredith another twenty minutes to calm Joanna down and bring the meeting to a close, but finally she was seated in her Jeep heading home, returning the calls she’d been unable to take during the afternoon and looking forward to another lonely evening.

That night, after the kids were in bed, Meredith sipped a mug of hot chocolate and tucked her slippered feet under the old cashmere throw, thankful the day was behind her. It was always hard to be the bearer of bad tidings. In a way she sympathized with the Carstairs relatives. After all, Rowena had always implied they’d share her estate once she was gone. But what surprised her most, what she couldn’t fathom, was why Dallas had been so summarily cut out of the will. She and her grandmother hadn’t seen eye to eye, but surely that didn’t merit abandoning her?

Meredith leaned into the cushions and cupped the mug thoughtfully. She’d arranged for a phone conference with Dallas for the following morning, and was dreading telling her the news. Dallas had gotten a rotten deal all round. The property in Beaufort where Doug Thornton had raised thoroughbreds and where Dallas had spent the better part of her youth was mortgaged to the hilt. Presumably the only reason the bank hadn’t foreclosed was because they knew of Dallas’s expectations. Now that those were dashed, what would the girl’s options be?

Taking a sip of piping hot chocolate, Meredith pondered whether Dallas could contest.

Analyzing the case from a legal standpoint, she realized probably not. The will was tight as a drum. Although it was her duty to see that the wishes expressed in the will were carried out, her sense of justice revolted. Somebody, she realized, pulling the file toward her, had to help Dallas. The girl couldn’t be allowed to flounder out there on her own.

Should she appeal to Gallagher? No, a man with his track record would hardly have an ounce of compassion. And he certainly wouldn’t feel any sense of loyalty to a family he hadn’t even known existed. To him, Rowena’s estate would be nothing but another windfall that some crazy old lady had seen fit to bequeath him.

And all at once she wondered if Rowena had known Gallagher, if they’d met. Somehow she didn’t think so. Surely if Rowena had been aware of who Gallagher really was, she wouldn’t have structured things as she had. On the other hand, Rowena was too smart to have made such a decision without a great deal of thought.

After flipping through several paragraphs of the long, detailed document, Meredith decided to go to bed. Tomorrow she would take steps to contact Grant Gallagher, and she would find some way to help Dallas.

Her determination to go to bat for Dallas increased as she remembered all the times over the past few years that she’d tried to ease the strained relationship between grandmother and granddaughter, and how Dallas had come to confide in her. She felt she couldn’t betray that trust, couldn’t let Dallas down, even though the girl refused to admit that she needed help.

By the time she turned out the lights, she’d sketched out the beginnings of a game plan. The first step was getting through to Gallagher.

Dabbing another lotion-bathed cotton pad over her cheeks, Joanna peered at her reflection and sighed. She must calm her frenzied mind. She must think straight. Act. But how? Of course she would be in touch with Ross Rollins to see what could be done from a legal standpoint, but surely there must be something else she could do to sway things her way?

Rising from the dressing table and heading toward her lace-canopied bed, Joanna took off her peach-colored silk dressing gown and feathered mules, then climbed wearily into bed.

What a day. She’d woken up so happy, so certain that finally she’d hit the jackpot.

And now this.

She slumped against the pillows and wondered if she should visit her fortune-teller to see what she had to say. Oh, what the hell. That was just another expense. And God knows she had enough of those with a drawer full of bills sitting in her desk waiting to be taken care of.

But remembering the fortune-teller made her sit up straighter, brow creased as another thought crossed her mind. What was the name of that famous voodoo priestess Rowena had frequented? Miss Mabella. That was it. But now she also recalled that Miss Mabella was not easily available. There were times when she disappeared to the bayou, wouldn’t speak English, would only communicate in Gullah with her close entourage.

She shivered, pulled the coverlet up to her chin, both encouraged yet scared that she’d remembered the woman’s name. She knew it was dangerous to dabble. But still, Joanna wondered whether she was worth investing in. After several moments’ reflection, she decided in favor. After all, things couldn’t get much worse. She must use some kind of intervention if she wasn’t going to be screwed. And from all she’d heard, Miss Mabella had a trick or two up her sleeve.

The question was how to contact her? Perhaps she would ask Josie, her cleaning lady, tomorrow. Josie had an aunt who lived in what she believed was the same neighborhood as Miss Mabella. Maybe she could make contact for her.

With a sigh Joanna turned off the light. Grant Gallagher, indeed. Fuck him. She was damned if she’d allow anybody, much less some illegitimate son of Isabel’s—whom she’d never liked, anyway—to take what should be hers.

No siree!

Despite her laudable resolve of having a quiet morning, Meredith found it impossible to relax. Tweaking her hair back and donning her glasses, she rummaged for the Carstairs file. Sitting at her highly polished mahogany desk, an heirloom from her great-grandmother Rowland, Meredith admitted ruefully that relaxing was not her forte. Plus the task ahead of her was no light challenge. Setting the thick manila folder next to her laptop, she got online, determined to find as much information as she could about the man she already considered her adversary. All her legal training taught her never to get emotional about a case. Ross would have told her it was none of her business, that technically the man was her client now, and that her only agenda should be to defend his interests.

But how could she when so much was at stake for Dallas?

Typing his name into Google, Meredith learned it was distressingly easy to acquire information on Grant Gallagher—the man was probably a publicity hound. There were newspaper headings, articles and pictures of him at nightclubs with beautiful blondes hanging on to his arm. The fact that he appeared to be outrageously handsome only made her glare more coldly at his wolfish smile. No doubt his behavior in the bedroom matched his ruthless actions in the boardroom.

Logging off, she pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, realizing that even if the man willingly lived his life in the public eye, there were details in this folder that were intensely private. Details that he wouldn’t want to share; information about himself that even he didn’t know. Despite her contempt for him, she felt as if she were committing a violation. Rowena’s detectives had been nothing if not thorough, she reflected, her lips curling cynically.

She skimmed once more over his case history. He didn’t have much of a childhood, she admitted grudgingly, her brow knit. Grant had been adopted at birth by a wealthy couple unable to have children, who then divorced when he was four. Both parents had subsequently remarried several times. Judging by the frequent changes in address and the different schools he’d attended throughout Europe, it was obvious the man had lived an erratic youth in which his adoptive parents had figured little. They probably cared even less.

She studied a glamorous photo of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, clipped from some sixties-era society page. Although a handsome couple, they looked more impressed with themselves than with each other. Grant had probably been adopted to serve as a plug in a leaking tub. When the plug failed, the tub had drained and the child was left to fend for himself. Well, not entirely. There seemed to be some serious financial security. But that kind of life couldn’t have been easy.

His experiences hadn’t impeded his getting ahead at the expense of others, she recognized, reaching for the bottle of Evian that she’d carried in from the kitchen. She would have imagined that someone who’d had an emotionally deprived childhood, albeit a financially secure one, would be sensitive to the needs of others. But apparently empathy wasn’t a word in Gallagher’s lexicon.

Meredith sighed, remembering her own happy childhood, her loving parents and sibling. Even when she’d been at her most rebellious—like the time she’d led a third-grade boycott of the Webelos for not admitting girls into their organization—her family had been there for her, offering their love and support. She’d been one of the lucky ones.

Slipping the documents back into the envelope, Meredith rose from the desk and headed upstairs for a shower, trying not to think about her upcoming phone appointment with Dallas. She had all of fifteen minutes to get herself cleaned up and dressed before she had to head to the office. Time to get the show on the road, she realized with a grimace, yanking off her tracksuit and heading for the shower.

“It doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t have taken a penny of her money, anyway.”

Dallas’s voice sounded harsh and determined, and Meredith sighed. She’d just pointed out a minor loophole in the will that she thought might give Dallas grounds to contest, but the girl wouldn’t listen, despite the dire situation she was facing. Rarely had Meredith met anyone more stubborn and unyielding.

“Dallas, please, you need to think this over carefully. Let me give you the name of an estate attorney I admire. She can at least help you figure out where you stand.”

“Nope. I don’t care. I’ll just let it go.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I know the mortgage company is breathing down your neck. At least let me talk to them, explain how things are, tell them there’s still a chance you’ll recover something, or at least enough to pay off a large chunk of the debt. That should keep them at bay for a while.”

“Meredith, why won’t you understand? I hated Grandma Rowena. She fucked up all our lives. I don’t want any of her money. It’s tainted. This guy Gallagher’s welcome to it.”

“You know, technically he’s your half brother,” Meredith said thoughtfully. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before, but of course these two shared the same mother. They were siblings. Surely that had to count for something?

A short silence ensued. “So? What if he is my half brother? I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me. Just because we were born of the same mother doesn’t mean we signify anything to each other. Why should I care about him? Or he about my problems, for that matter?”

“You’re right, I guess,” Meredith responded sadly. “Look, I’ve already sent him a letter to advise him of the inheritance, and I presume I’ll be hearing from him shortly. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Fine. In the meantime I’ll take that modeling job I was offered for that Australian magazine. At least that’ll keep food on the table.”

“Good. Go ahead.”

Meredith was glad that Dallas was busy finding solutions to her plight. Although most people would assume she was a spoiled brat, given the way she spoke and reacted, she possessed the tough, determined streak of a survivor.

From all accounts, the girl had lived a solitary childhood. Apparently Isabel had shown little interest in her daughter, preferring her social life to motherhood. After Isabel’s suicide, Dallas had lived alone with a father whose obsession with raising horses probably left little time or inclination to nurture the needs of a teenager. Lord only knew what kind of emotional baggage the poor kid carried.

Dallas wasn’t precisely a child anymore, of course, but she was only nineteen. Such an age seemed a long way off from Meredith’s own thirty-three. She thought of what that twelve-year difference amounted to in her own life. She had already experienced a wonderful marriage, two great kids and now widowhood.

Brushing the thoughts aside, Meredith turned to her computer screen and decided she’d better draft a follow-up letter to Grant Gallagher. She was surprised she hadn’t heard anything from him yet, but she decided that he probably was having his lawyers look over everything before he took the next step.

3

Glancing at his watch, Grant Gallagher pushed himself into the last stretch leading up to the lawn and the castle. He’d been running for an hour on the wet Scottish moor and he was now ready for breakfast. But this final effort justified the rest of a day often spent seated in boardrooms or behind his desk. Today, he reflected, wiping his rain-swept black hair from his face, would be spent with his laptop, tracing the outline of a deal that was shaping into a winner.

Moving round to the east side of the ancient stone castle walls, Grant stepped inside the cloakroom.

At last. The reward. He shook himself like a St. Bernard, his large, well-formed shoulders soaked, and made his way down the corridor to the main part of the castle.

“Good morning. Yer breakfast’s ready, sir,” Mrs. Duffy, the housekeeper, said as she crossed him in the hall just as he was about to climb the vast oak staircase.

“Thank you, Mrs. Duffy. I’ll take a quick shower and be down in a moment.” He smiled.

The housekeeper later described his smile to Mrs. Cullum, the baker’s wife, as a wicked yet wonderful one that lit up his fine features. Not that anyone, seeing her, would have guessed such a fanciful romantic lurked behind her severe expression. Two days later, Mrs. Cullum passed on the description to Mrs. Beatty at the butcher’s. They both agreed, shaking their permed gray heads, that Mrs. Duffy read far too many romance novels for her own good. In their opinion, any woman who raved about bright blue eyes that sparkled in a way that left a female, even one of Mrs. Duffy’s advanced years and station, with her heart fluttering definitely needed her head examined.

Unaware of the flattering descriptions being exchanged in the castle kitchen and elsewhere, Grant swung open the heavy glass door of the shower—the one area of the castle he’d agreed to modernize—and, after discarding his soaked attire on the marble floor, stood under the powerful hot-water jet. It felt like heaven after the rigors of the run he imposed on himself daily, rain or shine, wherever he was in the world.

Several minutes later he emerged, dried himself and, slicking his hair back, entered his dressing room where he donned a pair of navy sweats and the first high-necked cashmere sweater in the pile, which happened to be white. Next he slipped on his socks and sneakers and headed downstairs, humming a tune that for several days had been playing relentlessly in his head. That and the scent that Fernanda, his latest conquest, had worn on their last evening together in Paris. She was lovely, but far too young, of course. And she was beginning to cling.

He sighed. Time to bring that little interlude to an end before it became complicated and she turned on the waterworks.

Stepping into the breakfast room, he gazed satisfied at the round table covered with the usual white linen cloth, fine china and silverware. He lifted the cover of one of the Georgian silver dishes and sniffed. Mrs. Duffy’s breakfast made every drop of rain of his run worth it, he reflected, serving himself a large portion of scrambled eggs, bacon and ham onto a plate, and spreading a thick lashing of homemade butter onto a piece of local granary bread.

This was the life. For a few days a month, at any rate, he reckoned, glancing at his watch, calculating the time difference with Sydney.

After breakfast, he headed straight for the study, intent on making his calls. He was deeply entrenched in understanding the legal implications of the deal he was handling, a meat packer in Australia that, if everything went right, would be his for the picking before the end of the week. He sat down and dialed the number of his lawyer in Sydney, sifting through his mail as he waited for someone to pick up. Just invitations and bank statements. They could wait. Then he looked at the last letter in the pile and frowned. It bore an American stamp and was postmarked Savannah Georgia. He turned it over, curious. He didn’t know anyone in Savannah. Maybe it was another of those letters he received quantities of, people offering him deals right, left and center. Rita, his efficient secretary in London, must have forwarded it by mistake. The phone continued ringing just as he realized the letter was addressed to Strathcairn Castle, not to his office in Abemarle Street.

Odd, he reflected, hanging up when no one answered, noting the letterhead. Who the hell were Hunter & Maxwell, Attorneys at Law? Certainly he’d never dealt with them in the past.

Leaning across the desk piled high with scribbled notes, Grant reached for a letter opener. He pulled out a cover letter attached to a long white envelope with his name scrawled in large, spidery black ink.

He frowned, ignoring the uncanny frisson that gripped him. This must be a mistake, he reflected, ignoring a quickening of his pulse and a sudden need to swallow. Yet the letter was addressed to him, and now, as he quickly flipped through the rest of his mail a second time, he noted another missive from the same law firm. For a moment he hesitated, gripped by a sudden urge to bin the lot. For a moment he stared at them, then at the trash can, then back at the distinctive handwriting on the heavy white vellum envelope. But curiosity won, and with a shrug he slit the second envelope and pulled forth a single sheet of paper.

What he read made him sit up straighter. This had to be a joke, some crazy prankster playing tricks on him. But for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t drag his eyes off the spindly scrawl, words leaping off the page in quick succession, their significance hitting him like an inside curve ball.

Then, grabbing the cover letter, he skimmed through it rapidly, his pulse racing. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. There must be another James G. Gallagher somewhere, maybe even several, and they’d mixed them up.

But deep down, something told him it wasn’t a mistake. He’d always known he was adopted. His parents had certainly never bothered to hide that fact from him. But they’d never told him anything about his birth mother, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to ask. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence if…

Grant rose, still holding the letter, and gazed out of the window. Rain poured, causing rivulets to trickle down the old panes before disappearing into the flower beds. What should he do? He had no desire to be connected with his past. A memory flashed—that of himself as a turbulent teenager ravaged with doubt. It had taken him long enough to force the hot, turbulent rage to subside and now that it was way behind him, he had no desire to revisit his past.

Turning his back on the window, Grant crushed the letter in his fist and pitched the crumpled ball into the trash can. He had no intention of replying. Would simply pretend it never happened.

But minutes later, and against his better judgment, he stooped and retrieved the two scrunched-up sheets from the trash, smoothed them reluctantly and read the letter over.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, slamming his palms down on the desk. “Fuck Rowena Carstairs, whoever she is. And her damned attorneys.”

But despite his desire to forget, he could think of nothing but what the old lady had told him in her letter.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, glancing once more at the scrawled words. Why in hell’s name would this woman who claimed to be his grandmother want to leave him some estate he didn’t need? He could read some remorse between the lines, some desire to make up for a past mistake. But still, it made no sense.

He pushed the chair back abruptly, wishing he had time to take a trip, go scuba diving in Thailand or hiking in the Rockies. But he couldn’t leave right now. He had to be available to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice.

“Damn,” he muttered again.

Leaving the correspondence on his desk, he shoved his hands in his pockets and left, slamming the study door abruptly behind him.

“I don’t see what options are left,” Charles pointed out to a recalcitrant Joanna. He disapproved of his cousin’s house—wet bars did not belong in the home. Joanna was presently perched on a crimson leather bar stool, sipping a neon-colored cocktail at three o’clock in the afternoon. No wonder Rowena had entertained doubts about the woman’s capacity to manage a few million dollars. Still, she needed to be humored.

“There really is no way we can contest the damn will?” Joanna asked for the hundredth time.

“I’ve told you. It’s impossible. If we fail, we lose the trust income.”

“But there must be a way,” she said, twiddling the cocktail stick thoughtfully. “I mean, let’s think. For instance, what would happen if, say, this Grant guy weren’t in the picture?”

“What do you mean?” Charles looked at her and frowned.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that something happened to him. Who would inherit his share?”

“I guess that would depend on whether he has a will,” Charles replied slowly. “In the event of his leaving no stipulated wishes, I guess the funds would revert to the next of kin.”

“Thank you. From all I’ve gathered over the past few days, that’s us.” She pointed a red-lacquered finger at her voluptuous breast.

“Actually, it’s Dallas. Joanna, you’re not suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” she replied airily, waving the strawberry-blond mane from her face. “I’m merely trying to get a grasp on the situation.”

“I see.” Charles sat for a moment, elbows placed thoughtfully on his thighs. Joanna was a bloodthirsty sort, but at least she was being honest. Not like himself, he thought angrily, forced to pretend Rowena’s will hadn’t been a devastating blow. For three and a half years he’d been secretly nurturing a dream that would finally allow him to control his life and no longer depend on his marriage to Marcia for his status in society. He’d hoped to be able to afford an expensive yet discreet divorce, then marry his beloved Charlotte. Now, a few words from Meredith Hunter and all his hopes and expectations had flown summarily out the window.

It was a hard pill to swallow.

“Joanna, let’s stick with what’s real and not conjecture,” he said, letting out a tight sigh. “The fact is both Gallagher and Dallas are very much alive. We might as well get used to it.”

He felt suddenly old. The spring had gone out of his step. He’d told Charlotte the news yesterday. She’d taken it badly. The future struck him as incredibly gloomy.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, Charles,” Joanna countered with a moue. “Life is full of surprises. Tell me, have you seen Patricia? She looked as if she didn’t care a damn about Ward and Mary Chris being cut out of the will. But I wonder…” She took a speculative sip of her cocktail and frowned.

“Oh, she’s acting like a persecuted Christian, the usual pious dictums. God’s will and all that jazz. Ward doesn’t care. Rowena’s money wouldn’t make any difference to him. He has all the fishing rods he can use. As for Mary Chris, she probably would have given her share to the church, anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of Rowena’s reasons for taking these measures was because of them,” he added bitterly.

“Bullshit.” Joanna set her cocktail down on the bar counter and came to sit next to her cousin on the sofa. “She did it to hurt us, to prove she could manipulate us from beyond the grave. The bitch. But don’t get down, Charlie boy. Things may still take a turn.”