Savannah Secrets
“It’s hardly likely. I doubt Gallagher’s the kind of man to refuse a windfall.”
“Well, I don’t know. Sometimes the unexpected can occur. “Joanna patted his hand with a cryptic smile and thought about the appointment she’d finally managed to arrange with Miss Mabella. “Remember that voodoo priestess Rowena was as thick as thieves with?”
Charles shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re messing about with that lot?”
“Why not? Rowena seemed to think the world of her.”
“I dare say.” Charles shrugged, unconvinced. “Truth is there’s nothing that can be done. And the sooner we get used to it, the better.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she replied with a Mona Lisa smile gracing her lips. “Only time will tell. I’ll bet once Miss Mabella gets her spells moving along we may see some serious action. I’m going to visit her,” she added, her voice laced with expectation.
Charles rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.
“I prefer to deal in the real world,” he muttered caustically.
“I daresay you do,” she answered smugly, “but a little nudge from the other side can’t hurt. Not when you’re in it up to your neck like we are.”
After another week passed without a reply from Grant Gallagher, Meredith wasn’t inclined to make any more excuses for the man. Surely someone who’d just been informed he’d inherited a sizable estate would at least respond to the news. This wasn’t something to be ignored, she fumed.
“‘Morning, Trace. How was the date?” she asked, grinning.
“It sucked. He turned out to be a total male chauvinist who thinks career women should be abolished from our society, period.”
“I didn’t know guys like that still existed,” Meredith said with an expressive grimace, “but I’m beginning to think Gallagher may just be one of them. I’ve sent two letters via courier to his address at—” she squinted at her legal pad “—Strathcairn Castle. According to the detective, that’s a place Gallagher bought up in Scotland a few years back. It’s supposed to be a weekend home, but he spends a fair amount of time there. We know he received our correspondence because the housekeeper signed for it, but Gallagher hasn’t shown any sign of life.”
“Maybe he’s away,” Tracy murmured, scribbling.
“I guess.” Meredith glanced at her notes. “The detective mentioned that Gallagher moves around a lot. Comes and goes from London and Paris and New York. He’s not going to be easy to pin down.”
And pinning Gallagher down was becoming more important with each passing day. Time was of the essence if Dallas was going to rescue her property. And Lord only knew what sort of plans Joanna and the other relatives were fomenting during this frustrating delay.
“Maybe he’s left on a trip,” Tracy pointed out reasonably. “I have Mrs. Fairbairn coming in at ten so we’d better be quick,” she added. “I need Ali to print out those memos,” she added absently, glancing at the run forming in her panty hose. “Shit, I knew that would happen.”
“What?” Meredith glanced absently at the offending nylon, still absorbed in the report. “You know, according to the detective agency’s latest report, he was seen in Strathcairn village last week. Surely they’d know if he’d gone somewhere. Oh, Lord.” She eyed Tracy woefully, a new and horrifying possibility looming. “I’m sure he’s received the information. Any normal person would have contacted us right away, knowing it’s in his best interests to bring closure to everything. So is he trying to screw things up?”
“Maybe he thinks it’s a hoax. There’s no evidence to suggest he’s ever heard of Rowena Carstairs. Men like him probably get all sorts of weird mail, fan mail, hate mail, you name it. He’s somewhat of a swashbuckling figure in the corporate world.” She tucked her tongue in her cheek and waited for Meredith’s inevitable reaction.
“Swashbuck—are you nuts, Trace? The man’s a heartless piece of—”
“Hey, don’t go off at the deep end, girl. I was just reading some articles covering the Bronstern case. You know, if you analyze it from the shareholders’ standpoint, he was probably right to do what he did.” She twiddled her pen in her long, manicured fingers, a picture of sleek legal savvy.
“That doesn’t justify the fact that he left a number of hardworking American families unemployed,” Meredith dismissed her. “Now,” she said, sitting down at her desk and removing her gray tweed jacket, “we have to get the ball rolling on this.”
“We?” Tracy shook her head firmly.
“Okay, me.” Meredith rolled her eyes reluctantly and let out a huff.
“Good. At least we’ve established that correctly. Now, why do you think he hasn’t answered? Maybe he thinks we’re not legit.”
“But surely he could tell we’re a legitimate law firm? I wrote on our letterhead, I forwarded one of several personal letters from Rowena, which I imagine told him at least part of the story. She must have given him some explanation for the inheritance. And although I didn’t get into specifics, I made it clear I needed to communicate with him ASAP.”
“But the fact remains he’s chosen to ignore your correspondence.” Tracy looked across the desk at her thoughtfully, then hummed. “I think someone is going to have to take a trip.”
“Oh, no.” Meredith raised her palms protectively. “No way.”
“I’m afraid there’s only one way to deal with this, Mer, and that’s to contact him personally.”
“Darn it, Trace. I knew you were going to say that,” she muttered, shoulders drooping.
“Damn right. Start packing, partner.”
“You don’t think I could send someone from the detective agency to speak to him?” she asked, clinging to a last shred of hope that she wouldn’t have to handle this personally.
“Mer, get real.”
“But surely they could handle it.”
“It’s hardly a detective’s job to deliver important legal documents,” Tracy answered witheringly. “And might I remind you that this man is now your client?”
“Oh, God, stop sounding like old Saunders. Two years of him at Yale was bad enough without you coming down on me like a ton of bricks.” Her eyes closed as the truth and all its implications sank in. “Trace, I can’t go. I simply can’t.”
“Why on earth not? You’re the coexecutor. Now, stop whining and go find the guy.”
Meredith swung in her chair, agitated. “But I have two kids and responsibilities. I can’t just go to Europe at the drop of a hat because some moron doesn’t have the courtesy to answer my letters,” she wailed, knowing that Tracy was right and that it was useless to pretend otherwise.
“Should’ve thought of that before opening your own law firm,” Tracy remarked unsympathetically. She did not add that Gallagher’s silence had created the perfect opportunity to get Meredith out of the office and out of town for a much-needed break. She and Elm, Meredith’s oldest and dearest friend, had discussed it on the phone only the other day. It was high time Meredith stopped hiding behind her job and those kids, wallowing in the past and afraid to face the future. She needed a trip, some time away. Finding Grant Gallagher might be the perfect excuse.
Tracy watched her carefully. She and Meredith had been close friends since law school, and if anyone knew what she’d been through over the past year, it was Tracy. Not that she ever complained, poor kid. Meredith was made of sterner stuff than that. But she knew what went on behind the facade, the lonely nights, the impossibly packed days. After all, she’d been through it herself when her own boyfriend, Jim, had died of galloping leukemia at age twenty-five.
“Look, Meredith,” she said sternly, “get used to the idea and get out the luggage.”
“But what’ll I do with Mick and Zack?” Meredith murmured. She never let her personal problems interfere with work, but this was overwhelming.
“I’m sure Clarice and John will be only too glad to take ’em for you. If Carrie and Ralph Hunter hadn’t moved to Charleston I’m sure they’d have pitched in. And I can help out if you need me.”
“I know, all the grandparents love having them and spoiling them rotten,” she muttered darkly, a tiny smile quivering, for she knew how her and Tom’s parents doted on their two grandsons. “God only knows what I’d have to deal with once I got back.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mer, John and Clarice adore those kids. You couldn’t leave them in better hands. Now, stop fussing and get on with it. It’s bad enough having to deal with Rowena’s relatives darkening our doorstep like a pack of vultures. And until you’ve definitively identified Grant Gallagher as Rowena’s heir, you can’t admit the will to probate.”
Just then the phone buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Gallagher on line one.”
“Oh, my God!” Meredith sat on the edge of her chair. “Pass him on through. It’s him,” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “Hello?”
“Good morning. Is that Ms. Hunter?”
“Speaking. I’m glad you finally called, Mr. Gallagher. I was getting worried you hadn’t received my correspondence.”
“Not only did I receive it, but I consider it a great piece of impertinence,” his deep, suave British voice replied.
“Excuse me?” Meredith swallowed, aghast. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Then let me explain. I have no interest in Mrs. Carstairs’s inheritance. I suggest you find yourself another heir as I will not be accepting the bequest.”
“But—”
“I also wish to make it abundantly clear that I do not want to be bothered with this matter now or at any time in the future. I expect you to take care of any details. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” His voice grated cold and unbending down the line.
“Mr. Gallagher, it isn’t quite as simple as that,” she said, bristling.
“I suggest you make it simple. I have no intention of cooperating, if that’s what you’re about to suggest. Good day, Ms. Hunter, I’m sure you will deal efficiently with any necessary details.”
“Wait,” she exclaimed, “you can’t just avoid the issue as if it didn’t exist. There are papers to sign, documents to be dealt with.”
“Then deal with them. It’s none of my damn business. Goodbye.”
The phone went dead in Meredith’s hand. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, outraged. “The guy just brushed me off like a fly. I knew I was right about the kind of person he is. Jesus.”
“What did he say?” Tracy prodded. She’d followed the conversation closely, had seen Meredith change color, the embryonic glint in her eye.
“You know what? That’s it.” Meredith slapped her palms down on the desk, eyes blazing. “I’m going after the bastard. Thinks he can just walk, does he? Well, he’ll soon find out that ain’t happening. Not on my watch.”
“Go, girl, that’s the spirit,” Tracy encouraged, smothering a smile. There was nothing like a challenge to get Meredith off her butt.
“Fine,” Meredith muttered, slamming the Carstairs file down before her. “If I have to go, I’ll go. Even if it does mean sussing him out of his den. The nerve of it,” she added, smoldering, “the sheer rudeness of the man. I knew this was what he’d be like. Didn’t I tell you?” She whirled around in the chair, pointing her pen.
“Absolutely. The sooner you get going, the better. Well, since that takes care of that, I’ll be off,” Tracy answered, rising and straightening her skirt while hiding a smile. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
“Damn right it will,” Meredith answered, throwing her pen onto her desk.
She already detested Grant Gallagher.
4
After realizing that her kids weren’t in the least bit upset over her departure—indeed, they were clearly relishing the chance of being thoroughly indulged by their grandparents—Meredith spent the better part of the nine-hour flight from Newark to Glasgow figuring out her approach. She was still steaming at how rude Gallagher had been on the phone. The man was totally irrational! She’d tried to call him back and make him see reason, but all she’d reached was the robotic voice of his answering machine. Now she was obliged to land on the man’s doorstep and be civil, when what she really wanted to do was tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his manners and attitude. She sent up a silent prayer that the detective’s reports reflecting he’d been sighted only two days earlier in the village were correct and that she wasn’t off on a wild-goose chase.
Adjusting the airline pillow, Meredith pondered the best way to handle the situation. Perhaps she should suggest a meeting at her hotel. She didn’t suppose the Strathcairn Arms would have anything as grand as a conference room, but as it boasted to be the only hotel in the Highland village of Strathcairn she had little choice in the matter. Since she was planning on a one-, maybe two-night stay at most, the hotel’s lack of facilities were not a priority as long as it had a half-decent bed and hot water.
Abandoning the morsel of cold chicken that she’d been shoving aimlessly around her plate, Meredith reclined farther into her seat and stared out the window. Stars dotted the horizon like Christmas lights. A full moon hovered illusively among the clouds. Without warning her eyes filled and she closed them tight. How ironic it was that after all the times she and Tom had talked about visiting Scotland she should be going there alone, and under such inauspicious circumstances.
She swallowed hard. Tom’s family’s roots were in Scotland, and traveling to the land of his forefathers had always been one of his dreams. Working in a side trip to St. Andrews or Troon—Tom had been an avid golfer—had held its own allure. They’d planned to make their way up the west coast and then travel to the Isle of Skye. Just wait until the kids are old enough to appreciate it, she’d always said.
Now she wished she’d shut up.
With a muffled sigh, she shifted the pillow farther into the crook of her neck and attempted to sleep. Regret wasn’t going to change a thing, she reminded herself sternly. The reality was that she was traveling to Scotland on her own, in mid-November, and the bleak weather forecast predicted rain, snow and subzero temperatures. A freak cold spell, they’d called it. Meredith shuddered, opened her eyes once more, grimaced at the chicken and the files in the neighboring seat and hoped the well-advertised central heating at the Strathcairn Arms really worked.
But after ten minutes it became obvious sleep was not on the agenda. Fiddling in her pocket for her Palm Pilot, Meredith turned on the overhead light and checked the weather report again, praying it wouldn’t interfere with the tight schedule she’d set herself. With any luck she’d be back home in time to make Mick’s baseball game on Saturday.
Closing her eyes once more, she tried to stop her thoughts from drifting to Tom and then back to Rowena, wondering what her client’s letter to her grandson contained. Had it been a sentimental soul cleansing, an expiation of her sins or merely a history of past events? Perhaps it was a justification of her actions.
But somehow, knowing Rowena, Meredith didn’t think the latter was the case. Accepting a bottle of water from the flight attendant hovering in the darkened aisle, she turned her thoughts to Dallas, who was still being thoroughly obtuse. The girl was obviously angry and confused by Rowena’s rejection, even though she’d had every intention of refusing the money she’d expected Ro would leave her. The real question, though, was why the relationship between grandmother and grandchild had deteriorated so badly in the first place.
From comments Dallas had made, it had become clear that Rowena and Isabel had been forever at odds. Was that why Dallas professed so little love for her grandmother? It would be natural that she’d side with Isabel, however inadequate a mother she might have been. Or maybe Rowena had created a barrier between them—perhaps when she lost Isabel, she simply turned her back on Dallas, unable to accept her daughter’s death.
Recalling the numerous conversations she’d had with Rowena, Meredith knew she’d loved Dallas deeply and that she’d spent many hours trying to breach the rift between them. It was therefore shocking that the granddaughter she clearly cared about was so summarily cut out of the will.
When Meredith last spoke with Dallas before boarding, she’d noticed something in the girl’s voice—a note of near-hysterical despair—that made her determined to try to secure some kind of financial benefit for her. Perhaps she should hint to Gallagher that he might be sued if he didn’t make a settlement with Dallas, although that was hardly ethical. Besides, something as trivial as a lawsuit would hardly faze a man used to taking on unions. He probably got sued so often he had a bevy of lawyers at his disposal to swat down anyone impertinent enough to assert he’d done anything wrong.
As dawn broke, Meredith watched the misty, translucent glimmer on the distant horizon turn into soft gray. It was only another couple hours before they landed. Changing positions, she rolled her shoulders and decided this whole situation had an air of the absurd. What must it be like to be left a large fortune? What would she do if Great-Aunt Agatha left her one hundred million dollars? The thought lightened her mood considerably. Aunt Agatha was the meanest old scrooge. She’d probably leave whatever she had to the cat-and-dog home. Yet she liked Mick. Imagine if her aunt died and suddenly left her son a fortune?
Meredith would not want that kind of responsibility for herself nor her kids. They were doing okay as they were. Of course, since she’d taken on the new responsibility of her own law practice, she exercised caution where spending was concerned. But she’d received a comfortable sum from Tom’s life insurance, her client list was growing and she had a paid roof over her head. What more could she ask for?
Tom.
She would give it all up in a heartbeat if only she could have him back, at her side, laughing that rich, deep laugh, teasing her. Oh, for the warmth and security of his strong arms enveloping her. What wouldn’t she do, Meredith asked herself, for just one more night curled up against him in their big, soft bed, cuddled under the goose-down duvet?
She must have dozed awhile for she jolted from a strange dream as the flight attendant’s voice came on the loudspeaker, announcing they were about to land.
Fastening her seat belt, Meredith dragged her fingers through her hair, then gathered her thoughts and her papers. She must stop feeling sorry for herself and concentrate on her client. For even though she despised everything Grant Gallagher represented, like it or not, he was now her responsibility.
He woke up stiff and bad-tempered.
It did not take long for him to remember why.
Now, as he walked along the bluff, doing battle with a sharp east wind and driving rain, Grant muttered a string of oaths. He’d been doing a lot of that over the past couple days, he realized, as anger coursed through him as furiously as the bleak waves pounding the jagged rocks below.
“Damn Rowena Carstairs,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the two pointers, Monarch and Emperor, scampering at his heels. Stopping at the edge of the cliff, his black hair whipping across his face, Grant gazed out at the water. Somehow she’d managed to resurrect the niggling demons he’d believed long put to rest. Questions about who his real parents were had haunted his childhood. His endless wishful thinking had always entailed the secret hope that someday, by some miraculous act of God, he’d wake up to discover that the handsome jet-setting pair of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, who, for some incomprehensible reason, had adopted him, would return him to two mythical figures he envisioned as his birth parents.
Of course, at this point in his life, he couldn’t give a damn about the past. He’d emerged unscathed and had built a life that suited him fine—no long-term attachments, no personal commitments except to himself. That some unknown woman should claim to be his grandmother and unearth his past was nothing more than a practical joke—and a poor one at that.
Except that he wasn’t laughing. Because, he admitted as he breathed in the salty, damp November air, he’d never doubted the letter told the truth. Had it been sentimental or soppy he might have been suspicious. But Rowena Carstairs offered no mushy regrets, no pleas for forgiveness. Just the bare facts. And to his annoyance, he couldn’t get it out of his mind.
Moving forward in long strides, Grant wished now that he’d followed his first instinct and thrown the bloody thing into the fire. He wanted to distance himself from all its implications. But even as he resolutely ignored the couriered packages from the lawyer’s office in Savannah, he found himself hypnotically drawn to all that they represented. For in Rowena Carstairs’s letter lay the embryos of answers to the mystery of his past.
Now, if he wanted, those answers could be his.
Grant threw a stick idly across the weather-beaten grass and watched the dogs hurl themselves at it.
“Hell,” he exclaimed, turning quickly about, his Wellington boots squelching in the mud as he marched back toward Strathcairn Castle, hands stuffed in the deep pockets of his Barbour jacket, each word of Rowena’s spidery black writing stamped in his psyche forever. It was an undeniable reminder that the world he’d created was an illusion.
With the wind to his back, Grant climbed the last few hundred yards to the castle. The black mood that had settled over him for the past few days was affecting his work. The deal in Sydney was full of loopholes. There was a possibility the principals might pull out. He couldn’t stand failure, yet here he was obsessing about ancient history. He better damn well get his act together, he reminded himself grimly, or the Sydney deal would evaporate.
He recognized, too, that his refusal to talk to the Savannah lawyer was his way of avoiding reality. By the time Grant discarded his Barbour and rubber boots in the cloakroom and reached the warmth of the library, he’d decided he had to tackle the Carstairs problem head-on, defuse its mystery and then put it back in the past where it belonged. Only then could he return all his attention to his present obligations.
Flopping onto the sofa, he analyzed the facts coldly. His birth family obviously had some degree of stature. After all, the tone of Rowena’s letter resonated power and wealth. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it was from her that he’d inherited his domineering nature? His mother had presumably been a more malleable sort—likely a society teenager who got pregnant, regretted her mistake and wanted her little problem to just go away.
Then why an adoption? Why not arrange for a quick abortion? Surely that would have simplified matters?
He sucked in his cheeks and viewed the facts through a distant lens: the pregnant young girl, the boyfriend who perhaps refused to marry her and a dictatorial mother accustomed to being obeyed. He wondered if his mother had wanted to keep—He stopped that thought in its tracks, brushed it off with a nonchalant shrug. What did he care?
The dogs, who’d followed him inside, now lay stretched out before the fire, the scent of their damp coats blending with fresh baking. Grant sniffed and glanced down at the tea tray set on the ottoman before him, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day.
Absently he picked up a flaky scone and spread it with a thick layer of creamy yellow butter and homemade strawberry jam. It was only late afternoon, but already the lamps were lit, their gentle glow illuminating the mellow hue of the ancient oak-paneled walls. For no specific reason, he recalled the feeling of pride and possession that had swept over him when he’d acquired Strathcairn Castle. It had been more than just an acquisition, more important, somehow, than his London flat or his New York pied-à-terre. It had solidity, a sense of history—something he’d never had. Maybe that’s why he’d refused to take out a mortgage and had paid the full five million gladly. By owning the castle outright, he immediately became a part of its legacy. Its history became his own.
Except now, thanks to Rowena Carstairs, he was reminded that the history he’d created for himself was a lie.