Savannah Secrets

He pictured again his mother, a petrified young woman, betrayed by a man whom she’d once fancied but now abhorred, and bit into the scone, feeling almost sorry for the woman he’d created in his own mind. He was good at imagining deals. Now he imagined Rowena, the willful mother rushing to her flailing daughter’s rescue, like a battleship headed to war, determined to protect her child regardless of the consequences.

In the distance the phone rang, but he ignored it and poured himself anther cup of tea. He had no desire to talk to anyone.

The phone persisted.

Defying it afforded him a degree of satisfaction. He supposed it was that lawyer from Savannah again—the self-righteous one. Well, it suited his mood not to answer it, even though he realized that at some point he’d have to deal with her. Letting out a low laugh, Grant flung his feet up on the ottoman and crossed his ankles. Rowena Carstairs obviously hadn’t the first inkling as to what kind of a man he’d become. If she had, she wouldn’t have wasted her time trying to dump her estate on him.

Staring at the crackling logs, Grant listened to the continuous drone of the phone. “Bloody nuisance,” he muttered as it rang on persistently.

Then, rubbing the sticky jam from his fingers on one of Mrs. Duffy’s carefully ironed linen napkins, he hauled himself out of the armchair. The Australians and his assistant all communicated on his mobile. Whoever was calling the castle could stay on the line until the cows came home.

No one—and that included Rowena Carstairs—was going to make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

What on earth was Joanna doing coming out of Old Miss Mabella’s place looking anything but delighted? he wondered. Following her a few blocks, he watched her hurry down the street and cross into the park. He must definitely arrange another one of their little “get-togethers” and learn more. Why did the woman look ready to murder when he’d supposed she would be crowing? It was well known that the Carstairs family had lived for a while in the expectation of all Rowena would leave them. Had things taken a different turn? He doffed his hat to Miss Biggles, who was taking her pooch for its afternoon stroll. Perhaps he’d drop in on Ross Rollins. If anyone had the scoop, it was usually him.

The thought that the Carstairs estate might hold surprises left him strangely uneasy. Not that there was anything to worry about. After all, as he reminded himself several times a day, Rowena was dead and buried. She could harm no one now.

Or could she?

5

Meredith landed at Glasgow Airport remarkably refreshed, even hopeful, assuring herself that although she didn’t approve of Grant Gallagher, he was, after all, a highly efficient businessman. No doubt he’d come to his senses and realize it was in his best interests to address the questions pertaining to the will and settle matters quickly.

But four hours later, as she drove deep into the Scottish Highlands through torrential rain, Meredith’s enthusiasm had waned considerably. The rental vehicle didn’t have a global positioning system. There was a map in the glove box, but half the roads weren’t even marked. There were no signs indicating Strathcairn, though she supposed she must be somewhere close. And there was no one to ask on this dreary, gray, foggy afternoon except a few motley sheep, huddled near a barbed wire fence, that looked about as happy to be there as she was.

Tired and hungry, Meredith pulled onto the side of the bumpy road and, switching on the overhead light, studied the map. With any luck, Strathcairn should be only a few miles away. Refolding the map, she let out a huff, started the engine and drove back onto the road. At last, she caught sight of the sea, a churning gray mass in the distance. Her hopes soared. Switching on the bright headlights, Meredith peered through the veil of mist, relieved when at last she noticed some cottages up ahead and a dilapidated, weather-beaten sign that read Strathcairn, Sister Town to Mondreux, Belgium.

Crawling at a snail’s pace down the main street, she searched wearily for the Strathcairn Arms. What wouldn’t she do for a hot bath and a hot meal.

Just as she was sure she’d taken a wrong turn, she saw it, a stark white edifice lit up by a blue neon sign. Relieved, Meredith parked, grabbed her luggage and hastened to the front door.

She was met by a dizzying vision of bright red-and-gold carpet and blue velvet sofas dotted around what must be the lobby. Meredith blinked. But despite the garish decor, the place seemed warm and bright, and she could smell something cooking in the distance, a reminder of how hungry she was.

Moving toward the front desk, she put down her bags and pressed her palm on the bell. Hearing sounds from behind a glass door, she looked up hopefully. The door burst open and a large woman with vivid red hair, dressed in fuchsia leggings and a heavy Shetland sweater, appeared.

“Hello,” she said, a smile reaching from ear to ear on her freckled face. “You must be the American lady.”

“That’s right.” Meredith smiled back, thankful that she was expected.

“We’d begun to think you’d got stuck on the moors,” the woman said with a kind laugh and outstretched hand. “I’m Moira MacPhee, the owner. Now, if you’ll just fill in this wee form, I’ll take ye up to yer room. Och, ye must be freezing to death. Drove all the way from Glasgow, did ye? My, my. That’s a long trip, is it not? Now, let me take yer bags for ye, dearie. What ye’ll need is a hot bath and a bit of tea, nae doubt.”

Meredith filled in the short registration card and followed her talkative hostess up the brightly carpeted stairs and down the corridor.

“It’s our best room,” Moira announced proudly. “We had it redecorated last year,” she added, unlocking the door and showing Meredith inside.

“Lovely,” Meredith said weakly, staring at the boldly patterned purple curtains and matching bedcover, the plush orange armchair and Formica closet.

“Yes, well, Jim and I decided to go the whole hog and do it right,” Moira replied complacently. “Now, if you get yersel’ sorted out, dearie, I’ll be getting yer high tea ready for ye.”

“Thank you. Uh, what’s high tea?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, that would be somewhere between tea and supper.”

“Ah. That would be wonderful,” Meredith responded, laying her briefcase down on the table, trying not to blink at the color scheme. As the landlady closed the door, she sank into the orange chair and let out a sigh. At least the central heating worked. It was almost too hot. Well, she reasoned, if all went according to plan, she wouldn’t be here long.

After phoning her parents to tell them she’d arrived safely and a quick word with the kids, Meredith slipped into the bathroom, glad to see that Moira and Jim’s improvements had included functional plumbing. The shower worked fine and she relaxed under the hot-water jet.

She must, Meredith reflected as she dried herself, try to reach her quarry before nightfall. Who knows, with a bit of luck he might even receive her this evening. Not that she held much hope of that, Meredith conceded, brushing her hair back. After all, if the man hadn’t had the courtesy to answer her mail, it was doubtful he’d be willing to see her outside of business hours. Still, it was worth giving him a call before going down to what Moira had described as “high tea.”

She checked her notes for the number, then dialed and waited, listening impatiently to the double-burr ring and drumming her foot on the colorful carpet. After several rings a female voice answered.

“No, I’m afraid Mr. Gallagher isn’t available,” the woman responded to her inquiry.

“Could you leave him a message?” Meredith asked.

“Aye, I could,” the dour voice on the other end replied.

“Tell him that Meredith Hunter called. I’m in Strathcairn. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Silence followed.

“Did you hear me?”

“Aye, a heard ye. But a doubt it’ll do much good. He’s been in a terrible mood the past few days.”

“Oh. Well, could you try, anyway?” Meredith insisted, hope plummeting as she tried to shake the nasty feeling that her trip might well prove to be a waste of time. Surely he would have to see her now that she’d made the flight from so far away?

With a shrug Meredith donned a warm sweater and made her way downstairs, hungrily following the scent of freshly baked scones that led her directly from the lobby through an adjoining door into the pub. Right now she was ready for anything they were prepared to offer. And as she followed Moira’s waving arm to a table in the corner, the noisy, welcoming atmosphere of the pub made her forget that tomorrow morning she must hunt the lion in his lair.

For now, she’d content herself by indulging in what was certainly the best meal she’d had in a while.

“A lady called, sir.” Mrs. Duffy stood in the doorway wrapped in her heavy blue coat.

“What lady?” Grant dragged his eyes away from the computer screen, annoyed at the interruption. The deal was still in jeopardy. He did not need a disturbance.

“An American lady, sir. A Miss Meredith Hunter. She’s at the Strathcairn Arms,” Mrs. Duffy added, pursing her lips, as though staying at the hotel implied bad news. “And,” she added, “she wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Damn her,” Grant muttered, swiveling his office chair and facing Mrs. Duffy. She looked almost triumphant standing there in her old head scarf, coat and gum boots, rather like the prophet Jeremiah on a bad day, he reflected gloomily. Mrs. Duffy had little sense of humor and fewer words. He’d noted that her general outlook on life was negative. On the rare days when the sun had dared peek from beyond the heavy expanse of cloud hovering overhead, she’d assured him it would undoubtedly rain later in the day.

“Thanks, Mrs. Duffy, that’s fine. I’ll deal with it.” He smiled with an effort.

“Very well. Good night, sir. I left a pot of Scotch broth on the stove for ye.”

“Thanks. Great. Good night.” Grant nodded automatically, then swiveled back toward the computer screen. What the hell did this American lawyer think she was doing pursuing him when he’d already made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Rowena Carstairs or her goddamn estate? When he talked to her it would be in his own good time and on his terms. Not at her behest.

For a few seconds Grant tried to recapture the possible solution to the standoff he’d been working on before he was interrupted, but it was no good. He rose crossly and, glancing at his watch, decided it was time to pour himself a whisky.

Meredith Hunter.

She was like a dog after a bone, refusing to let go. Well, he was damned if he was going to make her task any easier. Why should he? Didn’t she represent the people who’d cast him out of their lives?

He’d thought quite a bit about his life during the past few days, and not by choice. An irritating series of memories flashed when he least expected them, taking him down distant paths he’d no intention of traveling again. Now as he poured the amber liquid into the crystal tumbler, the questions he’d ignored for years resurfaced. Why had the Gallaghers bothered to adopt him? That had been puzzling him for as long as he was old enough to analyze.

Telling himself for the umpteenth time that it didn’t matter, Grant took a long sip. Cold logic told him there were probably a million valid reasons for what had taken place in his life. He of all people should know that. Weren’t there a million valid reasons why he’d closed down the factory in Illinois last year? It simply wasn’t productive. The fact that fifty or so families had ended up jobless was irrelevant. What mattered was the outcome. Life moved on. Results had to be achieved.

Maybe Rowena and her daughter had thought the same way about him. He was an inconvenience that needed to be eliminated for the show to go on. Despite this logical reasoning, he found it surprisingly hurtful.

All at once he wondered what those Illinois families were doing today. They were probably fine, he justified, draining his glass. After all, they’d received appropriate compensation and the job market was improving. The latest economical statistics for the third quarter had shown that the recession was on the mend.

After pouring himself another whisky, Grant threw himself into the armchair by the fire—his favorite spot in the castle—hating himself for allowing any sentimentality to surface. It was all this Meredith Hunter’s fault, he reflected bitterly.

If she hadn’t stirred up the dust like this, his life would have continued on the even keel he’d set, rather like a tightrope walker who’s finally found his balance but must look straight ahead in order to reach the end of the rope. Now, thanks to her interference, he’d realized just how brittle his well-constructed world was. Why, he’d even called his adoptive mother Gina Gallagher at her luxurious old people’s home in Surrey, thinking he’d finally ask her the question that had been on his lips for as long as he could remember.

But when it came to the crunch he hadn’t asked, merely murmured the same old platitudes, then hung up none the wiser.

He passed a hand through his thick black hair, always a tad too long at the collar, and took another gulp of whisky. Of course, he hadn’t asked his mother why she had adopted him. Gina probably didn’t even know. Just as she didn’t really know why she’d married the other two husbands that had followed his adoptive father. And he couldn’t ask Raymond Gallagher, as he was long since dead.

It was just as well, he decided, thinking of how little he recalled of his father—of both parents, actually. There wasn’t much to remember but occasional visits from boarding school where he’d been shipped off at five, the sporadic perfumed kiss, the new husbands and wives to whom he was expected to be polite and charming and whom he didn’t give a shit about except that they were the momentary cause for his parents’ absence and therefore deserved blame. The only remarkable incident had been with Emily, the luscious blonde his father had married when Grant was sixteen. They’d gone on a trip on his father’s yacht in the south of France. Raymond Gallagher had been called away on urgent business, and Emily had wasted no time in expertly seducing her stepson.

Grant smiled at the memory. At least he’d lost his virginity in style.

But all that was history. At least the Gallaghers had never rejected him outright. Quite the opposite. On those rare visits home during his school years, they’d always been pleasant and generous. Too generous, he realized now, remembering the never-ending flow of checks that substituted for affection.

And now Meredith Hunter had pursued him to Strathcairn.

Grant got up and moved impatiently across the room to the window and stared out through the dusk across the lawn to the tossing sea beyond. Ignoring Meredith Hunter was probably childish, obtuse and unbusinesslike. But he really didn’t care. She could stake out at the Strathcairn Arms for as long as she liked. He was damned if he was meeting any lawyer until he felt ready; he didn’t care how far she’d traveled. After a while she’d get the message and leave.

Ignoring his earlier reasoning—that the issue needed to be faced—he ran his fingers through his hair. He was prone to willing problems away. It was a strategy that worked nine times out of ten. After all, it was much easier to forget the whole thing, decline the inheritance and the hassles it surely entailed. He’d let them give it to the next in line. That was fine by him.

Turning his back on the fading Scottish scenery, he marched into the study and without more ado sat down at the computer. If there was one guaranteed way to avoid reality, it was wheeling deals, and as luck would have it a new one had come onto his radar screen this very morning: an old-world resort hotel sitting on a huge chunk of valuable land in the Adirondacks. Definitely a good time to tap into his creative juices and work the magic he was renowned for, Grant decided, skimming through his latest e-mails. Of course, if he carried out the plan at present burgeoning in his mind, he would close down the resort, he realized, eyes focusing on the potential offer. But hey, that was par for the course. Win a few, lose a few. That was his life philosophy.

And he planned for it to stay that way.

6

The next day dawned cold and dreary as the previous one. Meredith peeked out the window and sighed. A native Savannahian, she was used to sweltering summers and mild winters, not this persistent bleak chill. How on earth did people keep their spirits up around here?

Slipping on a smart gray gabardine business suit and high-heeled shoes, she made her way downstairs for breakfast, her briefcase tucked under her arm. She was not going to be put off by last night’s reception. She had every intention of pursuing Grant Gallagher as soon as she’d had a large cup of coffee. She’d ask Moira how to get to the castle and be on her way. In fact, she’d be willing to bet that Moira might prove to be a good source of information. No doubt Grant Gallagher’s presence in Strathcairn had set tongues wagging.

Meredith settled at the same table she had the night before, and gave Jim, the landlord, who was busily polishing glasses behind the bar, a cheery good-morning.

“Morning to ye.” Moira came bustling in with a bright smile and a pot of steaming tea, which she placed on the table in front of Meredith. “What’ll ye have for breakfast, dearie, porridge? Black pudding? Scrambled eggs and sausage?”

“Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn’t. I’m still digesting last night’s meal. Just a piece of toast would be great.” So much for coffee. She hardly dared refuse the tea when it was so graciously offered.

Moira looked disappointed but soon produced the toast.

“Tell me, do you know the owner of the castle?”

“You mean Mr. Gallagher?” Moira cocked a sandy brow.

“Yes. That’s right. I wondered if you knew anything about him?”

“Not much.” Moira shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. “He comes in here once in a while for a dram, and although he’s pleasant enough, he keeps himsel’ to himsel’, if ye know what I mean. Not one for conversation by the looks of it. Mrs. Duffy—she’s the lady who manages things up at the castle—says he’s always polite and nice to her, but never gets into a chat. Just closets himself up in the study and talks on the phone when he’s not working on his wee machine, she says.” Moira pursed her lips and leaned forward confidingly, her red curls bobbing. “It takes all sorts to make a world, but can ye imagine staying cooped up there in that pile o’ stone all day? It’s not healthy if ye ask me.” She shook her head once more.

Meredith nodded in compliant agreement and sighed. “I have some business to conduct with him. I have to go up there this morning. I hope I’ll get a decent reception.”

“Well, I wouldna count on it if I were you.” Moira sniffed and placed the marmalade on the table. “The last person that went to visit left with a flea in his ear, according to Mrs. Duffy. Still, I wish ye luck.” She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

The pub was empty except for Meredith and the big sheep dog lying before the open fire. Although the establishment could hardly be five-star rated, it was warm, welcoming and cheery. Her host’s extravagant taste in color schemes hadn’t extended to the pub, which boasted traditional paneled walls, muted green and tartan cushions on the chairs and benches and a mellowed oak bar counter. And her host and hostess couldn’t have been kinder, she reflected with a smile. The pub was the gathering place for the locals, and last night a man in a tartan tam had played Scottish tunes on an ancient squeeze box. Very picturesque. A pity she didn’t have more time to appreciate it.

As she sat and sipped her tea, Meredith weighed her options. She’d wait until ten o’clock and then make her way up the hill to the ancient Highland keep just visible through the rising mist. She peeked gloomily at the stark, forbidding structure through the net curtains. It looked about as welcoming as its tenant. When she bit into a piece of warm raisin toast spread with butter and delicious homemade marmalade, she wished she could sit here all day and soak in the atmosphere, but she had a job to do.

Taking another sip of strong black tea, grateful for its reassuring warmth and smothering an inner hankering for espresso, Meredith thought about her boys, asleep now at Ranelagh, their grandparents’ home, the family plantation that they loved dearly. She glanced at her watch and calculated the time difference between Scotland and Savannah with a sigh. Not a good time to call. In a few hours her father, John Rowland, would drive them to school in the new four-wheel drive he’d acquired last week and the kids would love it. Would her mother remember to tell Nan, the maid who’d been with her family forever, to send Mick’s soccer shoes along for his afternoon practice? Perhaps she’d better leave a text message on her mom’s mobile just in case.

Searching her purse for her cell phone, Meredith suddenly stopped herself. She was being ridiculous. She would only risk waking the household, and there was little use worrying about matters over which she had no control. She’d do better to apply her thoughts and energy to the upcoming meeting.

At ten o’clock precisely, Meredith left the Strathcairn Arms, and after a deep breath of damp, misty morning air got into her rental car and drove through the tiny village of Strathcairn. Now that she could see it properly, she realized it was quaint. Little whitewashed cottages bordered each side of the street, lending the impression of a Grimm’s fairy tale. She saw the butcher, the baker. She grinned. All that was missing was the candlestick maker.

What, she wondered, could have induced a man like Grant Gallagher, a man who moved in pretty sophisticated circles, to come to an out-of-the-way spot like this?

Not that it was any of her business, she reminded herself as the car wound up the bumpy narrow road toward the castle. Her only interest was the execution of Rowena’s will and perhaps to persuade him to do something for Dallas. In fact, all she really needed to extract from Gallagher was a commitment to come to the U.S. sometime in the next three months so they could have the meeting Rowena had insisted on and go ahead with probate. She also would require some material for an extra DNA test that would shut up the Carstairs relatives if they made a nuisance of themselves, an increasingly likely contingency. She sighed heavily, wondering why her gut was telling her it wasn’t going to be that easy.

The mist had lifted as she reached the top of the steep hill where the castle loomed, severe and uninviting. Slowing the car, Meredith glanced at the huge wrought-iron gates, surprised to see them open. Raising her brows, she drove on through, past a couple ancient oak trees, tended grass and onto the gravel drive, wheels crunching loudly as she came to a smooth stop in front of the massive front door.

Picking up her briefcase, she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then stepped out of the car, almost tripping on a large jutting root. Recovering her balance, she straightened her skirt and, securing the briefcase firmly under her arm, walked up the wide, well-trodden shallow stone steps that led to the front door. There she tugged a rusty iron wire to her right, presuming it must be the doorbell. Sure enough, a distant clanging somewhere in the castle’s nether regions confirmed she was right. Taking a deep breath, Meredith stood straighter and braced herself. Then she heard a cough and a shuffle of feet and slowly the ancient door creaked open.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, smiling professionally at the stooped elderly woman in a flowered, pale blue, mid-calf overall. She presumed this must be Mrs. Duffy. Her hair was scooped up in a tight bun secured by a net. A pair of clear blue eyes stared inquiringly at her. “I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher. Is he in?”