Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart
“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