Savannah Secrets

“That must have been almost forty years ago. And?”

“According to Uncle Fairfax, there was talk about whether she might have let things go a little too far.”

“Oh, you mean she had an affair?”

“Nobody seems to know and, as she’s dead, no one ever will.”

“I guess not. What else did he say?”

“Only that the summer after her sixteenth birthday, Isabel suddenly disappeared for a year or so—supposedly to a finishing school in Europe. She was a bright girl with career ambitions, so everyone was surprised. People naturally assumed she’d gotten pregnant, though it was never mentioned outright. Such things were never discussed in those days.”

“Had he heard that she’d given birth to a son?” Meredith asked, attentive.

“No. Like everyone else, he assumed that she’d had an abortion.”

“Ethics aside, that certainly would have been the easiest route,” Meredith said, brow furrowed, “but she didn’t take that course. Instead, she gave the baby up for adoption.”

“Right.”

“But why give the baby away? She could easily afford to keep it,” Meredith argued.

“You talk as if you don’t know Savannah, Mer.” Tracy laughed, a thin, ironic smile touching her full lips. “If things are bad now, imagine what it must have been like thirty-eight years ago! I doubt Rowena would have tolerated her daughter keeping an illegitimate baby. It just wasn’t done. Particularly if the father wasn’t suitable husband material, which I presume must have been the case.”

“How absurd,” Meredith exclaimed, disgusted by such hypocrisy and wondering what sort of woman would have let society and a strong-willed mother force her to give up a child if she’d wanted to keep it.

“Absurd maybe, but let’s face it, that’s the way it was. Young society ladies who found themselves in a fix went abroad, had an abortion somewhere discreet or gave the child up for adoption. They spent the year away and then returned home with no one the wiser.” Tracy raised an elegantly etched brow and reached for the coffee mug.

“Carrying the child for nine months, giving birth to it at this Swiss convent,” Meredith said, pointing to a file, “and then simply leaving it behind so she could head back home and party seems so cruel, so unfeeling.”

Tracy shrugged. “I doubt Rowena gave Isabel much choice. If it makes you feel any better, Uncle Fairfax did say that Isabel was different when she returned, much more subdued. Nobody talked about it. But obviously,” she added, gesturing to the paperwork lying on the desk between them, “there was a child. As for the father’s identity, well, presumably Isabel took that secret with her to the grave. And now Rowena—for whatever weird reason—has named the child her heir.”

“But doesn’t it all seem too simple? I mean, think about it, Trace.” Meredith tapped her fingers on the serviceable teak desk, then leaned back and swung in the sagging office chair, crumpling her suit jacket. “Rowena had a complex personality. We know she liked to control things. She didn’t leave anything to chance. So why fork over a fortune to a total stranger? And then there are the Carstairs relations to consider, not to mention Dallas. I can’t believe Rowena left her at nineteen without a dime when she knows all the problems the poor kid is going through with that property of hers up in Beaufort. The bank’s about to foreclose.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad. Is there nothing we can do?” Tracy asked anxiously, horrified by the thought of Dallas Thornton, whom she’d known since she was a kid, being thrown out of Providence, the beautiful stud farm that for years had been in her family.

“I don’t know yet.” Meredith sat straighter. “I’ll take all this home tonight and dig my teeth into it once the boys are in bed.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, Lord, it’s almost five. Mick’s ball game is this afternoon.” When she dragged her fingers through her hair and took off her glasses she suddenly looked much younger and more vulnerable and very pretty. She stared at her partner. “You realize what’s going to happen, right?”

“Yep. Pretty much. It seems a given that Rowena’s relatives will contest the will.”

“And guess who they’ll hire—if they haven’t already?”

The two women’s eyes locked. “Ross.”

“Right. You know I loved Ro dearly, but I wish she hadn’t left me with such a mess.” She groaned, “Even if it does make for a dramatic parting gesture. She never liked all her greedy Carstairs relatives, said they reminded her of buzzards at the roadside, waiting ravenously for the morsels her eventual death would bring.”

“Looks like she’s had the last word. We’ll miss her, you know,” Tracy said as she got up to leave.

“Yeah, we will. See you tomorrow,” Meredith said, a soft smile touching her lips as the door closed behind Tracy.

As she gathered the files she’d sort through later that evening, Meredith recalled that stormy afternoon twelve years earlier when she’d first met Rowena Carstairs. She had been a summer intern at Rollins, Hunter & Mills and Rowena had been holding court in the firm’s walnut-paneled lobby, dressed in a flowing purple caftan and a remarkable jeweled pink turban. Her legendary toy poodles—always dyed to match Rowena’s headdress of the day—were yapping hysterically at her heels and gnawing on the knotted fringe of the floor’s antique Oriental carpet.

The poodles, Meredith recalled, were noted for their ill humor. Neither of the junior partners hovering anxiously beside one of the firm’s most prestigious clients had dared to censure the dogs, which by this time were happily chewing their way through a delicately carved chair leg.

Raised to respect the value of things, and too new to the firm to know whom she was messing with, Meredith marched right up to Rowena’s dogs and told them firmly to heel. To everyone’s astonishment the dogs stopped their destructive activity and settled obediently at Meredith’s feet, giving her patent pumps a cautiously friendly lick.

And to everyone’s equally stunned amazement, Rowena had burst out laughing and grasped Meredith’s hand. “About time someone had the guts to stand up to these little pests,” she barked. “Beastly little dogs, aren’t they? Touched in the head, I think.”

“Must be all that hair dye,” Meredith noted wryly.

After an audible gasp, one of the junior partners, clearly bent on damage control, stepped forward and, muttering apologies, grabbed Meredith by the arm, intent on propelling her back to the copy room. But Rowena stayed his hand. “You know, I bet you’re right. That dye probably makes ’em antsy,” she said, addressing Meredith, her keen bright eyes narrowing. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that? What’s your name, gal? It’s good to see that someone around this mausoleum has some spunk.”

Before she’d left the firm that summer, Ross Rollins had told her there’d be a position waiting for her as soon as she finished law school. Surprised, she’d thanked him profusely, but he told her to save her thanks for Rowena Carstairs. “Claimed you’re the only one with any sense around here, and threatened to take her business to another law firm unless we hired you. As you’ve probably gathered,” he’d added dryly, “she’s one of our biggest clients.”

Without a doubt, Rowena Carstairs had been one of Savannah’s most flamboyant and original characters. She’d also been a true friend. It was no exaggeration to say that without Rowena’s patronage, Meredith would never have been able to start her own small independent practice. So no matter how mysterious and convoluted the will—or how many of her own questions went unanswered—she must do her best to see that Rowena’s wishes were fulfilled.

Meredith shoved the documents in her briefcase and, grabbing her coat, moved toward the door. She’d think about all this later tonight, once homework was done and the boys were fast asleep.

Opening the door of her office, she smiled at Ali, her faithful secretary who’d taken a substantial pay cut to follow her on her path of independence. That was loyalty, Meredith realized. “Have to get to the game but I’ll be in early tomorrow. I’m taking the Carstairs files with me, Ali.”

“Don’t worry, Meredith, I’ll be here awhile. Tracy’s up to her eyeballs in the Martin v. Fairbairn case so we’ll be busy. I just put on a new pot of coffee.” Ali’s slim figure and good posture made her seem always ready for action.

“I don’t know how you guys survive. You know, I read somewhere that women can get depressed from too much caffeine. You and Trace should seriously consider cutting down on—”

“You have precisely ten minutes to get to the game and traffic’s bad,” Ali said, dismissing her. “So long. See you in the morning.” She waved her thin fingers and grinned before heading into the tiny kitchen.

Stepping out onto the street, Meredith glanced back fondly at the small redbrick house she’d leased for the office. It wasn’t pretentious, but it served its purpose. During the past most difficult months of her life, she and Tracy had built up a growing practice by accepting lower fees than most firms of their caliber. Some simply didn’t want to pay the horrendously costly fees of the better-known firms. Other, more humble clients had heard through the grapevine that Meredith Hunter had left a junior partnership at Rollins, Hunter & Mills to begin her own practice because she’d become disenchanted with the way her former firm did business. This, and the fact that she always had time to spare for a lost or ailing cause, was beginning to pay off.

Getting into her old Jeep Cherokee, Meredith prepared to go into Mom mode. It wasn’t easy juggling home and the office, especially now that Tom was gone.

She swallowed and gunned the engine, reminding herself that her ten- and eight-year-old sons, Mick and Zack, were her priority. This was no time for tears. The kids needed her. And she needed them.

It was all they had left.

After she’d read the boys a good-night story, turned off the lights and walked down the staircase of the lovely antebellum home she and Tom had dreamed of, saved for, then bought, depression set in. During the day Meredith had so much to do that she barely allowed herself time to think. Work at the office was all-consuming and the kids’ schedule was packed with extracurricular activities that had her running from Little League practices to soccer games. She always had dinner to prepare and homework to finish, and although she’d never thought she’d enjoy math, she’d found herself delving into the intricacies of multiplication and long division with zeal, dreading the moment when it would be time to say “bedtime,” and she’d find herself wandering around the house alone with only her memories for company.

Turning on the TV in the den, she glanced absently at the time. Nine-thirty. It was still too early to sleep. Maybe she should call her mother. But then she remembered it was bridge night and Clarice and John Rowland would be out. It was too late to call Elm in Ireland and everyone else was busy, watching TV with their husbands, discussing the day’s activities. They didn’t need to listen to her whining on the phone, or worse, weeping.

She flopped onto the aged moss-green sofa next to Macbeth, the family’s golden Lab. Actually he’d been Tom’s. Swallowing the knot in her throat again, Meredith stroked the dog between its ears, determined to keep her emotions under control. Faithful old Mac was getting really ancient now. She simply couldn’t bear it if he went, too.

Meredith flipped the channels on the remote, unable to concentrate on any of the programs. She’d always followed current affairs and both local and international politics, but now she didn’t care what was happening in the Middle East or in Washington, or even here in Savannah. All she now knew was the loneliness of the empty space on the couch next to her.

For the thousandth time since learning of the freak boating accident off the coast of Georgia the year before, Meredith railed at the injustice of his death. Why him? Why them? With so many unhappy people about, why did such tragedy have to befall her Tom?

She took a deep breath and willed herself to stop this railing at fate that served no purpose.

After several more minutes she switched off the television impatiently and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea. Maybe she should go over Rowena’s will again and compile some notes for her conference call tomorrow with the New York detective agency so she’d be sure to gather all the information she could on James G. Gallagher, presumptive heir.

Taking a sip of the hot brew, she sat at the old pine table she and Tom had picked up by chance at a yard sale. However hard she tried, it was impossible not to feel his presence everywhere, to make believe that if she closed her eyes then opened them she’d find that it was all a bad dream, that Tom was right here, calling to her from the top of the stairs for something he’d forgotten.