The Best Gift

Clare smiled. “Somebody had to keep the two of you from doing each other bodily harm when we were growing up. And since I was the only one who didn’t inherit Mom’s McCauley-red hair—and the temper that went with it—I suppose the job had to fall to me.”

A.J. joined Morgan on the couch. “Okay. In honor of Aunt Jo, I declare a truce. How about it, Morgan?”

Morgan hesitated, then tucked her cell phone in her purse. “Truce,” she agreed with a grin. “Besides, much as I hate to admit that my kid sister is sometimes right, I am occasionally guilty of taking my job too seriously.”

“Occasionally?” A.J. rolled her eyes.

“Enough, you two,” Clare admonished with a smile.

A.J. laughed. “Okay, okay. You must whip those kids into shape whenever you substitute teach. In a nice way, of course. Their regular teacher is probably astounded at their good behavior when she gets back.”

Clare’s smile faded, and she looked down to fiddle with the strap on her purse. “I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn. It’s been so many years since I taught…it’s harder some days than others.”

A.J. and Morgan exchanged a look. “Hang in there, Clare,” Morgan encouraged. “We’re here for you.”

“It does get easier. Not overnight. But bit by bit. Trust me,” A.J. added, her own voice suddenly a bit uneven.

Clare blinked rapidly several times before she looked up. “Sorry. I usually have my emotions better under control. I guess Aunt Jo’s memorial service today just brought back…a lot of memories.”

Her voice caught on the last word, and A.J. and Morgan simultaneously reached for their sister’s hands. Clare gazed down and took a deep breath. “A circle of love,” she said softly.

“The three musketeers,” A.J. added, using one of their childhood nicknames as she grasped Morgan’s hand to complete the circle.

Morgan squeezed both hands. “One for all, all for one.”

Suddenly the door to the inner-office opened, and the sisters dropped their hands as they all turned toward attorney Seth Mitchell.

For a long moment the distinguished, gray-haired man standing in the doorway studied Jo Warren’s three great-nieces, taking full advantage of the opportunity to examine them up close rather than from a distance, as he had at the service this morning. He was pleased to note that none flinched at his unhurried perusal.

A.J. was tall and lean, with long, naturally curly strawberry blond hair, too unruly to be tamed even by strategically placed combs. She seemed perfectly comfortable in her somewhat eclectic attire—a calf-length skirt and a long tunic top, cinched at the waist with an unusual metal belt—and looked at him with genuine curiosity, as if the current situation was immensely interesting to her.

Morgan, who wore her dark, copper-colored hair in a sleek, shoulder-length style, was dressed in chic business attire that spelled “big city” and “success.” She gave him a somewhat bored, impatient “let’s-get-on-with-this-because-I-have-better-things-to-do” look.

Clare, the shortest of the three, wore her honey-gold hair in an elegant chignon that complemented her designer suit and Gucci purse. She had hope in her eyes when she looked at him—as well as a deep and lingering sadness.

Yes, they were just as Jo had described them, Seth concluded. A.J., the free spirit who took an interest in everything around her and was grounded in the here and now…perhaps too much so. Morgan, the somewhat jaded high-powered executive who might need some help straightening out her priorities. And Clare, whose double tragedy had left her in need of both emotional and financial help. Now, more than ever, Jo’s legacy made sense to Seth.

He moved forward. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Seth Mitchell. I recognize you from Jo’s description—A.J., Morgan, Clare,” he said, correctly identifying the sisters as he extended his hand to each in turn. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your great-aunt. She was a wonderful lady.”

They murmured polite responses, and he motioned toward his office. “If you’re ready, we can proceed with the reading of the will.”

He didn’t speak again until they were all seated, at which point he picked up a hefty document. “I’ll give each of you a copy of your great-aunt’s will to take with you, so I don’t think there’s any reason to go through this whole document now. A lot of it is legalese, and there are some charitable bequests that you can review at your leisure. I thought we could restrict the formal reading to the section that affects each of you directly, if that’s agreeable.”

“Absolutely,” Morgan replied. “Besides, my plane for Boston leaves in less than three hours. I know Clare needs to get back to Kansas City, and A.J. has a long drive to Chicago.”

Seth looked at the other two sisters. When they nodded their assent, he flipped through the document to a marked page and began to read.

“Insofar as I have no living relatives other than my three great-nieces—the daughters of my sole nephew, Jonathan Williams, now deceased—I bequeath the bulk of my estate to them, in the following manner and with the following stipulations and conditions.

“To Abigail Jeanette Williams, I bequeath half ownership of my bookstore in St. Louis, Turning Leaves, with the stipulation that she retain ownership for a minimum of six months and work full-time in the store during this period. The remaining half ownership I bequeath to the present manager, Blake Sullivan, with the same stipulation.

“To Morgan Williams, I bequeath half ownership of Serenity Point, my cottage in Seaside, Maine, providing that she retains her ownership for a six-month period following my death and that she spends a total of four weeks in residence at the cottage. During this time she is also to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd Camp and attend board meetings as an advisory member. The remaining half ownership of the cottage I bequeath to Grant Kincaid of Seaside, Maine.

“To Clare Randall, I bequeath my remaining financial assets, except for those designated to be given to the charities specified in this document, with the stipulation that she serve as nanny for Nicole Wright, daughter of Dr. Adam Wright of Hope Creek, North Carolina, for a period of six months, at no charge to Dr. Wright.

“Should the stipulations and conditions for the aforementioned bequests not be fulfilled, the specified assets will be disposed of according to directions given to my attorney, Seth Mitchell. He will also designate the date on which the clock will begin ticking on the six-month period specified in my will. “

Seth lowered the document to his desk and looked at the women across from him. A.J. still looked interested. Morgan looked aggravated. Clare looked uncertain.

“There you have it, ladies. I can provide more details on your bequests to each of you individually, but are there any general questions that I can answer?”

“Well, I might as well write mine off right now,” Morgan said in disgust. “There’s no way I can be away from the office for four days, let alone four weeks. And what is Good Shepherd Camp?”

“Who is this Dr. Wright?” Clare asked with a frown. “And what makes Aunt Jo think he would want me as a nanny?”

“When can I start?” A.J. asked.

“Let me take your questions and comments one at a time,” Seth said. “Morgan, you have the right to turn down the bequest, of course. But I would advise you to get some legal and financial counsel first. Jo bought that property years ago, when Seaside was just a quiet, backwater village. The area is now a bustling tourist mecca. So her property has increased significantly in value. As for how to meet your aunt’s residence stipulation—I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that. Good Shepherd is a summer camp in Maine for children from troubled homes. Your aunt has been involved with the organization for many years.

“Clare, Dr. Wright is an old friend of Jo’s from St. Louis. I believe she met him through her church, and even when he moved to North Carolina, they remained close friends. He’s a widower with an eleven-year-old daughter who apparently needs guidance and closer supervision. As to why Jo thought Dr. Wright would be interested in having you as a nanny, I can’t say.

“A.J., I’d ask you to give me a couple of weeks to tie up some legalities before you contact Mr. Sullivan. I’ll let you know when it’s appropriate to call.”

He paused and glanced at his desk calendar. “Let’s officially start the clock for the six-month period on December 1. That will give you about a month to make plans. Now, are there any more general questions?”

The three women looked at him, looked at each other, then silently shook their heads.

“Very well.” He handed them each a manila envelope. “But do feel free to call if any come up as you review the will more thoroughly.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting, and extended his hand to each sister in turn. “Again, my condolences on the death of your great-aunt. Jo had a positive impact on countless lives and will be missed by many people. I know she loved each of you very much, and that she wanted you to succeed in claiming your bequests.

“Good luck, ladies.”

Chapter One

It wasn’t fair.

Blake Sullivan stared at the letter from Seth Mitchell. How could Jo do this to him? Okay, so maybe she’d never actually promised to leave the entire business to him, but she had certainly implied as much. After all, they’d been friends for twenty-one years. And he’d walked away from a successful career in investment banking three years ago to rescue Turning Leaves, when Jo’s waning energy began to affect the business and her ongoing generosity had finally depleted her financial cushion. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d stayed to turn the sleepy, neighborhood bookshop into a thriving enterprise. Without him, the business would have been bankrupt by now.

And what was his reward for three years of diligent labor on her behalf? She’d left half the business to her flighty, do-gooder great-niece who probably didn’t know the difference between a balance sheet and a balance beam.

Blake felt his blood pressure edge up and forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. Getting worked up about the situation wasn’t going to change it, he reminded himself. Maybe if he and Jo had had more time to discuss it, things would have turned out differently. But the fast-acting cancer that had struck so suddenly and taken her so quickly had left them little time for business discussions. By the time she’d told anyone about her illness, it was far too late to discuss any succession plans.

Blake fingered the letter from her attorney, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could just walk away, of course. Let the business disintegrate in the hands of Jo’s inexperienced and probably disinterested heir. But he’d poured too much of himself into the bookshop, cared too much about it to let it die.

Which left him only one option.

And that did not make him happy.

Blake watched the caller ID disappear as the line went dead. Jo’s niece again. He couldn’t avoid her forever, but he needed more time to think things through. Especially since he’d received Jo’s brief, enigmatic letter, which had arrived a couple of days after Seth Mitchell’s.