The Unexpected Gift

“Okay. I’ll try to make a weekend trip soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

This time there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. Nor the fact that he didn’t think much of her priorities. Just like her sister. Come to think of it, he and A.J. would have been ideal co-owners of the cottage, Morgan reflected. Too bad Aunt Jo hadn’t paired them up.

Grant replaced the receiver and turned to find his father watching him.

“I take it that was Jo’s great-niece?” Andrew Kincaid said.

“None other.”

“Sounded like an interesting conversation from this end.”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Grant asked with a smile.

“Of course. That’s what family is for,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling.

Grant chuckled. He and his father didn’t have many secrets. Nor did anyone in his extended family. He’d always been close to his sister, Kit, and her husband, Bill, the pastor at their church. And he doted on his fifteen-year-old twin nieces. He also had a deep love and affection for his uncle, who worked with him and his dad in the cabinet shop. They were a small but close-knit bunch.

Except for his mother, of course.

Which brought him back to Morgan Williams.

“Interesting is a good way to describe the conversation.” He shook his head. “She’s a piece of work.”

“How so?”

“When I suggested she come up to take a look at the cottage over Thanksgiving, she told me she’d be working.”

“On Thanksgiving?”

“My exact reaction. And she did not appreciate it.”

“So when is she coming up?”

“Who knows? But in the meantime, she asked me to get an appraisal on the property, because she plans to sell.”

The older man pondered that. “How do you feel about letting the place go?”

Grant shrugged, but his eyes were troubled. “There won’t be much choice if she wants to sell, unless we can find someone who’s willing to buy her half and take me on as co-owner.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees it.”

As Grant replayed their conversation in his mind, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t place any bets on that. She’s one tough cookie. A hard-nosed businesswoman through and through. I can’t figure out why Jo left the place to her.”

His father pulled on a pair of work gloves. “I imagine she had her reasons. Jo was a smart lady. I can’t remember her ever doing anything that didn’t make sense.”

“Well, there’s always a first time.” Grant reached for his own gloves. “Now let’s go sort through that load of maple.”

Morgan punched in the number for Good Shepherd Camp and drummed her fingers on the desk as she waited for someone to answer. At least this stipulation in her aunt’s will should be manageable. Serving as an advisory member of a charitable board for six months and offering a bit of advice on a fund-raising drive was a piece of cake compared to spending four weeks in a remote cottage on the coast of Maine.

The phone continued to ring, and Morgan was just about to hang up when someone answered.

“Good Shepherd Camp,” said a breathless female voice.

“Good morning. This is Morgan Williams. May I speak with the person in charge?”

Her crisp request was met with an amused chuckle. “You’ve got her. Mary Stanton. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here in the off-season. How can I help you?”

“Actually, it’s more like how I can help you.” Morgan explained the provision in Aunt Jo’s will. “So I just need to see how you’d like me to get involved,” she finished.

“I’d heard about your great-aunt’s death,” the woman said, her voice sympathetic. “She was a long-time supporter of the camp. Going back well before my time, in fact. I’m sorry for your loss. And ours.”

“I’m sure my great-aunt will be missed by many people.” Morgan kept her reply innocuous.

“I’m a bit surprised by the stipulation in her will, but we’re always happy to have more help. We run this operation on a shoestring. There are just a couple of full-time employees—me, in the office, and Joe Carroll at the camp, who does maintenance. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live there year-round. We beef up the paid staff a bit in the summer, but most of our counselors are volunteers. So we’re always looking for free help.” She paused as if considering the best next step. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have the president of the board give you a call to discuss your involvement. That’s really who you should talk to, since the board makes all the decisions, anyway. I’m just a worker bee,” the woman said with a laugh.

“That would be great. Let me give you my number.” As she did so, Clark, her boss, appeared at her door and began making urgent motions. “Um, look, I need to go. It seems some sort of crisis has arisen here.”

“Of course. We’ll be in touch. And thank you again. Good Shepherd Camp is a very worthwhile effort. Your time won’t be wasted.”

Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. No matter how much or how little time she spent on Aunt Jo’s pet project, it was still time away from her job. And since she had her sights set on a top spot in the firm in the not-too-distant future, she couldn’t afford to let her focus waver.

But unfortunately, Aunt Jo had done her best to see that it did.

As Grant stared at the message from Mary Stanton, then read it again, a slow smile spread over his face. Morgan Williams must just love this, he thought with perverse enjoyment. Not only had Jo put a residency requirement in her bequest, she’d ordered her niece to help out at Good Shepherd. Morgan Williams didn’t strike him as the type of woman who liked to take orders. Which Jo must have known. So what was the older woman up to?

Grant didn’t have a clue. But it didn’t matter. Extra hands were always welcome at Good Shepherd, willing or not. As president of the board, he’d done his share of recruiting volunteers, and it wasn’t easy. People these days, even those who called themselves Christians, were too busy to take time out to help others. So he was glad Jo had recruited this “volunteer” for him. Morgan Williams might be reluctant, but they were in dire need of her expertise. The camp’s financial situation was precarious at best, and Grant was willing to do just about anything to shore up the coffers. Even conspiring with Jo’s workaholic niece.

The bell over the front door of the cabinet shop jangled, and Grant looked up to find his uncle juggling a large white bag, a tray of drinks and a stack of mail.

“I ran into Chuck at the sandwich shop and offered to take our mail off his hands,” Uncle Pete said, his usual ruddy face even redder, thanks to the biting wind.

“December’s a bear for the postal service. Figured I’d save him three stops. Where’s Andrew?”

“In the back.”

The older man peered at the slip of paper in Grant’s hand. “I see you got your message.”

“You could have let it roll to the answering machine.”

“Never did trust those things. Come on back. Let’s eat.”

Eying the bag, Grant shook his head, exasperation mingling with affection. “You don’t have to bring me lunch, Uncle Pete. I can take care of myself.”

“So what’re you going to eat today?”

“I’ll grab something on the way to Brunswick.”