Meant To Be Page 3

  As I traced my fingertips over the clock’s intricate contours, I couldn’t help but think of my true mother. Colleen O’Rourke had dearly loved wood carvings in general, and cuckoo clocks in particular. My father and I had bought her several over the years, but neither of us could ever have hoped to afford one as magnificent as this.

  A thought struck me, and my heart skipped a beat. I had seen work like this before—and so had my mother. Amidst her collection of magazines regaling the lives of the rich and famous—a fascination she would have been reluctant to confess outside the confines of our home—were several mentions of custom carvings from Herringtons of San Francisco, one of the most prestigious, if not the oldest, fine furniture enterprises in the country. My mother routinely fantasized about ordering a "custom" carving, joking that she would like a cuckoo clock from which her own head popped out, instructing my father to wake up, take out the trash, and turn off the television for bed, respectively.

  I leaned in closer, searching the corners and base of the clock for an insignia. I found what I sought on the underside of a leaf that sprang off the right edge, but only by feeling for the indentations first. What was the name I was trying to recall? I had to contort myself to make out the writing in the dim light, but eventually I succeeded.

  Ferris Mountain.

  My breath caught. The clock had indeed come from Herringtons—it was their signature brand. I backed away a step.

  Five hundred undeveloped acres in the mountains was a fabulous legacy, but only people who also had serious capital on hand could afford such a treasure. Had Sheila been that wealthy? Or, more likely, had her husband?

  I walked the rest of the way up the staircase, feeling more out of place than I had a moment before. Ostentatious wealth was foreign to me. I had never had money. I likely never would, and that was fine. Getting rich was not on my list of birthday resolutions. Building my own happiness was.

  I could see better, however, why Mr. Falcon had wanted me to stay here. He had wanted me to see firsthand what was at stake. Apparently, I stood to inherit one half of this property not through a well-thought-out testament on the part of the principals, but through an accident of timing. The situation must be a disappointing one for Mitchell’s children—a hopelessly awkward one for me.

  As I opened the first door in the upstairs hall and switched on the light, my heart, oddly, fell further. The room was beautiful. A four-poster oak bed with spiraling leaves of ivy towered toward the ceiling, bedecked with a skillfully crocheted spread. Every stick of furniture in the room was wood, most of it handsomely carved. I walked from piece to piece, examining them with awe, but was relieved to note that all of these were antiques. None were from Herringtons.

  Perhaps the clock was an extravagant gift, I reasoned, for an innkeeper who obviously appreciated the medium. I walked slowly through the other rooms upstairs, impressed that they had all been kept up so well, despite the inn’s closure. Each was unique in decoration and character, many with hand-painted borders or murals. All were lavishly furnished. And though I inspected several other wooden pieces I thought for certain must have been fashioned by the same artist as the cuckoo clock, none bore the famous insignia. Each time I failed to find it, my nerves relaxed.

  Sheila and Mitchell weren’t filthy rich, I assured myself, not completely understanding why it mattered. All I knew was that I didn’t want to fight—didn’t want to argue with these unknown heirs of Mitchell’s who clearly held all moral, if not legal, rights to his property. These treasures were not mine, and I would not allow myself to pretend that they were.

  I had reached the doorway to the room farthest from the staircase, my overnight bag still in hand. Where would I sleep? Had the inn been open, occupied, and alive, the choice might have been a pleasant one to make. But there was something about these rooms that unnerved me beyond my concern over the value of their contents. I felt vaguely ill at ease, and watchful. Surely anyone would feel uncomfortable staying in an inn alone, I reasoned, but even as I did so, I knew that my discomfort was somehow deeper. More directed.

  I opened the door to see a brass bed jutting out into the room, unable to lay flat against any wall because of the slant of the ceilings. Low-backed furniture lined the walls along with dormer windows, built-in bookcases, and cabinets. In the inn’s early days, this space had probably been a servant’s quarters. One could stand up fully only in the center; a tall man, not even there. In modern times the area might have been redesignated as storage space, but instead, it had been updated with ingenuity, providing a cozy resting place with unique hideaways that any child, and perhaps some short adults, would relish.

  I was uncertain, therefore, why the sight of it should chill my blood.

  I slammed the door shut in my own face, then stood perfectly still, breathing heavily. What was wrong with me? Was I losing my mind? There was nothing to be frightened of here. Nothing. The inn was empty.

  So my heart should slow down.

  I remained there, standing in place, until I was convinced that it had. Then I returned with shaky steps to the staircase.

  I was hypoglycemic—that was all. I hadn’t eaten since lunch. I had suffered a succession of shocks on top of a hangover, and now I was tired. The inn was beautiful, not evil, and to think otherwise could only mean that I had been reading too many gothic novels. Rooms were rooms, beds were beds. Perfectly ordinary people had slept here. Perfectly ordinary people would sleep here again.

  Starting with me. Tonight.

  Returning downstairs, I walked into the room closest to the front door and shut it behind me. There. Nothing wrong with this room, was there?

  I looked around. The room was decorated in shades of rose. An ornate iron, queen-sized canopy bed lay between the two large front windows, bathed in eyelet and smelling of floral-scented room freshener. I stepped to the windows and pulled the curtains closed. No, there was nothing wrong with this room. It was feminine, and it was lovely, and I was going to get a good night’s sleep here.

  No matter how loud my instincts screamed otherwise.

  Chapter 4

  "Wake up Goldilocks. The bears are home."

  I twisted under the heavy comforter, attempting to focus my bleary eyes. I had not, in fact, gotten a good night’s sleep. What I had done was toss and turn until two o’clock in the morning, only then falling into a fitful slumber laced with manic, nonsensical dreams. I was exhausted, I was cranky, and I was sick to death of trying to ward off my stupid, irrational fears.

  Which is no doubt why, when I awoke to the sight of a strange man standing in the doorway, that I was more annoyed than frightened.

  Both my eyes and my mind snapped back into clarity. I assessed the intruder.

  He was a large man—tall, broad-shouldered, and solid. His full head of hair and smooth, deep voice seemed to indicate he was not much older than me. But given that the hallway was still dim, with only a few streaks of morning light seeping in around my curtains, I could not tell much more. Except that he had no business barging in and waking me up.

  "Goldilocks," I retorted irritably, "was a blond."

  He moved forward a half-step, coming into the light just enough that I could see his face. The fact that he came no closer assured me that, despite his obvious disapproval of my presence, he did not want me to feel threatened. His eyebrows rose slightly at my words, then he offered a glare.

  "Who are you?" he demanded. "And why are you here?"

  I didn’t answer immediately. The old Meara would feel terribly guilty about now, babbling to explain her presence and apologizing for the confusion. But the new, non-doormat Meara was determined to stand her ground. She was also in an uncharacteristically foul mood.

  "You answer first," I said simply, sitting up.

  The man emitted what could best be described as a growl—appropriately, under the circumstances, reminiscent of a bear. "I," he grumbled, "am the guy who owns this place. You are trespassing."

  I looked back at him wi
th a stab of guilt, despite myself. I had hoped he was merely a caretaker. This could be awkward.

  "You must be Mitchell Black’s son, then," I stated, pulling back the comforter and slipping out of the opposite side of the bed. The yellow sweats I was wearing were decent, but hardly optimal for meeting a stranger of the opposite sex. "I’m sorry about your father," I said genuinely.

  He offered no response. He simply stood there staring at me with displeasure, much like one viewed a fly on the window when no swatter was available.

  "If you’ll be so kind as to get out of here for two minutes," I proposed, my voice crabby again, "I’ll get dressed, and we can have a civilized conversation."

  "You have one minute," he snapped back. Then he turned and stomped out of the room.

  I was dressed in two minutes, but decided to wait three. I had just put my hand on the doorknob when a phone rang somewhere in the rear of the inn. My birth mother’s erstwhile stepson answered it on the first ring, his deep voice carrying easily to my ears as I opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

  "David! Why are you calling here?" He made the connection quickly. "You sent this girl over here, didn’t you? What gives? Who is she?"

  A pause. I had been moving slowly down the hall toward the sound, but stopped as I heard him commence growling under his breath. "So what if she’s Sheila’s daughter? She can sleep at the hospital. That woman as good as killed my father, and you know it!"

  I took a step back, my limbs suddenly feeling heavy.

  "Well, none of that matters now, does it? He’s gone. The inn is mine, and I want it empty. So you can tell—"

  There was a long period of silence. In its midst, I thought I heard a single, muffled "no," followed by the creaking of a wooden chair. After another moment, the chair creaked again, this time loudly, followed by a scraping sound as if it were being pushed across the floor.

  "He wouldn’t do that to me," the voice protested. Its tone had turned serious now—so sober the very air around me seemed to chill with its vibration. "He wouldn’t."

  Another silence.

  "I won’t have it, David," he finished, his voice so low now I could barely understand. "This can’t happen. You understand me?"

  The phone slammed.

  Realizing that I had involuntarily flattened myself against the wall of the foyer like a spider, I pulled myself upright. In the next instant, Mitchell’s son appeared at the end of hall, then stomped along it with heavy strides. There wasn’t sufficient room for him to pass me politely, so he didn’t bother. He brushed by me as if I were a coat rack, his gaze straight ahead, his broad shoulder forcing me to flatten myself again.

  Only after he had opened the door of the inn did he turn around and meet my eyes.

  In the full light I could see that his hair was an unusual shade of light brown, perhaps blond as a child. Its bushy locks framed striking eyes of an indeterminate color, while a chiseled jawbone showed several days’ progress at a beard. It was a handsome face, or at least it might have been if the jaws in question were not clenched with agitation, the eyes filled with animosity.

  But then, I had always been good at ignoring the superficial. Physical appearance meant little to me; I prided myself on having a good eye for the soul within. True, when it came to matters of the heart, my lying-SOB-o-meter had thrice failed me. But when my head was in charge, I could often see right through people.

  Which is why I was so certain that this man was not as angry as he seemed. What I saw instead, even in that briefest of glances, was a man who had been hurt almost more than he could bear.

  A wave of compassion washed over me, and I started to speak. But I wasn’t given the chance. He whirled around, stepped outside, and slammed the door behind him.

  I stepped forward to follow.

  Don’t, Meara, a stern voice inside me proclaimed, he’s not your problem. You didn’t create this mess, remember? Besides, for all you know, he could be dangerous.

  "Oh for heaven’s sake," I responded irritably, and out loud. "That man is not dangerous." I groused at the conflict my resolutions were already causing me, but I did stop walking. The old Meara would not have. The old Meara would have torn out after him, apologized profusely for accidentally inheriting half of his inn, and offered to sign whatever papers were necessary to return the property immediately. Then she probably would have made him hot chocolate.

  Not any more.

  The phone rang again, and I leapt at the distraction. I followed the sound through the hall and out into the inn’s common room, an attractive, high-ceilinged glass sunroom which enclosed what must have originally been an outdoor courtyard. Its view of the hills beyond, dressed with verdant leaves and bathed in the sun of a clear June morning, was magnificent.

  The ringing sound originated from a small office area tucked into a corner of the sunroom near the entrance to the kitchen. I slipped inside, picked up the phone, and said hello.

  "Ms. O’Rourke? David Falcon."

  "Yes," I responded, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt. "It’s me. But if you’re calling for Mitchell’s son again, I’m afraid he’s left."

  The lawyer sighed softly. "I’m terribly sorry about this, Ms. O’Rourke," he apologized. "I had no idea that either of Mitchell’s children were back in town. I tried to reach them last night just in case, but—" He turned quiet for a moment.

  His emotional turmoil was obvious, and it made me uneasy. Not only did the situation with Sheila’s inheritance appear more complicated than I knew, but judging from the conversation I had just witnessed, I wasn’t the only one in the dark. "I take it Mitchell’s son wasn’t aware of his father’s will," I suggested. "Or rather, the lack of one?"

  The lawyer cleared his throat. "No, I’m afraid not. Fletcher had no idea—and that was my fault. I knew how hard he was going to take the news, and because of that, I thought it best to hold off until after the funeral. But he disappeared so quickly after the ceremony I didn’t have a chance to speak with him. I’ve been trying to reach him ever since, but he wasn’t answering at his home and his cell phone has been off." He exhaled in frustration. "I doubt he’s even aware that your mother has passed on—unless you mentioned it, of course."

  At the words "your mother," I winced. First at the hospital, now here, the sound of them had begun to grate. I knew that to others the distinction of semantics might seem petty. But for me, to acknowledge anyone other than the woman who raised me as "mother" felt disloyal—and just plain wrong. "If you could refer to her as Sheila, I would appreciate it," I requested. "And no, we didn’t discuss anything. But I would," I began, pulling up the desk chair and settling in, "appreciate a more complete explanation of whatever it is I seem to have walked into."

  A family portrait, hanging above the desk in a simple brass frame, caught my eye. A middle-aged couple stood close together in front of an aged white frame house; two young people knelt at their feet, wrestling to keep an Old English Sheepdog between them. The woman was thin and somewhat pale, but she had a warm face and a merry expression. The man was of average height and build, with wavy hair. He had the sort of soft, gentle features that tag a boy "baby face," but which make a man look both handsome and kind. One arm encircled his wife’s waist; the other rested protectively on the shoulder of a slender girl, whose long, dark straight hair and slightly slanted eyes gave her an exotic quality distinct from her parents. The boy’s hands were busy with the sheepdog, which had been lunging sideways across the girl’s lap as the picture was taken. He was looking at the dog, rather than at the camera, and was laughing heartily. He had the same high cheekbones and light eyes as the man who had just stormed out, but his hair was reddish and his face was thin, shining with a sentiment the mature version had lacked. Happiness.

  "I apologize for the awkwardness, Ms. O’Rourke," the lawyer continued. "But I’m afraid the issue of Sheila’s marriage and inheritance is rather complex, which is why I hated to burden you with it last night." He cleared his throat once
more. "I’ll start at the beginning. Mitchell Black lost his first wife a year ago. He was devastated, and so were the children. The bed-and-breakfast fell apart when she became ill—Mitchell had neither the interest nor the ability to keep it going by himself. After she died, he withdrew from everyone and everything, including his friends."

  I stared into the man’s eyes in the photograph and felt that I could imagine him. Supportive, helpful, but not a natural leader. He would look for a strong, capable woman, devote his life to her, then quite unintentionally, become completely dependent on her.

  "As for when and how he met Sheila," the lawyer continued, "I’m afraid I can’t answer that. The fact is, until the hospital notified me about Mitchell’s accident, I had no idea that he was even seeing anyone, much less that he had remarried."

  An uncomfortable feeling swelled deep within my insides. That woman as good as killed my father, the son had said. Mere thoughtless, angry words? I could not squelch the term that floated in and out of my consciousness every time my eyes landed on another piece of the inn’s fine furniture. Gold digger.

  "Apparently," the lawyer continued, "the couple eloped to Las Vegas, married, and took a brief honeymoon. They were on their way home from the airport in Pittsburgh when the accident occurred. We might not know of their marriage, even now, if the certificate had not still been in Sheila’s purse. Naturally, I investigated the situation immediately. But the document is perfectly legal."

  My stomach had turned to lead. It’s not your fault, Meara, the rational voice in my head practically screamed. You are not responsible for your birth mother’s character.

  But as I stared again at the portrait, I knew that the heaviness in my gut would not be so easily lifted. A few months ago the smiling, innocent man in the picture had been newly widowed, the sole owner of prime mountain property and an elegant inn. He had probably been a sweet soul. Lonely. Weak-willed. The definition of an easy mark.