Wellington Series 2

by Kris Pearson

  “And nothing in years past?” A worried frown continued to crease Horrie’s brow.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Most irregular,” he said. “I signed every communication myself. They all went to Lucy and David, because of course you were initially a minor. David took care of everything for you. He was to apprise you of the situation once you reached your twenty-first birthday.”

  “I’m sure he looked after everything splendidly,” Jetta agreed. “But he died right before I turned twenty-one.” She leaned forward in her chair. “What exactly was he looking after?” she begged. “I’ve never seen anything at all. When Anton turned up out of the blue, it was a huge shock.”

  “We didn’t quite hit it off, did we?” Anton said.

  “You could say that,” she agreed. “Or you could say we fought like a pair of pit bulls, each trying to protect what we thought was ours.”

  A wry grin hovered about the corners of his mouth for a moment, giving her a fleeting glimpse of the carefree man she’d first met. Perhaps sensing wordiness to follow, Anton dived in quickly. “I’ve told Jetta that my half of the house was used to cover her grandmother’s expenses for her lifetime. That you’d arranged for all the bills to be paid automatically because her grandfather was getting worried about his wife’s health.”

  “Lucy was a gentle soul,” the lawyer agreed. “David had always tended to their finances, and this seemed an ideal way to give them both peace of mind.”

  “So half of the house is now Anton’s? Why?”

  Horrie cleared his throat. “Because of who his father was. And his mother, too, of course. Isobel was my secretary for many years.”

  The phone gave a polite beep.

  “Do excuse me for a moment,” Horrie said, lifting the receiver from its cradle and listening for a few seconds.

  “So who’s your father?” Jetta whispered. None of this made sense yet.

  “Arthur John Haviland.”

  She shook her head. “Never heard of him.”

  Anton shrugged. “That’s the name on my birth certificate.”

  Horrie replaced the phone and cleared his throat again. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you young people to come back another time,” he said. “That’s my first official client for the day, beginning to get a little fractious because he’s due to fly out somewhere quite soon. Poor Sue has had enough of him.”

  He rose to his feet, and Jetta found herself doing the same.

  “Arthur John Haviland...” Jetta murmured as they drove back to the house. The name still triggered no memories. She glanced sideways at Anton. “I’d love to ask your mother about him. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “You’ll risk getting your head bitten off, but she might be in a mood to talk. You’ll have to wait until she’s back from Australia though. She and her sister are cruising the Whitsunday Passage about now.”

  Jetta wrinkled her nose in annoyance. “She’s by far my best bet. I suppose I’ll be in New York by the time she’s back—damn! Could I write a note for you to give to her?”

  He nodded, eyes on the road and not on her. “Yeah, okay.”

  Lighten up, she wanted to snap. Pay me some attention again. I know you’ve got worries, but so have I. Worries and mysteries and secrets now. Why didn’t Grandpa tell me any of this? Who is Arthur Haviland? And how come it’s you who gets the other half of my house?

  “Am I dropping you at work?”

  “Yes,” she said, making a quick decision. “They’ve been very good about the funeral and the fire, but I can’t keep taking time off, even though I’m so close to finishing. We’re not too busy so I might come home early and have a good think about things.”

  Anton reached across and surprised her by taking her hand and holding it for a few seconds. “Sorry this has all gone pear shaped. We were good.”

  Sudden dread flicked across her nerve endings. “And now we’re over?”

  He shrugged at that. “I’m not much fun right now.”

  “I was going to New York anyway,” Jetta said, trying to keep it light.

  He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Apparently seeing no following traffic, he swerved up to a bus stop and braked.

  He turned to her and said with uncharacteristic intensity, “You’ll be back in a few months. Don’t forget me.” He reached over and tilted her face up for a long luscious kiss. Jetta threaded her fingers through his hair and tugged him closer. The kiss went from regretful through incendiary to desperate. “Because,” he ground out, “if I get the project to come right, things will be better. Try not to fall in love with anyone else.”

  She stared at him, open-mouthed—heart pounding, eyes wide. That had almost sounded like commitment.

  Could she really believe him though? He was a flirt and a tease, and moved at the speed of light. She’d presumed she was a convenient housemate, a sexual challenge, a short-term amusement for him. But nothing more. “I don’t want to fall in love with anyone else,” she protested, but the words were drowned out as he gunned the motor and shot off the bus stop into traffic.

  *

  She returned to the house at four, having shopped for replacement suitcases and a few extra clothes during her lunch break. She tipped the glossy boutique bags onto the bed and shook the contents out, knowing the old wardrobe was already bulging at the seams. Anton was right—his apartments needed plenty of wardrobe space.

  She gave the hangers a hefty shove along the rail and exclaimed with pain as her hand hit something sharp. A quick inspection confirmed she’d only scratched herself—but what the heck? She felt more cautiously in amongst the clothes and found a nail in the side wall. And a small flat key hanging from it on a piece of hairy string.

  A suitcase key? She stripped to her underwear and retrieved yesterday’s shirt from the laundry basket. It would be going right back there in a minute or two, as soon as she’d checked to see if the key fitted the old leather suitcase in her burnt out room.

  With plywood nailed over the gaping window hole, it was eerily dark in there. She edged in as far as the wardrobe, pulled the scorched door open and felt around inside until she fumbled onto the handle. Knowing it would be filthy with cinders, she lugged the case out to the back porch before setting it down.

  It had once been a handsome piece of luggage. Now the brown leather gleamed only dully under the smoke stains, and the squared-off brass corner trims had no luster left. The latches were so rusty she doubted they’d open.

  She set the case down flat and knelt beside it. Yes, the key fitted, but would it turn? Yes, it agreed to. To her surprise, the old-fashioned catches sprang up easily when she pressed the release buttons. She raised the lid.

  “Gran!” she exclaimed, as her eyes roved over the contents. “Oh Gran, what have you been up to?”

  Two lidless cardboard boxes sat side by side. Each contained dozens of tidily stacked envelopes—all with the same dark green Winters and Waterson Barristers and Solicitors monogram.

  The letters addressed to Gran had been opened.

  The ones to Jetta had not.

  She lifted some out. The postmarks went back for years.

  Tight rolls of banknotes confined in perishing elastic bands were crammed into the rest of the suitcase. Thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth.

  Chapter Sixteen — That Fateful Letter

  Reeling with shock, she tossed the letters back in and slammed the lid down, knowing she couldn’t unpack the contents in the open air. The ancient elastic bands were crisp and uncurling. The last thing she needed was money blowing all over the garden.

  Ignoring the mess it would make, she dragged the case back inside, heaved it up onto the kitchen table, and sat down on one of the chairs before she collapsed with curiosity and heart failure.

  Half an hour later she’d read twenty-three letters charting the progress of the trust fund established for her after the death of her parents and the sale of their home.

  Her brain swam with the figur
es. She’d never expected anything like this—simply assumed that whatever her parents had bequeathed to her would have been amalgamated into her grandparents’ account and used on her behalf. That seemed only fair. Bringing up a teenager couldn’t have been cheap.

  But they’d kept the money intact for her. And Horrie had done a sterling job on the finance front. There it was, all carefully detailed—the investments he’d made, the compounding interest, the current amazing total.

  Relinquishing half of number fifteen to Anton now felt like much less of a blow. Indeed, she could offer him some of her newfound wealth to help cover the cost of the extra foundations for Ballentine Park Mews. She could be a property investor...

  She sat there daydreaming about his delighted reaction until commonsense took over. Maybe she couldn’t access the money immediately? She’d phone Winters and Waterson first thing next day and find out before getting his hopes up.

  She turned her attention to the cache of banknotes.

  After she’d counted several of the unraveling rolls she sat shaking her head. So this was why her grandmother’s clothes had been decrepit and the furnishings so past their use-by date?

  Since Grandpa’s death, Gran must have been squirreling away anything she could spare from her pension—whether she could really spare it or not. In fact, much longer, because there were stray one and two dollar bills there—not legal tender in New Zealand for years now. The bundles contained a few five and ten-dollar bills, but they were mostly twenties. Even an occasional fifty. Some of the rolls were worth many hundreds of dollars—and dozens of them crowded the space not occupied by the boxes.

  The throaty growl of the Porsche arriving home brought her back to reality. Anton really didn’t need to find her with this lot! She bundled the contents of the case back in, snapped the catches down, and dragged it back into her old bedroom.

  *

  Anton switched the engine off and sat for a few moments, head bowed down on the steering wheel. Still no extra sales signed, so still no more deposit money at his disposal. Still no added borrowing confirmed.

  He was so close to his dream, but right after the horse had bolted out of the starting gate, they’d found peat. Soggy, spongy, unstable peat.

  He banged his brow down repeatedly, and cursed. Just as everything had come near to fruition, it had all gone royally wrong.

  On top of that, he’d nearly made a fool of himself by declaring everlasting love to Jetta. Thank God he’d stopped when he did. He slid out of the car and made his way wearily inside.

  “Hi babes,” he said as he entered the kitchen. She stood rinsing her hands under the kitchen tap, wearing only her underwear. “I like your cooking gear.”

  She gave him a grin—a very guilty grin if he wasn’t mistaken—and turned off the water in a hurry. What had she been up to?

  Just seeing her made him feel so much better. He walked over and stood behind her while she dried her hands, wrapping his arms around her waist, breathing in her scent, kissing her neck. His fingers stroked the lace on her bra... caressed the soft, soft skin above it.

  “Do you mind if we get pizza tonight?” she asked.

  “Have you burned the dinner?” A faint smell of ashes hung in the air.

  “Absolutely not. I’ve been busy with laundry... and things.”

  “Pizza it is then. But not for a while yet?” His fingers slid down into her bra-cups and found her nipples. “God, you turn me on in seconds,” he said, pressing against her so she could feel the all-too-obvious evidence.

  *

  Just as Jetta walked out next morning, a courier van screamed to a halt by the curb. But it wasn’t Bren’s Nick who jogged up the path toward her.

  “Jetta Rivers?” the driver asked, brandishing a courier pack. “Sorry—you should have had this yesterday, but we had a safety scare at the depot. False alarm as it turned out, but everyone’s schedule got shot to pieces.”

  Jetta signed where he indicated, and wondered if it was anything urgent. She could always get the next bus. Anton was long gone—to a breakfast meeting with a prospective client.

  She turned back toward the house, unlocked the door, and pulled the rip-top on the plastic pack as she walked through to the kitchen. She shook the contents onto the table. A Winters and Waterson envelope tumbled out.

  Her eyebrows drew together. Why hadn’t they given it to her yesterday?

  Inside there was a brief note from Horrie, explaining that Gran had entrusted him with a letter to keep safe for her. He apologized for not handing it over the day before.

  His page had been wrapped around one of Gran’s familiar old small cream envelopes with the flowers on the corner—kept for only the most special occasions. This was addressed ‘to my darling Jetta’.

  She sat down in a hurry. Given what had lurked in the suitcase, how much more important could this be? She peeled up the flap, imagining Gran’s dear face close to the envelope. She sniffed in case there was a trace of her lavender perfume clinging to the paper.

  Nothing—and no wonder. When she extracted the letter and checked, it was dated almost four years earlier.

  There were three small pages, covered in old-fashioned spidery writing—the writing that looked so neat until you tried to decipher it.

  Tears spilled down Jetta’s face, and her hand holding the letter trembled more than Gran’s ever had. She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment before she started to read.

  My darling Jetta.

  If Mr Winters has given you this, then I have said goodbye to this earth and gone to my Heavenly Father. I want you to know that you were the greatest treasure in my life. We didn’t have your mother for long enough, but you were a wonderful consolation when we lost her. To see you growing up was to see Margaret growing up all over again.

  Jetta gave a great gulping sob. Somewhere, buried deep in the back of her mind, she’d always presumed she’d been a horrible nuisance to her grandparents. It was so good to know that hadn’t been the case.

  There’s something I must warn you about, my dearest girl, and you will need to be brave about what I am going to tell you.

  She bit her lip as she slid the first page away. Brave? What could be wrong?

  We have left the house to you, but it’s possible a man will also try and claim a share. His name is Anthony, and he is your grandfather’s son.

  Jetta dropped the letter and clamped a hand over her mouth in disbelief. Her breakfast burned upwards, and she had to use all her concentration to stop herself vomiting it up. Anton was Grandpa’s son? How was that possible? How could Grandpa do that to her grandmother?

  And worse—much, much worse—that made Anton... what? Her uncle? Her half-uncle? Her half-brother? Not quite any of those perhaps, but far too close to be sleeping with.

  Far too close to fall in love with.

  She let out a great keening howl of anguish and wrapped her arms around her body, seeking the comfort she’d never find. She rocked back and forth on the old chair, sobbing and gasping. Her tears dissolved her mascara, and the sting of it made her knuckle her hands into her eyes to rub it away. The mess tracked down her cheeks in dark wet smudges.

  In the car only yesterday, Anton had said ‘don’t fall in love with anyone else.’ How cruel he’d been! After reading Gran’s words, it was obvious he was the only man in the world she couldn’t fall in love with. But she had. She’d plummeted into love with him like a stone being dropped into a deep dark pond. How would she regain the sunlight?

  She turned her eyes back to the letter. Gran’s writing became ever more difficult to read. Jetta’s eyes burned, and plainly the old lady had found it very hard to write about her husband’s infidelity.

  He will be about thirty now. A tall dark man like your grandfather, and possibly just as untrustworthy. Don’t believe anything he tells you. For the truth, ask Mr Winters.

  Or maybe not, Jetta thought. Anton and Horrie seemed to be best mates.

  Do not let this man steal your house.
Have nothing to do with him.

  She turned to the final page.

  I have saved what little I can to make your life easier. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful success in whatever you choose to do. Look for the key in my wardrobe and spend it wisely.

  All my love forever,

  Gran.

  She sat there, statue-still, mind racing in random directions. The letter made no sense at all—except that it made the most horrible sense as well. How had Gran found out? And how awful for her to spend the last years of her life (if they were only the last years?) knowing her husband of so long had cheated on her.

  Somehow her grandfather had cooked up the inheritance scheme with Horrie Winters, and in the wink of an eye half her house had been whisked away and given to Anton.

  But that was absolutely not the worst of it. The pain of losing Anton far exceeded losing a house.

  She sat on, seeing his laughing blue eyes, remembering the amazing things he’d done. Painting the cupboard doors... her impromptu birthday dinner... his frantic rescue bid when she’d been trapped in the roaring inferno of her room. How much easier it would have been to let her burn to death and claim the whole house…

  So, had he really tricked her, or was he just as much a victim as she?

  Anton had said his father was Arthur Haviland, not David, and that he was married to someone else.

  Half right anyway.

  He’d probably put himself through hell trying to help her get past her fear of men. He got big points there as far as she was concerned. He didn’t deserve her hatred.

  She skimmed through the letter again and set pages one and three aside to keep for herself. Anton/Anthony could have the middle page and make of it what he would.