Where There's A Will

by Mary Malone

“Yes, I’ve received it and I’ve gone through it,” Frank had said, his patience wearing very thin with his son-in-law. “But there’s no concrete evidence there. I’ll have to speak to Ed and get more exact detail.”

  “But I’m not sure he’s strong enough to be tackled like that.”

  “Well, it’s the only way I can get international investigators to take this seriously.”

  “Don’t wear him out,” Carl had ordered ungraciously.

  “I’ve already explained that this won’t resolve itself overnight, Carl,” Frank had responded gruffly, the younger man’s brazen attitude adding to his irritation.

  “Frank, we’re fighting the clock here as you know.”

  “Well, stop wasting my time and let me get on with it!” His tone had been less than civil as he’d brought their brief telephone conversation to a close.

  Researching his best approach and talking to a few legal counterparts, he’d compiled a list of worthy contacts who were in the strongest position to pressurise the French authorities to upscale the investigation and escalate the efforts being made to identify the culprit – or culprits (these guys rarely worked alone) – responsible for stealing, copying and reproducing Ed’s designs.

  “Fraud has practically forced his company out of business, not to mention shattering a reputation he’d spent years building,” he’d explained over and over to his contacts, appealing to their better nature to help him find a loophole to get the case reopened. A difficult investigation but not impossible, he believed.

  He stared at the computer screen, his document still blank. He was finding it difficult to decide on an appropriately effective opening sentence, the lack of definite results from his phone calls forcing him to expand his network of contacts.

  Composing an email with the intention of issuing a collective request to a number of European lawyers was no mean feat, particularly when he was demanding a fitting response in the shortest time possible, relying totally on good will between nationalities. No longer a fresh case in Paris, already pushed well down the to-do lists by French police, he’d have to provide a powerful reason to have the case prioritised.

  Frank swivelled in the leather office chair, the blank screen mocking him. He turned towards the window, gazing at green fields stretching for miles. Over the years, he’d repositioned his desk on numerous occasions, sometimes needing the view as a distraction, forcing him to take a break from the files he’d brought home. But then there were other times when the view was a distraction, his conscience pricking him because he wasn’t outside playing with his children, accompanying Marian on a walk or tending to the garden. On those occasions, he’d turned his back on the view – and his family – and focused intently on the cases at hand, locking himself away for hours at a time until eventually Marian and the children had stopped asking for his company.

  Apart from a few extra houses dotting the horizon, the West Cork landscape had changed little with the passing of time. Unlike me, he thought – the drive and ambition he’d enjoyed as a younger man had noticeably faded, forcing him to analyse the price he was paying for a fulfilling career. He’d chosen work over family, had let precious years pass when he could have been part of their fun and strife and watched them grow. And now, he thought, turning around to face the blank computer screen once more, I’m snatching occasional games of golf with a son I hardly know and resorting to underhand trade-offs to secure a daughter’s future and demonstrate concern. Painfully aware of the silence in the house, he punched an opening greeting into the document.

  Feeling more assured about his reasons for negotiating with Carl, he punched in a few more lines, words passing from his mind to the screen, the professional side of his brain overruling emotion and getting the job done. He stopped typing, reading over his draft, pleased with the message it conveyed. Fingers on the keyboard once more, he added a word of sincere thanks, typed his name and credentials and sent the email. European support would help him widen the net and broaden the investigation. He had already made several phone calls, speaking to contacts he hoped would act on his behalf. With multiple investigative teams working across borders, word should spread quickly, speeding up the process and exerting additional pressure on keeping the case open. Clearing Ed’s reputation while he was still alive was paramount, a higher priority than financial retribution. Acquiring public acknowledgement and an apology from the international press would be a start. Convincing the fashion world to reintroduce his labels to the podiums during London, Paris and New York fashion weeks and market them as the élite brand they’d always been would be a magnificent result, a result Frank knew wouldn’t come without a bit of good fortune and a lot of effort on his behalf. But ridding their lives of Carl, particularly Beth’s, would make the exercise and risk worthwhile.

  Relieved his request was already winging its way around the world, he took his mobile phone from the desk and idly flicked through the contacts, stopping once again when he reached Mags. Ignoring his reservations and the gnawing apprehension building inside, he pressed the green button. His heart leapt as the call connected, sinking once more in the space of ten seconds when it went straight to voicemail. Leaving an official message, he spoke slowly and clearly, listing his contact details and asking her to get in touch, careful not to make reference to their past acquaintance.

  Chapter 27

  “God damn you, Pru,” Jess muttered in the empty house, dabbing her face with a damp tissue and cursing her sister-in-law for dragging up distressing memories.

  “Speaking to me?”

  Jumping in fright, she turned around. She had neither heard nor seen Kieran arriving through the back door. She noticed the shock on his face as he watched her dry her tears.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes filled with concern as they held hers. “It’s not Greg, is it?”

  Jess shook her head, tossing the damp tissue in the bin. “I had an argument with my bitch of a sister-in-law on the phone earlier today. Another one!”

  “Another sister-in-law?” He looked confused.

  “No,” she smiled through her tears. “Only one sister-in-law – one too many at that. Another argument.”

  “Families!” he commented.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Jess took a bottle of 7UP from the fridge and poured herself a generous amount, waiting for Kieran’s response before filling a glass for him.

  He nodded, delaying his proposed invitation for a walk. “A drink would be great. Thanks.”

  “Let’s sit down.”

  He sat at the kitchen table and she sat opposite him. She leaned her elbows on the table and sipped at her mineral. The time had come where she needed to share her troubles with somebody other than Henry and Pru and, in all the years she’d known Kieran, she’d never heard him judge anyone, happy to live his life his way and allow others to make their own choices. Shifting in her chair, her knee accidently knocked against the table and almost caused his drink to spill. Putting her hand out in apology, her fingertips touched his bare arm, his skin soft to her touch, the burning desire to entwine her fingers in his and mould her body against his taut frame scaring her with its intensity. Unaccustomed to such strong feelings, she jumped up from the chair, not trusting herself in her current emotional state to resist the strong temptation to kiss him.

  “More 7UP?”

  “No more for me, thanks.” He paused. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he then said, his voice soothing.

  Leaning against the counter, she launched into an account of her conversation with Pru, barely stopping to draw breath as she explained the pressure she felt under to move out of Number 4 and take up residence in Henry’s modest bungalow instead. Her facial expressions alternating between distress and fury, she vented her feelings, laying more blame on her sister-in-law than on her brother.

  “I don’t think Henry cares. Living in Clonakilty suits him, makes his commute to work easier. I can’t imagine he’ll enjoy the Schull to Bandon commute in the dark winter morni
ngs. But Pru’s greed and ridiculous obsession with status was her only concern. I can imagine her boasting about taking up residence in Schull.”

  “But Pier Road houses aren’t exactly mansions. I’m not sure I get her obsession?”

  “You’ve been away too long, Kieran,” she said, her gaze holding his for the briefest moment. “Schull has been a very sought-after address, particularly before the property bubble burst.”

  “Better than Clonakilty?”

  Jess nodded. “Wait until the height of summer. You’ll notice the élite clientele who spend their weekends here, their luxury cars filling the streets.”

  “Oh, I’d no idea we were living in such a desirable location, with houses still fetching a reasonably attractive selling price considering the economic climate,” he said, putting on a posh accent and laughing. “That must be why my family have lodged an objection to Polly’s will.”

  “You’re joking?” Jess’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe they’d undermine Polly’s decision like that.”

  “Well, believe it.”

  “But aren’t you devastated?” She raised an eyebrow, the news adding to her depression.

  He shrugged. “It’s not what I want but there’s not a whole lot I can do about it, not yet anyway.”

  “How can you be so calm?”

  “It hasn’t happened yet,” he pointed out. “No guarantee their efforts will be successful. Just have to wait and see.”

  “I wish I could be quite so confident where Pru and Henry are concerned,” she sighed.

  Some instinct made him ask, “Is there anything else troubling you, Jess?”

  “Living here with my mother hasn’t been easy and Pru’s playing on that now to get me out, making it sound like a new address – her address in particular – is going to clear my memory with a wave of a magic wand.”

  “How long since your mother passed away, Jess?” His recollection of Jess’s mother was relatively vague. He now couldn’t imagine he’d spent so much time next door yet never held a proper conversation with her.

  “The same week as Polly but we had a private funeral. It was too tough what with –” Her sentence trailed off, her eyes downcast.

  “Had she made a will?” At least Polly had the good sense to make one, he thought, even if it is causing bother.

  Jess shrugged. “No. My mother was a law unto herself,” she admitted. “Never did anything in her life to help others. She was self-obsessed, thought only of herself.”

  The comment in Polly’s letter mirrored Jess’s statement. “How did she get on with my aunt?” he asked out of curiosity.

  “Polly was far too kind and polite for the likes of my mother,” came her mumbled reply. “Mum insulted everyone who came her way so after a while it was no surprise that very few bothered even saying ‘hello’. Although, come to think of it, Polly surprisingly continued to smile and issue a greeting.”

  “And your dad? Did he pass away too?”

  Jess gulped, looking directly at Kieran, a tear rolling down each cheek, sliding unchecked down her chin before dropping onto her top. She came and sat beside him, consoled when he covered her hand with his, holding it in a loose grip. She didn’t pull away, savouring the feel of his skin on hers, their first proper contact since his return.

  “Dad’s not dead – at least not that I know of. He left one weekend around six years ago, walked out on us, couldn’t stick my mother a moment longer. God knows but he’d put up with her antagonism for long enough.”

  Jess went to take another sip of her drink but knocked the glass over, the liquid spilling onto the table. She hated pulling her hand from beneath his but had no choice. “Damn!” She hurried to get a cloth, rushing back to clean up the mess before it dripped onto the floor. “I’m not normally this clumsy,” she explained, silently accepting that she was more accident-prone in his company.

  She returned the cloth to the sink and then came back to her seat, pleased when he slipped his hand over hers once more.

  “Do you remember him? Dad, I mean?” she asked through fresh tears.

  Kieran thought for a moment, deciding he’d been living in some form of bubble for all those summers. He’d taken very little notice of anyone’s parents back when they were teenagers, least of all his own. “Vaguely,” he responded, not wanting to offend.

  “Wait there while I get a photo. I should have one close to hand. Maybe it will jog your memory.”

  Kieran heard her footstep overhead, guessing by the muffled banging noises coming through the floor that she was searching through drawers, sliding them open and closed in quick succession. Silence resumed upstairs and, when she reappeared in the kitchen, she held a disk in her hand.

  “Best I could find,” she explained, “the last recording I made of him, the Christmas before I graduated from Cambridge.”

  “Okay,” Kieran said, bemused she wanted him to sit through a home movie but willing to watch if that’s what would help.

  “Come on, there’s a DVD player in the living room.”

  Flopping on to the floor in front of the TV, Jess pushed in the DVD and pressed play. Kieran remained standing, taking in the freshly plastered walls, polished wood floor, modern leather furniture and flat-screen television, giving him an idea of how much potential the Pier Road houses had. And it’s obvious Pru’s thinking along the same lines, he thought, not to mention my own family!

  Distracted by the amateur home movie, his face broke into a grin as he watched a younger Jess gadding about on the TV screen, the scene transporting him back in time. Her eyes sparkled – he’d forgotten how expressive she’d been, the giddy antics she’d enjoyed. He looked from her on-screen image to where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor now. They could have been two different people. On screen, long dark curls swung to her waist, a direct contrast to the funky pixie cut she sported now.

  Emotion stirred inside him, her current vulnerability stark and appealing. Putting his own concerns to the back of his mind, he went and knelt on the floor beside her, contemplating placing an arm around her shoulders. Only a few hand breadths between them, he inhaled her scent, inching even nearer to her, supposedly to get a better view of the TV screen, overcome with an overwhelming urge to kiss her on the lips. Feeling the distinct stirrings of desire, he was on the verge of cupping her chin and tilting her face to his when she jumped to her feet and pressed pause on the remote control, freezing the screen. Damn, he thought, kicking himself for his indecisiveness. The opportunity to taste her lips had passed.

  “There, Kieran, that’s him, that’s Dad.” She searched his face for recognition.

  Kieran slowly got to his feet, not trusting himself to remain in such close proximity, his interest in kissing the beautiful, fragile woman standing inches away from him delaying the reaction she was expecting from him. Getting his emotions in check, he shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded, staring at the middle-aged man on the screen and trying to force a little enthusiasm into his response.

  “Oh yes,” he lied. “I do remember him now. Have you had much contact with him over the years?”

  Shaking her head, Jess pressed the stop button, the screen going black once more. She flopped onto the patterned rug, closing her eyes for a brief moment, making Kieran suspect she was fighting back a fresh bout of tears. “Not a word in over five years.”

  Then, making no eye contact with Kieran, she described her intense heartache on the unforgettable day when, after yet another degrading showdown with his wife, her father had walked out the door wearing his Sunday sports jacket and trousers and taking nothing whatsoever with him from the house.

  “I’d heard the expression of leaving with nothing but the clothes on your back but I’d never imagined it’d happen in my house . . . but, actually, I’m wrong . . . he took a photo album I’d given him the previous Christmas, a snapshot of my years in Cambridge mixed with a trail of ancestral ruins we’d visited over the various semesters.”

  “Things m
ust have been pretty nasty for him to up sticks and take off?”

  She nodded slowly. “By that time my mother’s grinding and criticising was incessant. Morning till night, it never let up. Anytime he dared to defend himself, she lashed out with cruel insults, breaking his spirit time after time until the man could genuinely take no more.”

  “What about money? How did he manage after he’d left?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever cash he had in his wallet on the day was as much as he took with him. Other than that, he has never once made a withdrawal from a bank, Post Office or Credit Union account.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he wanted to be found?” Kieran didn’t like to pry about his profession or whether they’d been financially well off, but Jess’s father must have found work somewhere. How else would he have survived? Assuming of course that he had survived . . . He banished the thought as soon as it entered his head, going to sit on the leather couch, Jess staring at him, teary eyes filled with sadness. Looking at her sitting on the mat, she reminded him of a lost puppy, her vulnerability intensifying his urge to reach out and take her in his arms. Struggling to hide the effect she was having on him, he crossed one knee over the other and tried to combat his desire, doubting she’d appreciate any romantic advances in the middle of pouring her heart out.

  She pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them and nodding her head in agreement. “You’re dead right. He didn’t want to be found. I hoped he’d come back after Greg was born, just to see us if nothing else, say hello to his grandson and leave again if he had to. But there was nothing, not a birthday or Christmas card, phone call or visit. I was devastated but never dared mentioned it to Mum.” She shrugged her shoulders.