“I’ll be halfway to Philadelphia by dinnertime.”
He studied her as if measuring her, clearly disappointed by what he found. “I suppose you’d like to get on with it, then.”
“I would.”
“Very well.” He opened the folder in front of him. Scoured his desk for something, then felt the top of his head where reading glasses perched. He put them on, then spent time picking up pages, thumbing through them, setting them back down so slowly Callie thought she might scream.
Then he sighed. “Miss Margaret was not generally a sentimental woman, with a few exceptions. One of those—” he looked at her over the top of his glasses “—was you.”
“Me?”
“My conversations with her, in drawing up this will as well as knowing her over the years, led me to believe that she considered you to be a great failure on her part.” At Callie’s quiet gasp, he shook his head. “I do not mean you were the failure, but rather that she considered herself to have failed you.” He paused to clean his glasses on the end of his tie. “I apologize, Ms. Hunter. Miss Margaret was an old and dear friend of mine, and something more in our youth. I confess to having a difficult time dealing with her loss.”
Callie realized that his eyes were slightly reddened, and couldn’t help being touched. She’d always wondered why Miss Margaret never married, and it was on the tip of her tongue to ask, except that this nice gentleman was already distressed. So she merely nodded in sympathy. “She was a special lady. But why on earth would she think she’d failed me?”
“She told me once that you reminded her of herself.”
Callie blinked. “I can’t begin to imagine how. Or why. Surely Miss Margaret was never a rebel.” She tried to imagine the sweet older woman in Goth black and chains, spike-tipped hair. Though there had been those earrings…Callie found herself grinning.
“You have a lovely smile,” he said, returning it. “Actually, you’d be wrong about that. Miss Margaret was very forward thinking for her time. If she’d been born twenty-five years later, she’d have been burning her brassiere with the rest of the feminists.”
For some reason, the word brassiere, so old-fashioned, was surprisingly embarrassing to hear from a man who could be her grandfather. “Really?” She thought back to some of Miss Margaret’s conversations and realized that she’d only looked at the older woman through the eyes of someone who’d been certain anyone over twenty-five was ancient. “Now that you mention it, she was her own woman, wasn’t she?”
“Very much so. She did things her own way, always. I believe she would have liked a family of her own, but—” His eyes grew sad again. “It wasn’t meant to be.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “She enjoyed her time with you very much.”
“I can’t see why. I was a major pain in the behind.”
“You were young and vulnerable. She felt that if she had handled you better, perhaps you wouldn’t have sought comfort in David Langley, and then you wouldn’t have—”
Gotten pregnant, she finished silently for him. “She was kind to me, and I liked her, too, but I’m not sure there was an adult alive I would have listened to.”
“When you lost the baby,” he said gingerly, watching her reaction, which she carefully kept neutral, “she was devastated. It only pointed out what a poor chaperone she’d been, she believed, and your mother certainly emphasized that when she returned to take you back to South Carolina.”
“My mother wasn’t fit to raise kittens.” Her mother had used sex as a currency, trading out boyfriends like some women changed hair color, and some of them were slimier than others. That particular one had begun trying to get Callie alone, and he wasn’t the first to make her skin crawl. Her mother never put Callie first, though, and when she’d tried to speak up this time, her mother had sent her away rather than protecting her.
“Miss Margaret knew that, and she tried everything to get your mother to leave you here permanently. She even offered your mother money.”
Callie’s eyes popped. “I’m astonished that my mother didn’t take it. I ran away from her three months later and never went back. She could have saved herself a lot of aggravation.”
“Be that as it may, Miss Margaret wanted some way to make up to you what she considered an enormous failing on her part.” He adjusted his glasses and looked at her. “Which is why she made you her primary heir.”
“Heir? To what? There’s only her little house.”
He smiled fondly. “I’m afraid there’s more, Ms. Hunter. Miss Margaret lived frugally, I grant you, but she was a shrewd investor. She believed a woman should be able to take care of herself financially and should never be under a man’s thumb simply because she had no resources of her own.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Not that she disliked men, of course.” At this, he blushed a bit, and Callie was more curious than ever. “She had her beaux. She believed in true love.”
Beaux. Callie tried to imagine Miss Margaret primping for a date. She glanced up at Manning, wondering where he fit into the mix, but he quickly looked away.
He cleared his throat. “At any rate, Miss Margaret owns—owned,” he corrected, “thirty-four houses in Oak Hollow that she either rented out or owner-financed. Those houses and mortgages she left to you, along with a substantial block of stocks and bonds purchased with the revenue those properties generated. She also left you her personal home.”
Thirty-four houses? And stocks? Bonds? Callie, who had never owned anything but a car, was staggered. “I—I don’t—what am I going to do with all that?”
“Collect the rents and payments, I suppose,” he said mildly. Then he frowned. “Not all of them are current, however. Miss Margaret was a little too forgiving in her later years.” Then his mouth tightened. “One mortgage, in particular, has been in arrears for nearly a year and must be dealt with.” He looked up at her. “It belongs to Delia Compton.”
“Who?”
“You knew her as Delia Langley.”
David’s mother.
“Tell me what happened to David and his mother. No more hints, no more innuendo. Lay it out for me.” She hadn’t wanted to dig deeper, but now she had to.
“Langley killed a man, I told you that.”
“Who?”
“Ned Compton.”
“Compton? His—”
Manning nodded. “His own stepfather. Ned had moved to Oak Hollow with the idea of developing this area into a tourist destination. He would have provided jobs, given this place lifeblood. People began to feel hope for the first time in memory, thanks to him.”
“When did she marry him?”
“Not long after you…left.” Manning squirmed. “She thought a father figure would help her get David straightened out.”
Straightened out? The town’s golden boy? David had jeopardized his very bright future to do the right thing once he’d found out she was pregnant. He’d stood by her against everyone when she refused to consider giving up the baby. “There was nothing wrong with David. He was the best person I ever met.”
“Begging your pardon, Ms. Hunter, but you weren’t here. He went bad after you left, cutting school and starting fights. He turned into someone none of us knew, though not a soul in Oak Hollow would have ever believed him capable of murder.”
The David she’d known had been the soul of kindness, strong and upright and gentle. “What was the evidence against him?” She fell back on her training as she sought to understand what she was hearing.
“There was a fireplace poker with his prints on it, that and his confession. His lawyer pleaded for mercy and leaned heavily on David’s former good reputation to get the charges reduced to manslaughter. Folks around here were plenty riled up about that. Ned was going to be our salvation and his killer should still be in jail, most folks think.”
“But—” Callie could not believe what she was hearing, yet the hard, angry man bore no resemblance to the gentle boy.
He went bad after yo
u left.
“Where does he live now?”
“With her. He has a job,” the attorney said with distaste, “but it will not be sufficient to make a dent in the back payments.”
Wait a minute. Wait—she held the mortgage on David’s house now? “I can’t—I don’t—”
“There’s more.”
Still trying to absorb the news, she only nodded for him to go on.
“There’s a condition.” He waited a beat, but when she didn’t respond, he continued. “Miss Margaret wanted you to live here, in her house, for at least thirty days before you are allowed use of any of the income for more than living expenses.”
Thirty days? Callie was incredulous. “I live in Philadelphia. I have a job. I’m—” I have to salvage my future there, forced leave or not. She began to laugh. “This is absurd. Completely ridiculous.” Abruptly she sobered. “What happens if I reject all of it?”
“You can’t.”
She stood and straightened her pencil skirt. “Of course I can.”
“Ms. Hunter. Please sit down. Calm yourself.”
“Calm myself? When she—” Callie was aghast at the nerve of the woman she’d been feeling sentimental over.
He held up a hand. “I didn’t word that right. What I meant was that many people will suffer if you don’t accept this. She left no alternative heir, so the properties would all have to be dealt with by the state of Georgia. The most likely course for the government would be to appoint an administrator who would dispose of the properties. Many of them are inhabited by families who’ve lived there into the second and third generation, but an outsider wouldn’t care about any of that.”
“You can’t be serious.” She sought to recollect whatever she’d learned about estate law, but she was a criminal attorney, not a civil one. Licensed in Pennsylvania, not Georgia.
“You’re welcome to check out the law for yourself, Ms. Hunter, if you don’t believe me.” He studied her over the top of his glasses, patient and somehow too knowing. “I can certainly understand why you would have conflicted feelings about Oak Hollow, but are you honestly willing to throw all these people to the wolves just to escape dealing with the past?”
Callie stared at him.
Implacably he stared back.
Are you a coward? was what he was asking really.
Of course she wasn’t. She was a busy woman with a lot on her mind.
She closed her eyes for a second. Breathed deep. There was a solution, a way out. There had to be.
I will not let this place get the best of me, not ever again.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE DESPERATELY WANTED an Internet connection so she could find an argument to refute Albert Manning’s opinion. The likelihood of high-speed Internet in Oak Hollow, though, wasn’t something she’d care to bet on.
How she wished her boss hadn’t ordered her to take extended time off. Her feeling of urgency to return to Philadelphia and salvage her career hadn’t abated as she’d put miles between herself and the city—rather, every moment away ratcheted up her anxiety. She had absolutely no interest in fixing the mess Miss Margaret had dropped in her lap; a much more critical problem awaited her.
Callie pulled into the driveway of the house she’d been given, but any lingering sentiment from this morning had evaporated under the harsh sun of Manning’s unpleasant surprise. Houses—and the people living in them—were the least of her worries.
She pressed her lips together. Including the one that put a roof over David’s head.
She let her forehead sink against her fists, which were clenched on the steering wheel. If she’d known this tangle would be waiting to greet her, she’d never have come. Albert Manning, however much the essential gentleman, would have been easier to resist from eight hundred miles away. Instead, she’d agreed to begin a tour of Miss Margaret’s properties this very afternoon.
The knock on her window made her jump.
A child stood there. The mouth moved and thin arms gestured, but Callie couldn’t hear through the closed window. Rather than start the engine to roll down the window, Callie opened the door carefully so as not to hit the child. She couldn’t decide if it was a boy or a girl.
“I did the watering.”
“What?” Standing now, Callie saw that the child’s head came only to her midriff.
“I watered the garden like Miss Margaret taught me.” The child’s frame was skinny all over and was clad in worn jeans and a shapeless, too-big T-shirt. The clothing gave Callie no clues as to gender, nor did the mop of dark brown hair that might have been bowl cut, but the delicate features seemed to belong to a girl.
“Heard Miss Margaret had someone staying here. Didn’t want the plants to die even if she—” The girl’s eyes cut away, but not before Callie saw grief in them. “She wouldn’t like that. Anyway, food shouldn’t be wasted.”
“Who are you?” Callie asked.
“Jessie Lee. Chambers,” the girl added. “Granny and me live on the Ridge in one of Miss Margaret’s rent houses. Who are you? What are you doing here?” she challenged.
The Ridge. Where David’s house was—but she wouldn’t think about that now. “My name is Callie Hunter. Miss Margaret was my great-aunt.”
“You taking over?” The girl’s gaze darted to her. “’Cause Granny is putting together the rent money as fast as she can, and I can do some more work for you to make up the difference, just like I did for Miss Margaret.”
Oh, man. Callie did not want the people in those properties to become real. “What kind of work?”
“Anything she needed. I’m strong. I can cut the grass, help can the vegetables from the garden, wash the windows. I painted the toolshed, and I was supposed to help paint the inside, but she—” Jessie Lee shrugged and didn’t finish.
“How old are you?”
“Thirteen.” But her gaze cut away, and Callie was fairly certain she was lying, that she was, in fact, younger.
So much came back to Callie then, how the children in these pockets of poverty had to grow up and assume responsibility at much younger ages than their suburban counterparts. Inner-city kids grew up fast, as well, but far too often learned a much different set of survival skills centered around violence, not gardening or household chores.
The fear she saw in this girl’s eyes softened Callie’s resentment that she was being forced to get involved. “How often did Miss Margaret employ you?”
“Depends on how Granny’s money was holding out.” Jessie Lee shrugged, but her expression was wary. “You gonna change everything?”
“I—” How did she answer? She settled for the truth. “I have no idea. I—I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“Anything you need to know, you just ask me. I can help you.” The girl’s words were rushed. “I know I don’t look it, but I’m strong, I swear. I can manage whatever I need to.”
The plea was difficult to resist. “Is your pay current?”
“Miss Margaret didn’t give me money. She just kept my hours and worked it out with my granny.”
Callie frowned. “Do you know where she kept the records?”
Jessie Lee tapped her temple. “In her head, best I could tell.”
Oh, Miss Margaret…But the girl’s worry got to Callie. She’d run away at fifteen, and she could remember the anxiety of having no security and no control only too well. She’d have to consult with Albert, as well as Jessie Lee’s grandmother. In the meantime, though, she could put a little power back into the girl’s hands. “How about this? You make me a list of what you’ve done for the last month, best you can recall, while I’m sorting things out.”
“I could do that,” the girl replied eagerly.
“I’m not ready to think about painting inside the house, but perhaps you could continue to care for the garden until I get things figured out.”
“Yes, ma’am. Grass needs cutting, too.”
Callie had her doubts about the child’s ability to handle a mower, but she was all too
aware of how desperation could lend strength. “Then let’s go look at the mower.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Jessie Lee’s worry lines disappeared, and for the moment at least, Callie had a small sense of making progress.
Plus a welcome distraction from the afternoon’s tour.
Which would include the house where David was living.
IT WAS TOO BLASTED HOT to be running, but David had learned in prison that wearing yourself out exercising could drain some of the fury when locking it down was beyond him. Sometimes no amount of logic or self-discipline could help.
Walking away from the earlier confrontation would only increase Mickey Patton’s contempt, but David had forced himself to do it anyway. He would never risk being put behind bars again, so he’d run up one hill and down the other, so many miles that he knew he’d be rubber-legged when he stopped. After he finally retrieved his mother’s sedan and drove home, all he could think about was a long shower, some food and a nap before work.
When he spotted Albert Manning’s car out front, he got a sinking feeling. His mother was behind on her house payments, and Manning handled Miss Margaret’s affairs.
This couldn’t be good.
David crossed to the back steps, sweaty and filthy from his run and the dust on the roads he’d traveled. He followed the sound of the voices before realizing there was a third one.
He stopped dead at the entrance to the hallway as Callie Hunter stepped out of his bedroom.
His bedroom. The one place in this world—the only space for fifteen endless years—where he had the right to close the door. To shut out everything and everyone.
Callie wasn’t alone, either; his mother and Manning were with her. The feeling of violation was so intense that he gripped the door frame before he could leap into action. Before he said something that couldn’t be taken back.
He had almost nothing in this life that belonged to him anymore—not his good name or control over his future, barely the clothes on his body—but that one miserable, small room was the place he’d begun to relax, just a little. To quit feeling hunted by fate and choices made, by a world that had rendered a verdict and found him wanting. It wasn’t home—no place was now—but it was still a refuge. His mother honored his unspoken need for privacy, for a spot where he didn’t have to worry about fighting for his life or hurting the innocent, and he’d started counting on that.
The Man She Once Knew Page 3