Now her father was dead too. And though she hated to admit it, his passing did do one thing that his living would not have accomplished. Her trust fund was nice, but she could spend that up in a month. With what she was about to inherit tomorrow, she and Nate could spend the next year traveling the world—the only real desire she had in this life.
The others in her family thought Mary Catherine was obsessed with travel. They had never understood. She didn’t care. Let them be responsible; she wanted to see the world, appreciate its food, its architecture, its beautiful treasures. She wanted to make love with Nate in exotic countries and unexpected places, and when they returned home open up a surf shop for him and an antique store for her. She would sell all the amazing things she had purchased on her travels, then travel more to acquire new things. They could do what they wanted, and she wouldn’t have to worry about using that education her father had insisted upon.
Every one of Clayton Wilcott’s children was required to go to college. It wasn’t an option. To get your trust, you had to go to school. Her older two siblings had taken the whole school thing to the extreme—one a doctor, the other a lawyer. Mary Catherine had resigned herself to study education with an emphasis in literature because she figured it would be easy. As many books as she consumed, it seemed practical.
But Danielle Steel hadn’t been a good segue into Updike and Hemingway, so five years and two summer schools later, she had barely passed. Then came the torturous student teaching semester, and again she scraped by, doing just enough to convince her supervisor that children wouldn’t be harmed under her care. She had met Nate her final year of school, and after two years of living together—much to her father’s disapproval—they figured it would take, and went ahead and got married. Nate quit his job, and she had taken him to surf all the great oceans of the world. It was the perfect life.
Mary Catherine sang quietly as she picked up the wooden spoon to taste the spaghetti sauce. But the spoon never made it to her mouth.
Without warning, someone jerked a hood over her face. There was a noise. A bark. A scuffle. The scent of salty night air. The slamming of a van door.
As the van squealed away into the night, Mary Catherine began to pray. She wasn’t sure why she prayed, or whom she was praying to. But somewhere, ingrained in her memory, her mother’s prayers rose to the surface of her mind. And if there ever was a time for prayer, this was probably it.
Will closed the door of his new Porsche and let the crumbs from the hamburger he had just eaten fall from his weathered jeans. Two boys hollered from the window of a passing car. He gave them a wave, their music still reverberating long after they were gone. He fingered the soft leather strap of his key ring and blew upward, trying to shift his tousled brown hair out of his eyes. He could smell his own alcohol-laden breath as he headed across the street to the fraternity house. Poker with the boys usually got started around ten. They’d be waiting for him.
His frat brothers loved having him around; his trust fund gave him deep pockets. And they would be even deeper come tomorrow after the reading of his father’s will.
Will wasn’t sure if he missed the old man or not. He had pretty much stayed drunk since the funeral. But it didn’t matter. It had never mattered.
He had never mattered. His birth, he knew, had been unplanned and unexpected. His mother had died when he was three. His father had never been available. None of his multiple caregivers had ever—well, cared.
Nothing mattered. So he just enjoyed living his life. No responsibilities, just school at the College of Charleston. As a senior for the second year at age twenty-three, he figured he could milk at least three more years out of college. Just last year he had told his father to consider his first year like redshirting on the football team. He’d be eligible awhile longer.
His fraternity kept him on as president for reasons he was certain had everything to do with his charming personality. He took them to his family’s plantation and to the beach for an oyster shuck. Fine food, fast women, endless alcohol. It was the perfect life. Good buddies. Good beer. Good fun.
Yet Will had found one conquest not readily attainable. She had caught his attention last year, but she wouldn’t have anything to do with him. Said he had a reputation for things she wasn’t interested in.
She was the only one who wasn’t interested. Other women hounded him like a dog to a bone. She never even sniffed.
That drove him crazy. She drove him crazy. He had made a bet with the boys that he would have her by summer’s end. It didn’t happen. They offered him an extension until Christmas. At the rate of the wager, it was worth the risk.
His key ring slipped from his hand and jingled as the keys hit the pavement. Maybe he’d had one too many before he left his condo on Laurens Street. His knuckles brushed the warm asphalt as he reached down to pick them up, but before he could get to them somebody threw a black hood over his head and began to drag him away.
Will laughed. He loved it when the frat brothers pulled a prank. Last one ended up at a strip club. Who knew what they had up their sleeve tonight? He didn’t put up a fight, didn’t struggle. Why should he? He’d just go along for the ride.
chapter two
Get your hands off of me!” Elizabeth jerked and screamed underneath the hood, her wrists bound uselessly behind her. Her Nikes flailed out, striking what seemed to be someone’s leg, but she couldn’t be sure. Not in this blackness. Four strong hands dropped her into a chair. As soon as they released her, she jumped up. “Sit down!” a voice boomed.
The voice sent a shock of fear through her—fear she hadn’t experienced in years. She sat immediately and heard the sounds of thrashing and cursing coming into the room.
“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice seemed vaguely familiar, but muffled. Elizabeth couldn’t quite place it.
“Who is it? Who’s there?!” She kicked her feet from her chair.
“Ow!” The man cursed again. “It’s none of your business who I am. Who are you?”
More screams filtered into the room. A woman’s voice this time—a very young woman, by the sound of it. “Help! Oh God, help!” The sobbing girl was pushed into another chair and continued to wail.
Then Elizabeth heard the strangest sound of all—laughter.
“You guys are whacked. Where are you taking me? We’ve been driving forever.”
The inane laughter and the woman’s sobbing continued. Then another voice spoke.
“Remove the hoods, gentlemen, and leave us for the moment.”
Elizabeth’s hood was pulled roughly from her head. She squinted against the bulb that swung brightly overhead and waited for her vision to adjust from darkness to light.
The stranger slowly came into view, waiting silently and stoically in front of them.
Elizabeth turned to survey her companions and gave a little gasp. Jeffrey. Mary Catherine. Will.
What was going on?
Mary Catherine began to wail again. “God! Oh, God! Oh, God, help us!”
“Shut up, Mary Catherine!” Jeffrey snapped.
“We’re about to die here, Jeffrey!” she screamed back. “Someone better start praying—and quick!”
“Mary Catherine . . .” Elizabeth’s mothering instincts from years ago came back to her in a rush. “Mary Catherine, look at me.”
Mary Catherine’s lips were still moving as she turned her head toward her sister.
“I need you to get a grip for a moment here. No one’s going to die. But we have to remain calm.”
Mary Catherine nodded. Large tears fell on her tank top, which was splattered with what looked like spaghetti sauce.
Elizabeth studied the sparse warehouse, empty but for a wooden desk and chair and the four metal chairs occupied by her and her brothers and sister. She turned toward the man in front of them. “Do you mind telling us what we are doing here?”
“I know what we’re doing here!” Jeffrey blurted out. “This man has come to kill us to get all of our fa
ther’s money!”
Elizabeth transferred her glare to Jeffrey. He matched her with one of his own.
“You guys are so stupid.” Will laughed. “This is one of my fraternity brothers’ pranks. Before you know it, they’re going to be rolling a big old cake out here and a really hot babe’s gonna jump out of it. Ain’t that right, old man?” Will gave the stranger in front of them an inebriated wink.
“You’re drunk, Will.” Elizabeth shot a glance at him. “Shut up.”
“Actually, if you’ll all be quiet, I shall end your speculation,” the man said in a calm British accent. He walked around in front of the wooden desk and sat down, then picked up a manila envelope and held it up for them to see.
“What’s that?” Jeffrey demanded.
The man opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of white papers. “These, my friends, are your father’s last wishes.”
“I told you, Elizabeth!” Jeffrey said. “This is about Dad’s money. Everything has always been about Dad’s money!” He turned back to the stranger. “What do you want? You plan to kill us all so you can get your hands on a fortune?”
Mary Catherine moaned.
Elizabeth leaned her head around Jeffrey to catch Mary Catherine’s eyes. “Breathe, Mary Catherine, breathe.” Mary Catherine began to pant like a woman in the twentieth hour of labor.
The stranger continued, “As I said, Jeffrey . . .”
Jeffrey gaped at him. “How do you know my name?”
“Mary Catherine has been screaming your name,” Elizabeth interrupted.
“As I said, Jeffrey, if you’ll be quiet for a minute, I will tell you what is going on.” He crossed his legs casually in front of him. “No one is going to die. In fact, you are here because this was part of your father’s plan.”
Will shook his shaggy sun-streaked brown hair. “No, I told you, this is my fraternity brothers’—”
“Shut up, Will!” Elizabeth and Jeffrey said in unison.
“No, Will.” The gentleman rose and walked over to Will. Will’s blue eyes seem to register slightly more clarity as the man approached him. “This is about your father and his will.” He paused and looked around. “Your father knew each of you pretty well.”
“Yeah, right.” Jeffrey half laughed, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in his tone.
“Laugh if you wish,” the gentleman responded, removing his gold-rimmed glasses. “But he did. And it was his decision to bring you here tonight to have the will read.”
Elizabeth and Jeffrey traded glances. Mary Catherine was still reminding herself to breathe. Will kept tossing his head, trying to get his bangs out of his face.
“My name, for our purposes here together, shall simply be Mr. Smith. Your father planned this because he knew that once you discovered the contents of his will, you might not appreciate his . . . shall we say, requirements. He also knew that money and power can be both a blessing and a curse. Tonight I will read this will, I will stand as its executor, and you will be returned to where you were picked up. I will be taken to a place where you cannot trace me, thereby preventing any tampering, either legal or illegal, with the express desires of your father’s will.”
“Why don’t you just get on with it then?” Elizabeth’s icy words filled the room, but she was listening intently to try to gauge whether this accent of his was truly British or just a really bad Hugh Grant impersonation.
“What do you mean, requirements?” Jeffrey asked.
The Executor replaced his glasses and walked around to the other side of the desk. He pulled out the wooden chair and sat down, laying the papers neatly in front of him. Then he began to read.
All distractions ceased. Four pairs of eyes gazed at him—two brown and two blue. Even the bloodshot pair never wavered. He spoke distinctly, and they hung on every word. Waiting . . . waiting for the part, the only part they really cared about.
“And to my children,” the Executor read.
For the first time it felt as if their father had actually entered the room. Elizabeth’s jaw remained set, but she fought back unexpected tears.
“For the course of one year after my death, your inheritance will be kept in a secure trust controlled by the Executor. Each of you has one week to tie up your respective business and place it in someone else’s hands for the next year.”
“What?” Jeffrey’s face went red, and the veins in his neck throbbed visibly. “The sick son of a—”
“Jeffrey, I’m not finished.” The Executor, still completely composed, cut him off.
“There is no way I’m going to throw away a business I have worked years to build, for a man who is lying six feet under!”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at him. “Jeffrey, would you please just be quiet so we can get this over with?”
“I have this friend named Stephanie who has had more plastic surgery done than anybody you’ve ever met,” Will offered. “I bet she could help out while you’re gone, with all she probably knows.”
Jeffrey didn’t even bother to look at him.
Mary Catherine’s hyperventilating slowed to a slight gasping sound. Maybe now that she realized she actually wasn’t going to be killed, Elizabeth thought, she might try to listen to what this man was saying.
“You are to spend the next year working pro bono in a position of your choosing.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze locked on the man.
“You may choose a related field, or pick one that is outside of your area of expertise. But you may not in any way, once this first week is over, have any connection with your present work. You may not contact your patients, clients, or customers after you have left, nor may you contact your employees. Every aspect of your career must rest in the hands of someone else for the duration of the year.”
The muscles in Elizabeth’s jaws pulsed. “You sick son of a—”
“Would you please be quiet so we can get this over with?” Jeffrey mimicked.
“I have a friend who has been arrested so many times his attorney has already told him he should practice law,” Will said, leaning toward Elizabeth. “Since he already knows so much about being in the slammer, I could hook you two up if you want. I hear he’s pretty competent in defending people.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Elizabeth kept her eyes fixed on the Executor.
“Do you have any idea what you are suggesting here, Mr. Smith?”
“Furthermore, you are not to travel, unless your new position requires it, and you are to spend no money, except for necessities, for which funds will be supplied to you—if, and only if, you adhere to the preceding requirements.”
Mary Catherine’s breathing began to increase rapidly again. Will opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off immediately. “I don’t want to hear one word about any of your friends, Will!”
“Well, that’s a shame, because one of my best friends owns an antique store downtown.”
Mary Catherine’s shoulders began to shake.
“At the end of one year,” the Executor went on, raising his eyes above the top of his glasses, “those of you who have successfully completed the task will divide the inheritance in equal shares, and the plantation will be given to one of you. If you do not complete your task, you will receive no inheritance. Those who do not participate will lose both their present annuity and any future inheritance.”
The Executor removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them in his inside coat pocket. He picked up the will and began to walk toward the warehouse door.
“So that’s it?” Jeffrey spat. “You kidnap us like a second-rate hoodlum—”
The Executor stopped and turned his gaze upon Jeffrey. “I wouldn’t call this second-rate. I think we surprised you pretty well.”
“You think you can just turn our lives upside down and drop us back on our doorsteps? Well, I’ll have you know something, Mr. Smith. You may think you’re walking into the dark night and we’ll never find you, but keep looking over your shoulder, mister.”
“I want to see the document,” Elizabeth demanded. “I want to see the document now.”
“Tell me it’s not real, Elizabeth,” Mary Catherine whimpered.
“I have a friend who—”
“Shut up, Will,” the Executor said before any of the other three could beat him to it. “You will each receive your own personal copy of the will tomorrow. I assure you it is authentic, perfectly legal, and perfectly binding.” He offered a brief nod, the consummate British gentleman. “I can tell you what your father’s estate was worth, however. If you like?”
“We know. He was our father,” Jeffrey said.
“Do you really?” The Executor moved toward the door. “I thought it was a well-kept secret that your father was worth a billion dollars.”
“A what?!”
Elizabeth managed to keep her mouth from speaking, but she couldn’t keep her brain from spinning. She knew her father was worth well over a hundred million. She had worked with him for years, knew about his investments. She had handled a large majority of them. But she had no idea he was worth this much. How?
“He invested wisely,” the Executor responded as if reading her mind. He gave her a wink and strolled out the door.
Immediately the four black hoods were snapped back on. Elizabeth had not even realized their abductors had returned.
The Executor’s voice entered their darkness. “Oh, and one more thing. Your father also requires that you meet once a month at Wisteria Plantation to have dinner together.” He chuckled. “Good luck.”
The sound of Will’s singing was the last thing Elizabeth heard.
The Will of Wisteria Page 2