Aaron's Will

by DawnMarie Richards

  Linda and Tyler Shore had been doting and loving parents, but they had also been career driven professionals with no time for friends beyond their colleagues. There was no other family, no place else to go. Morgan had agreed.

  From that moment on, Aaron had become her main source of support and strength as she rebuilt her shattered world. The transition had not been effortless, of course. There had been grief and frustration, anger and tears. But with time and patience, a family had formed. Aaron and Philip, Mr. and Mrs. Tibbe and Morgan, they had become a family. The foundation of that family lay in the casket slowly receding into the wall beside her.

  All is well. All is well. All is well. Although the words repeated in her head like a mantra, her heart thundered out of control. Her breath came in harsh short bursts. She thought she might faint. Opening her eyes she scanned the room wildly looking for the quickest exit. Instead of an escape route, though, she found herself captured by Dylan’s clear blue gaze.

  They were separated by the catafalque, but the distance didn’t matter. His focus soothed her like a gentle caress. She felt her pulse slow, her muscles soften. She hated her easy response to him. She was already mortified she had been unable to resist acting on her impulse to see him after Aaron’s death.

  She tried to look away, drop her gaze, but couldn’t manage it completely. Beneath half-lowered lids, she took in the comfort and assurance he conveyed. He was telling her she would be all right. And, heaven help her, she believed him.

  He smiled then, a slow, slight curve of his lips. It was as if he knew the effect he had on her. Suddenly she was awash in the memory of how his kiss had affected her in his office the other night. The phantom touch of his tongue on her bottom lip made her scrape her top teeth over the spot to dispel the sensation. She saw Dylan’s eyes widen, watched his pupils darken, and felt an answering clench low in her abdomen. Shame heated her cheeks at her body’s reaction to him, in spite of the place and the occasion.

  “That concludes our service.” David Briar’s peaceful words neutralized the charged moment, allowing Morgan to return her attention to the somber matter at hand. “There is to be a reception at the Field family home. Philip and Morgan hope you will join them at Seascape to remember Aaron. Thank you.”

  She glanced back at Dylan. He had turned to speak with Melinda Stile and although Morgan was grateful to be free of his grip, for an instant, utter loneliness stole the air from her lungs. Dylan Drumlin was her blind spot, her weakness, her tragedy. She would do well to remember. With a shuddering sigh, she turned to Philip and the long afternoon ahead.

  * * * *

  Dylan drove through the streets of Rock Bluffs thinking about the woman riding in the limousine in front of him. It was ironic, considering for the longest time he’d done everything in his power to banish her from his thoughts.

  Morgan Shore was a glitch, an indecipherable anomaly that had been disrupting the natural order of things, his natural order of things, for the last eight years. And it seemed he was as powerless against her now as he had been when they first met.

  By the time he’d started work at the firm, Morgan’s story had become office legend. Dylan had had the entire tale relayed to him on several occasions. When he’d attended his first company gathering at Seascape, he’d expected a soot-dusted, tragic waif with huge, perpetually tear-filled eyes.

  The reality of Morgan could not have been more different. She was petite, but there was nothing waif-like about her. An avid field hockey player, her youthful frame had been toned and fit. Her eyes were large, but they’d been filled with an intelligent curiosity. And he could still picture what she’d worn that day, a pretty white sundress with daisies embroidered on it. Not a smudge in sight. He should have known something was terribly wrong right then with his usually flawless judgment when it came to Morgan. Instead, he’d gone on to compound his initial miscalculation with another. He’d let himself believe he could befriend the sixteen-year-old.

  It hadn’t been entirely Dylan’s doing. Aaron had had a hand in it. He’d provided endless opportunities for Dylan to be at the house. There had been emergency, after-hours client consultations, bottles of wine needing critique, even the occasional odd job requiring a ladder or a younger man’s strength. Most had ended with an invitation to dinner. Being at Seascape became perfectly ordinary and comfortable. And, always, Morgan was there.

  From the start, he’d been impressed by her resilience in the face of unimaginable loss. She wasn’t afraid to be happy. She was quick to laugh and had a wry sense of humor that surprised and delighted him. It hadn’t taken long for him to become enchanted by her.

  And he’d never questioned his growing affection. Lulled by the ten year difference in their ages, he’d ignorantly assumed it a physiological impossibility for Morgan to become anything more to him than a friend. The worst he thought he might have to deal with was her developing an adolescent crush on him. It would be his third and most unsettling lapse.

  They’d had two years of what Dylan had genuinely envisioned as an enduring friendship. Then Morgan had left for her freshman year at college, and the dreams had started. They were not the kind of dreams any self-respecting man should be having about his eighteen year old “pal.” He’d dismissed it as some twisted prank of his subconscious. At least until Morgan came home for Thanksgiving.

  Somewhere along the line, Dylan had started cooking a monthly “Gratitude Dinner” at Seascape. He’d thought it only fair to give Mrs. Tibbe a night off to thank her for all the times she’d set an extra place for him. It hadn’t been long before Morgan had become his most eager assistant. Knowing she would be away at school for three months, and consequently three “Gratitude Dinners,” Morgan had somehow convinced Mrs. Tibbe to let her and Dylan handle Thanksgiving dinner.

  So it was he had found himself in the kitchen with her. She had been chopping vegetables at the counter for an antipasto. He’d just put the turkey back into the oven after having basted it. She’d made some wisecrack about lifting with his knees so he didn’t blow a disc when he’d been blindsided by raw lust. His mouth had gone dry and his hands had begun to shake. He still had no memory of that dinner, cooking it or eating it, beyond the struggle to act normally, like nothing had happened, like his world had not tipped off its axis.

  He’d forced himself to see Morgan when she was home during her winter recess, hoping against hope his wildly inappropriate reaction to her had been a fluke. But every encounter was the same, every meeting a trial. Dylan had been left with no choice. He’d had to end their relationship.

  Heartlessly efficient about it, he’d ignored her disappointment, confusion and pain as he made one thin excuse after another for why he couldn’t make it to the firm’s New Year’s party, dinner at Seascape when she was home for spring break, or even meet in town for a movie on the weekend. The invitations, mercifully, had stopped. Disregarding a growing sense of despair, Dylan had commended himself on his masterful handling of the situation. Then he’d focused his attention on putting it all behind him, putting Morgan behind him.

  He honestly thought he had until she appeared in his office and told him Aaron was dead. And he’d kissed her. Goddamn, that kiss might have been the biggest mistake in the whole colossal mess. The chaste meeting of their mouths had stirred things in him, things undoubtedly better left dormant. He’d gotten disturbing proof today when the slight provocation of her teeth scraping across her bottom lip had caused an almost violent response. Lust had ricocheted through him, making his knees go week and his groin ache. Reflexively, his eyes closed at the memory.

  He opened them just in time to see the brake lights in front of him. The limo’s directional started blinking, and Dylan realized the processional had already arrived at Seascape’s long sloping drive.

  Dylan made the turn then glanced in his rearview mirror, noting the line of black vehicles behind him. As if choreographed, all of the cars drove along the curved driveway in front of the house and stopped as one behind
the limousine. By some unspoken agreement, everyone stayed in their vehicle. Dylan assumed they were waiting for the immediate family to precede them into the house. He shut off the engine and dipped his head to consider Seascape through his side window.

  He had been here more times than he could count, yet the building’s Victorian beauty still charmed him. Aaron had taken great pleasure, at any and all opportunities, in informing people the house was a prototypical Free Classic Queen Anne. The moniker never meant much to Dylan. But he certainly appreciated her distinctive columns standing at intervals along the perimeter of the front porch and running the entire width before stretching around the south side of the house. Decorative dentil molding underlined the eaves and framed the windows. The roofline was a composition of irregular, steep pitches intersecting at odd angles. The result was subtly fanciful and entirely inviting. Aside from his own restored brownstone, it was Dylan’s favorite place to spend his free time; at least it had been in the not so distant past.

  He glanced out the windshield. The driver still stood at the rear of the limo patiently holding open the passenger door, but no one had, as of yet, exited. Dylan hooked his fingers under his door latch in preparation to investigate, but relaxed when he saw Mrs. Tibbe appear. She was followed by Mr. Tibbe, who went immediately to his wife’s side. They started forward slowly. Mr. Tibbe bent slightly and Dylan could see his mouth moving. Mrs. Tibbe stopped walking and twisted in the curve of her husband’s arm to look back at the limousine.

  Dylan followed her gaze and saw, beneath the obstruction of the door, a black high heeled shoe emerge followed by a delicate ankle and a long, lithe calf. A second leg joined the first and then Morgan stood, exposing her head and shoulders to his view briefly before she pivoted and bent at the waist. Dylan presumed she was reaching back for something, or someone.

  Dylan watched as she reappeared followed by Philip.

  “Finally,” he grumbled to himself as he began to unfold his length from the Jaguar.

  His hand was braced on the top of his car door when Dylan halted in mid-motion. Philip had stumbled, half falling onto, half catching Morgan in an awkward embrace. Dylan’s breath caught as he waited to see if they would fall, aware he was too far away to prevent it from happening. Somehow the pair managed to steady themselves, Dylan surmising it had more to do with Morgan’s agility than Philip’s participation. One second later and his suspicions were confirmed as he watched with disbelief. Philip ran his hands slowly and possessively up Morgan’s back, pressing his face into her neck.

  Dylan’s gaze jerked to Morgan, but he couldn’t read her expression. She was struggling to prevent Philip from falling back into the limousine. Dylan looked to the scattering of people behind him who had left their cars to follow the family into the house. Everyone seemed frozen in place, apparently trying to process the spectacle developing before their eyes. It was all the impetus Dylan needed to stride toward Philip and Morgan.

  As soon as he got within arm’s reach, the issue became clear. Philip was drunk; the stench of alcohol came off him in waves. Dylan’s stomach rolled, memories of his father skittering through his mind.

  He could see Morgan’s alarm clearly and knew he would have to check his impulse to drag the drunken idiot into the shrubs and beat some sense into him.

  “Philip, let me give you a hand.” Dylan gripped him firmly by the shoulders, guiding him away from Morgan and holding on until he found his feet.

  The arrogant ass responded by shrugging Dylan off, a shameless smirk on his face. Then he put his hand out blindly. Dylan’s mouth dropped open as Morgan stepped into the semi-circle of Philip’s extended arm without hesitation. He watched, stunned, as the two of them began to make slow, if unsteady, progress toward the staircase leading to the front door, Morgan’s arm tight around Philip’s waist, her opposite hand on his shoulder. She didn’t spare a backward glance.

  Dylan released his breath in a low sigh and walked toward the Tibbes.

  “Mrs. Tibbe.” Dylan bent to kiss the older woman on the cheek while he extended his hand to her husband. “Mr. Tibbe.”

  “Oh, Dylan. Thank goodness you were nearby to help.” Mrs. Tibbe linked her arm through his and tugged him toward the house.

  “Yes, well I didn’t want to see the two of them end up on the pavement.”

  “No,” Mrs. Tibbe agreed, her chagrin at such a possibility clear on her face.

  “He must have started first thing this morning to be drunk this early.”

  Mrs. Tibbe paused, bringing Dylan to a halt. She looked up at him, but it was Mr. Tibbe who spoke.

  “Problem is he hasn’t stopped since the day his father died. The Missus and I are very worried.”

  Dylan looked at Mr. Tibbe and then toward the man in question. He and Morgan had paused at the top of the stairs before heading into the house. With grim fascination, Dylan watched Philip slide his hand from Morgan’s waist to the small of her back and then inch it downward. When Philip’s fingers curved with the swell of Morgan’s backside, the progression ceased.

  “What the hell!” he expelled under his breath.

  Mr. and Mrs. Tibbe turned their heads in unison, both gasping at the scene that had Dylan wanting to crush every bone in Philip’s offending hand to dust.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Tibbe exclaimed, looking behind her at the gathering group of people. “We’d best get them inside.”

  The three of them moved forward creating a screen between Morgan and Philip and the rest of the guests. Dylan saw Morgan’s spine stiffen and her shoulders tense. Yet, he noted with a growing irritation, she did not step away from Philip. He decided she must be desperate to avoid a scene and Dylan would be damned if he’d be the one to create one. So he followed Morgan’s lead, suppressing every murderous impulse threatening his resolve.

  Somehow, their odd little party made it up the stairs, through the front door and the foyer, and the additional ten feet to the solarium. At an appropriate distance, the rest of the guests followed.

  Philip and Morgan stopped inside the doorway of the sunroom forming a receiving line of two. Philip stood on Morgan’s right, apparently intending to maintain his inappropriate contact with her even as the two greeted mourners.

  Dylan escorted Mrs. Tibbe into Morgan’s arms. The women hugged warmly but said little to one another. Then Mrs. Tibbe moved on to Philip. Dylan saw her disapproving look, but Philip seemed oblivious to it. In fact, Dylan noticed with narrowing eyes, Philip seemed intent on him. The two men locked gazes as Philip bent to receive the brief kiss on the cheek Mrs. Tibbe offered him and Dylan motioned for Mr. Tibbe to precede him in greeting Morgan.

  For several tense moments, Dylan focused on Philip and the mystifying waves of rage coming off of him. A light touch on Dylan’s arm compelled him to shift his gaze. Whatever Morgan saw on his face caused her hand to drop away from him, all the blood draining from her face.

  “Please.” She implored him with her eyes before darting her gaze to the side to confirm Philip was engaged in conversation with Mr. Tibbe. “Let him be. Aaron’s death has been difficult for him.”

  “I’m sure,” Dylan replied drily, unconvinced Philip needed or deserved such sympathy.

  “Please, Dylan,” she insisted.

  Without responding, he stepped toward Philip.

  “Philip.” Dylan took the younger man’s hand in a bracing grip. “I’m sorry about your father. He meant a great deal to a lot of people.”

  “Yes, we are all very sorry the remarkable Aaron Field is dead.”

  Dylan jerked back at Philip’s callous tone. He glanced at Morgan, but noticed she spoke quietly with Nathan Wurst. Dylan wondered at her ability to maintain her composure under Philip’s insulting touch and the threat of an impending altercation inches away. He decided it was time to put a stop to it. Increasing the pressure on the hand becoming slick with sweat in his grasp, he hauled Philip into a half-hug which efficiently dislodged his arm from around Morgan.

  “Some advice.�
� Dylan dropped his voice. “Keep your goddamn hands to yourself and stop being an ass. It’s your father’s funeral for Christ’s sake.”

  After two sharp claps on Philip’s back, Dylan stepped away indicating with a slight bow and nod to the next person in the receiving line he was through with Aaron’s son.

  Chapter 3

  Few guests remained when Morgan finally gave in to the exhaustion. She curled up in the “V” of the corner sectional near the piano and put her head on her folded arms and closed her eyes. Seconds later, though, she felt a feathery stroke on her shoulder.

  “Please pardon the intrusion, Ms. Shore. You are understandably tired. But I would very much like to speak with you before I go. Just for a little while?”

  “Of course.” Morgan sat up to make room for her unexpected visitor, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Mrs. Bennett, please sit down.”

  “Lillian, please. And how charming of you to remember who I am.”

  Morgan smiled at the thought of not remembering Lillian Gustave Milton Bennett. For starters, the woman was stunning. No other word fit as well to describe the always impeccably dressed, made-up and coifed Mrs. Bennett.

  More than that, Lillian had a raw magnetism. As a woman, Morgan knew it was difficult not to notice Lillian when she walked into a room. The eye was drawn to her, like it would be drawn to a single red rose in a field of daisies. Morgan could imagine what effect a female like Lillian had on men. The word “irresistible” came to mind.

  Morgan had heard other words whispered as Lillian swept through a room, words like “gold-digger” and “opportunist.” While it was true Lillian’s lengthening list of surnames had been made possible by her penchant for marrying men forty or more years her senior, Morgan sensed there was more beneath Lillian’s ever calm demeanor. Something compelling, and somehow melancholy, ran deep within her.

  And then, of course, there was the connection with Dylan.