Maddy perched on the edge of her favorite white cane chair opposite Tom O’Brien as he maneuvered himself onto her love seat. Her caller was way too big and rugged to look at ease in her tiny room.
He looked more like a soccer player than a lawyer, his expensive suit slightly rumpled, his silk tie a bit askew as if he would be more comfortable in sweats kicking a ball around than discussing the legal ramifications of an old man’s will. His muscles were the serious kind—she hadn’t failed to appreciate that when she’d held on to him for balance.
With his strong-jawed face, hair the color of richest dark chocolate, and deep brown eyes, he was so good-looking he’d made her heart flip like an expertly turned pancake when she’d opened the door to him. Made her completely forget she was wearing that darn oven mitt.
She forced herself to sit still and to look attentive for Tom O’Brien. What a ditz he must think her. Stupid, stupid, stupid to try to shake a guy’s hand while wearing an oven mitt. And she hadn’t realized she had flour all over her face. To top that off she’d nattered on about her brownies. Like some kind of retro housewife. Only without the house or the husband.
The oven mitt had blown it for her. She suppressed a sigh of regret. Too late to explain that when she was feeling down she found solace in the familiar rhythms of baking. Too late to make a good first impression on Tom O’Brien.
Surreptitiously she checked him out as he pushed away a pretty beaded cushion from the sofa as if it would contaminate him.
On the handsome hunk scale, Tom O’Brien’s needle was soaring past a ten. Pity he had to be so . . . disapproving. In the minutes since they’d met, the lawyer hadn’t smiled once. He seemed way too grim for a man his age—which she guessed to be perhaps a few years older than herself. Maybe he’d majored in grim at law school.
He hadn’t actually said anything, but she didn’t need to be super-perceptive to sense that Tom O’Brien disapproved of her—disapproved of the way she looked, disapproved of the way she decorated, even disapproved of her brownies. She caught him casting sideways glances at the plate as if it were stacked with squares of poison.
Heck, there was something untrustworthy about a man who could pass on a brownie. Especially her super-duper new recipe—star of her next magazine feature, “The Ultimate Chocolate Fix.”
She was hoping readers of
Annie
magazine would succumb to their triple-chocolate charm and take her another step toward her goal: to be the cooler, more hip Martha Stewart for a new generation.
But her special recipe wasn’t making a good impression on Walter’s dour lawyer. Why did Tom O’Brien have to be so humorless? Maybe he was one of those guys who took himself and his career so seriously there was no time for indulgences or fun. She’d met too many of that type since she’d found herself floun dering in the dating pool again.
Studiously ignoring the brownies, Tom O’Brien hauled his briefcase onto the small coffee table between them and pulled out some official-looking papers.
At the sight of them her spirits fell like a mistimed soufflé.
There could be only one reason why Walter’s lawyer should want to meet with her—to evict her from the apartment. She dreaded what he would say.
She tried to fill the silence with small talk. “I . . . I didn’t know Walter had left a will until your phone call yesterday.”
“Really,” he said, shuffling with the papers.
She was startled at the obvious disbelief that underlined his voice. “Why would I know anything about it?”
“You were close, weren’t you?” he said, tight-lipped.
Close? Of course they were close. Walter had been like a grandfather to her. But there was something odd about Tom O’Brien’s tone. And she disliked the way he didn’t meet her gaze when he spoke.
She steeled herself to speak calmly. “Walter is . . . was my landlord. You probably know he lived in the house above—this apartment used to be the maids’ quarters years ago.”
Number 23A was small, inconvenient, and being in illustri ous Pacific Heights, away from most of her friends who lived in hipper, cheaper parts of town. Two years ago she’d seen it as a temporary refuge, a place to hide and salve the wounds from her broken engagement.
Now the pretty apartment tucked underneath the once-grand old house had become home. She felt like weeping at the thought of leaving. Instead she took a deep breath. And then let her words out in a rush.
“So. Hit me with the bad news. Straight. I guess the house will be sold—and this apartment with it. How long have I got before I have to move out? I hope you give me a decent notice period—it won’t be easy to find somewhere where I can keep a dog.”
Tom O’Brien leaned forward, his carefully schooled face finally showing some animation. “The dog? You’ve got Walter’s dog?”
She bristled. “Well, of course I’ve got him. And it’s not against the terms of my lease if that’s what you’re implying. Walter asked me to look after him when . . . when he . . .”
She intended to sound tough, assertive. But she choked up at the memory of Walter’s concern that his pet would end up in a shelter. Or worse.
Tom O’Brien shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Officious as he was, she felt a twinge of pity for him. It must be difficult having to evict people. He probably hadn’t realized he’d be evicting a bereaved dog as well as a human tenant.
He watched her intently through narrowed eyes. “So you knew about the will after all.”
His suspicious tone instantly destroyed any sympathy she had felt for him.Why didn’t he just get to the point and do whatever lawyers did when they evicted people? And dogs.
“I told you I knew nothing about Walter’s will.” Why would she? This guy was beginning to bug her.
Tom O’Brien’s words were scored with disbelief. Of the scathing variety. His mouth was set in tight lines. “So, Ms. Cartwright, you’re seriously telling me that you didn’t know Walter Stoddard left his fortune to his dog, Brutus? Because I’m finding it very hard to believe you.”
Two
Tom O’Brien’s words came from left field. Maddy stared at the big, handsome man taking up so much room in her apartment. “What?” was all she could manage to say through her shock.
Then she felt a bubble of laughter starting in her throat. It burst into a peal of giggles. “He what?” She giggled again. “His fortune? To Brutus? You’re kidding me.”
The lawyer’s stone-faced expression told her that he was not.
“What a hoot! Is there enough for him to go wild and buy a new collar?”
Still Tom O’Brien didn’t crack a smile. In fact, he looked affronted at her laughter.
“Brutus could buy himself a diamond-studded dog collar if he wanted to, Ms. Cartwright.” He cleared his throat. “That is, if a dog could, er . . . shop.”
He looked annoyed at himself for making such a flippant comment. “Walter Stoddard was a very wealthy man.”
Maddy tried not to laugh again.Tom O’Brien was looking so serious that she felt she couldn’t give in to the grin that was tugging insistently at the corner of her mouth.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right Walter? This one didn’t have a cent to spare.”
Of course she’d never inquired into his finances—she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that—but her elderly landlord had always been very careful with his spending and she’d assumed money was tight.
Tom O’Brien’s sober brown gaze didn’t falter. Nor did his carefully paced words. “Walter Stoddard was a multimillionaire.”
“A . . . a millionaire? No way,” she said, shaking her head again, “you’ve got it wrong.”
Tom O’Brien laughed a short, not-very-nice laugh. “Believe me, Ms. Cartwright,Walter was worth a
lot
of money.That’s why I’m here.”
All of a sudden Maddy didn’t want to laugh anymore. And she couldn’t speak.Was this guy for real?
Tom O’Brien cleared his throat. “Uh, are you all right, Ms. Cartwright?” He reached out a hand to her and then, as if he thought better of it, withdrew it.
Maddy shook her head slowly from side to side. “I . . .I think I’m in a state of shock. Tell me that again. Walter—a wealthy man?”
“A multimillionaire,”Tom O’Brien stressed.
“You’re sure about that?” She was glad she was sitting down.
“There’s no doubt.”
Was she going crazy? “But he lived so simply. Frugally even. Why would he have done that if he had lots of money?”
Tom O’Brien shrugged his broad, soccer-player shoulders. “Beats me. Eccentric, I guess. He only confided in me as his attorney on the condition I kept his financial affairs secret until after he died and his will was read.”
Maddy’s mind was reeling. She forced herself to sift back through her memories for a clue to Walter’s wealth that she may have missed.
She thought of her old landlord, remembering his gentle wit, his keen observations, and his kindness. How she’d get cranky with him for spending more on the dog than he did on himself. He’d worn the same shabby old cardigan the entire time she’d known him.
“Walter asked me to adopt Brutus after . . . after he went. Of course I agreed, though to tell you the truth, I’m more into cats. But he never said anything about money.”
“Yeah, well. For his own reasons, he didn’t want anyone to know.” Tom O’Brien paused. “Maybe he wanted to be liked for himself.”
Was that a loaded question? “He shouldn’t have had any doubts on that score. He was a real sweetie . . . I miss him terribly.”
Maddy bit down on her bottom lip to stop it from quivering. She’d cried buckets over Walter in private. She wasn’t about to make a public display of her grief in front of this person who seemed to be implying that there was something untoward about her relationship with her landlord.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “He seemed a charming gentleman.”
“He . . . he was. And compos mentis until the very end. I still can’t believe he was rich and left it all to his dog.”
She started to twist around the antique amethyst ring she wore on the fourth finger of her right hand.
“So,” she said slowly, thinking out loud. “I guess this changes things, doesn’t it? For me, I mean.”
Tom O’Brien nodded.
Maddy continued to muse out loud. “If Brutus is a millionaire dog, he won’t need to live with me. I’ve gotten really fond of him. But, truth is, not having an animal in tow will make it easier for me to find another apartment.”
She felt sad at saying good-bye to Brutus. Really sad. But there was relief, too. San Francisco landlords weren’t known for their fondness for dogs. Much as she loved animals, there wasn’t really room for a pet in her lifestyle.
She braced herself. “So, when do I have to pack up and go?”
“You don’t,”Tom O’Brien said.
“I don’t?”
He stood up. Maddy stood up, too, so they were more evenly matched. She didn’t like him towering above her, though even when she stretched herself to her full height he was still a lot taller than she was.
“Ms. Cartwright, let’s cut to the chase.” His expression didn’t change. In fact, it turned a further degree of grim. “Under the terms of Walter Stoddard’s will, you are Brutus’s legally appointed guardian. Trustee of the fortune Walter left for the upkeep of his dog.”
Maddy stared at him. Again. Her eyes opened even wider than the last time.
“Now you’re really putting me on. Dogs don’t have guardians.”
“This one does.” He put up his hand to forestall any further interruptions. “If the dog survives Mr. Stoddard by twenty-one days, as trustee you will have full control of his fortune.”
Maddy felt as though the breath had been punched out of her body.
“What?”
She sat right back down on her chair feeling light-headed, dizzy.
“What did you say?”
“Do you want me to repeat it?”
Maddy nodded. Tom O’Brien repeated.
“I . . . I still don’t understand.” Walter had been a just and honest landlord and a friend. Or as good as a friend could be with a fifty-six-year age difference. But why this?
“Mr. Stoddard’s fortune is held in trust for the dog—a trust administered by you, with provision for you.”
“For me. I don’t get it? Why me?”
“Let me read the will to you.” He rustled the pages and—rather self-importantly, Maddy thought—cleared his throat.
Tom read out the terms of the will in careful, measured tones, trying not to let his disgust filter through. Through her guard ianship of the dog, this redheaded gold digger was set with a fortune.
The straightforward document didn’t take long to read. Apart from a sizeable bequest to his church,Walter had left the bulk of his fortune in trust for Brutus. When the trust ended—on the death of the dog or after ten years—the residual funds went direct to Madeleine Cartwright.
“That’s it?” Maddy asked.
He nodded.
“I . . . I’m still in shock . . .” she said.
He had to give it to her. She did sound shocked. And her face had drained of all color. But then she might be a very good actress. Heaven knows what she’d done to convince Walter Stoddard to include her in his will. Had she had to feign passion for a man that age? Or had it come naturally?
“What if I don’t want . . . want the responsibility?”
What? The Miss Innocent act was going too far.
“Give up an inheritance like that? Surely not.”
“But it’s Brutus who’s inheriting.”
“Didn’t you understand? It’s you who will control the money.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I’m still trying to take it in.Why me?”
“Only you know that,” he said, not letting his thoughts stray to what this pretty young woman might have done to gain such a windfall. Had she gone all the way? Or just performed other . . . services?
She dropped her hands from her face and looked over to Tom, forehead screwed up. “Walter said in the will I was the granddaughter he never had. He . . . used to say that when he was alive . . .”