Chapter Three
Thursday found Morgan standing in the same elegant foyer where she’d stood three days earlier. Had it only been three days? Now, she was no longer nervous; she was curious. Her parents, her adoptive parents—no, they would never be that—had, once again, offered to go with her. However, Mr. Bask made it clear to her that she was to come alone. So, she had. However, not unarmed. Knowledge was power and she felt very powerful. She knew who she was. Better yet, she knew whom she chose to be.
As before, the receptionist led her to Mr. Bask’s ornately appointed office. He smiled, if one could call pulling his lips taut over his teeth smiling. There weren’t nearly as many papers cluttering his desk today. In fact, a single folder rested neatly in the middle of it, closed.
They shook hands and she sat across from him.
“I gather you got things straightened out,” he spoke as if to clarify an annoyance.
“Excuse me?” Morgan asked tightly.
Suddenly, his demeanor changed. “I apologize.” His voice softened. His eyes warmed.
Her defenses heightened.
“Things are rather urgent just now, Miss Briscoe,” he stated.
“Morgan.”
He nodded and opened the folder. “This is the will of your parents. Do you want me to read it completely or go over the important points?”
“Biological parents.”
“What?” he looked up at her. “Oh. Yes, your biological parents.”
She glanced around, even though she knew she was the only one there, besides the lawyer. “Am I the only one in the will?”
“No. But the son has already—”
“Son? I have a brother?” Her heart tumbled. She never dreamed.
“Um, no. Not really.” He ran his hand over sparse grey-white hair. “He’s a ward.”
“They gave me away and adopted another child?” Her voice sounded shrill, even to herself.
“No, no.” It was obvious she was getting perplexed. “Dorian is their ward. And heir.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“That isn’t important at this point and it has nothing to do with you.” He was almost sharp.
Morgan was getting more frustrated as well. He was right. As far as she was concerned, none of this had anything to do with her. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could leave, get home, and go about the job of finding a job.
“Let’s just get on with it, please.”
“I’ll just go over the part that pertains to you, alright?”
She nodded.
“A sum of money, starting at $10,000.00, with monthly additions of $1000.00 was deposited each month in your name, with the Briscoes in guardianship, beginning on the day of your adoption. They did not access the funds at any time. Given interest, accrual, and compounding, and with some depreciation at times, the sum at this time is $577,366.05. The account is already in your name, the guardianship withdrawn.” He looked up.
“Miss Briscoe…Morgan…” He reached over and hit the intercom.
“Ms. Gwynn, would you please bring Miss Briscoe some water? And hurry.”
Morgan stared at him. Her vision clouded as the blood drained out of her head. Someone placed a glass of cold water in her hand. Sipping, she offered the receptionist a weak smile. “Thank you,” she whispered and set the glass on the desk. Every time she was in this office, she almost passed out.
He waited until Ms. Gwynn slipped quietly out of the room. “Are you all right?”
“Would you repeat the amount, please?”
The lawyer looked back at the document, running his finger down, “Five hundred seventy-seven thousand three hundred sixty-six dollars and five cents.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“May we continue?”
“There’s more?” She reached for the glass again, just in case.
“There is the matter of the shop and property.” He looked up, obviously anticipating another reaction. When she didn’t, he continued. “The shop and its contents, the property on which it sits in Ruthorford, Georgia, the cottage and all outbuildings and their contents are transferred to you and Dorian Drake as coheirs. As Dorian was raised by Melissa and Thomas Kilraven and taught the business,” he shot a quick glance at her, “he was apprised of the situation immediately upon their death and is running the shop.” He closed the document. “He is awaiting your arrival.”
“I thought you said—”
“I said that the information regarding his lineage has nothing to do with you.”
Well, that was just fine with her.
“Just where am I supposed to meet Mr.—” she faltered.
“Drake. Dorian Drake.” The corner of his lip curled. “Ruthorford, of course.” She couldn’t tell if it was an attempt at a smile or a smirk.
“Where is Ruthorford?”
“About an hour from here. Our driver will take you.”
Damn. There was no way she could go all the way out to some God-forsaken town and get back in time to catch a flight out tonight.
“Would you like some lunch before you go?” Mr. Bask rose. “If you wish to freshen up…” he didn’t finish, just pressed that infernal button again. “Ms. Gwynn, would you please show Ms. Briscoe the facilities?”
She would hate to be Ms. Gwynn, she couldn’t help thinking. Instead, she smiled at him and stood. “I’m not very hungry. I think I would like to get going, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll arrange a meeting with you and Dorian later on to finalize the estate, after you have had a chance to meet.” He took her hand. Its warmth startled her.
Once settled in the car, Morgan looked at the leather case Bask had handed her as she left. Bask & Morrisette was embossed on the front. Her name was also embossed in the same style and lettering below the firm’s name. She ran her fingers lightly over the lettering and the soft leather. She set it aside. There’d be plenty of time to read over the documents on her way to Ruthorford, wherever that was.
The driver wasn’t particularly forthcoming with any information about the firm and he didn’t know too much about Ruthorford. He went out there about once a month to take something to Miss Melissa or Mr. Kilraven or bring something back. Morgan found it interesting that he called Melissa by the southern familiar of adding “Miss” before the first name. Normally, that was reserved for venerated elders. They seemed well thought of, at least by the driver.
Morgan slipped off her pumps, sunk her feet in the soft carpet of the luxury vehicle and settled back for some boring reading. It was straightforward, given the legalese. It stated what Bask had said, except for some part about the firm of Bask & Morrisette being available to her “in perpetuity” as was the facility in which it was housed. That didn’t make any sense, but maybe this Dorian Drake could enlighten her.
Every now and then, she glanced out at the passing scenery. She had no idea which direction they were headed, but the landscape was breathtaking. The summer had been good here. Everything was green and lush. What she wouldn’t give to get her hands in the dirt. While the terrain wasn’t mountainous, it was definitely more up and down than she was used to.
She happened to look up as they crossed a wooden bridge. A morning glory framed sign displayed
“Welcome to Ruthorford.”
The road snaked around. Houses appeared on either side. Cottages—some Tudor, some Victorian—gave way to larger homes on more expansive lawns. One in particular caught her eye—a large Victorian, white with blue-gray trim. A beautiful “painted lady.” The sign read
Abbott’s Bed & Breakfast
. “Strange,” she muttered half to herself, half to the driver, “Abbott House is the name on the mansion in Atlanta. Abbott must be a significant family in Ruthorford.”
Morgan stole another glance at the bed and breakfast. She loved bed and breakfasts. Having grown up near Williamsburg, Virginia, there was an abundance of private lodgings. She tried to make it a point of choosing that over the sterile accommodations of a motel whenever she got the chance. Maybe she could stay there for the night. She smiled to herself. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
A large, grassy median split the lanes. Landscaped paths and wrought iron benches encircled tall fountains. Picturesque shops appeared on either side of the divided street. The car slowed and stopped in front of a dark brick, two-story Victorian building. Brick fencing with black iron gates set it apart from its neighbors. Bay windows flanked tall doors.
A sign in Old English read,
The Shoppe of Spells
.
****
“Thank you, Miss Alice. Remember to use this sparingly.” Dorian Drake handed the older woman her package. “And give my love to Miss Grace.”
“I will,” the diminutive woman twittered. “You must come by for some of Grace’s peach pie. She’s in a baking mood this week—”
The tinkling sound of the bell above the door drew their attention.
“Oh…my,” Alice whispered and glanced at Dorian.
“I’ll come by this week.” He spoke softly to the old woman, yet his gaze never left the woman now standing just inside the entrance. He would’ve known her anywhere. She
was
Melissa, some twenty or so years ago. The same curling, brilliant red tresses. The peaches and cream complexion. The cupid’s bow full lips. This woman was taller and more slender than Melissa. There was something else—a wariness, as she peered at him through red bangs. She was self-conscious. Something Melissa never was.
The grief came suddenly, without warning. He’d thought he’d gotten a handle on it, until
she
walked through the door. How dare she look so much like Melissa? How dare she force his loss to the forefront? He swallowed, took a breath, and forced it back down.
Miss Alice edged around her, staring. “Oh...my,” she said again.
The bell tinkled, announcing Miss Alice’s departure.
The young woman’s lips curved in a hesitant smile. She stepped forward. “I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Dorian announced flatly and came around the counter. “Bask called me.”
“Oh.” She pulled back the hand she’d extended.
His eyes warred with hers.
She straightened to her full height, which was still a good six inches below him, and thrust out her hand again. “I’m Morgana Briscoe—Morgan.” She flashed him a brilliant smile.
He glanced down at the hand, considering. Then, with a slight lift to the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, he slowly let her hand slip within his grasp. “Dorian Drake.” A current surged between them. She jumped, jerking back her hand. As if nothing had occurred, he slipped around her, flipped the closed sign on the door, and locked it.
He watched her as she looked around the shop, her eyes coming to rest on the sign above the counter, where he now stood, closing the old-fashioned register—
Merry Meet, Merry Part, Merry Meet Again.
He saw her brow furrow. “It’s an original sign,” he said, “probably a hundred and fifty years or more.” His voice sounded harsh to his own ears. Mel and Thom would never have treated anyone like that, especially not her. As he watched her move around the room, he offered up his own silent plea.
Hey guys, give me a break. I didn’t expect her to look like this. I’m doing the best I can.
Seeing Melissa in his head, her hands on her hips, one brow raised, he added.
Okay, I’ll try harder.
“Excuse me?” Morgan stopped and faced him.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. Had he said that out loud?
****
She wandered over to the counter with the oils and soaps. This was not what she’d expected, given the sign out front. She looked around. The inside was airy and inviting. Bottles of lotions, perfumes, and soaps rested neatly on glass shelves. Interspersed between the bottles were rocks and crystals. The effect was dazzling. On the other side were herbs and jars of—whatever—all neatly lined up. It looked like an organic gift shop. And, it smelled so good. Scents she knew. She sighed in relief.
He wasn’t what she expected either. Hell, she didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t Mr. tall, dark and handsome with ice-blue eyes that seemed to cut right through her…and looked as though he was hoping to hit the jugular. Then, she saw the sadness in his eyes before he covered it with a glare. Up until now, all she’d felt were anger and confusion. It hit her. This man had just lost his parents—her parents. No. She still had her parents.