The Way Love Goes

by Pauline Saull

  “It’s incredible!” Sammy cried. “But what on earth will you do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Until I’ve seen it I can’t really make any decisions, though I suppose I’ll probably sell eventually. But for the moment I’m going to go over there for a few months, probably stay until the New Year. That will hopefully give me the chance to get some work done.”

  “Work?” Her mom asked.

  “Mm. According to the lawyer the house is in considerable need of modernization.”

  “Oh. Bothered by that?”

  “Not at all.” Freya heard the curtness in her voice and checked herself.

  Sammy had taken Peaches to bed, and Joe was busy loading the dishwasher, leaving her alone with her mom.

  Susan Martin reached for her hand. “And how do you feel about the news now, Freya, honey?”

  Freya pulled a tress of her red hair forward and wound it around her fingers. Her green eyes glistened. “I have to be truthful, Mom, I wish you’d told me, you should have. I’m twenty-seven, and suddenly finding out I’m not who I thought I was gave me one hell of a shock!”

  Susan’s eyes filled. “Freya, I’m so sorry. I wish I could go back, I’d do things differently. I should have insisted we tell you, but…”

  “Yeah, Mom, no point going over it all again, I suppose. What’s done is done. I guess having had time to think about it, and now the shock’s worn off, I’m beginning to come to terms with it. I was lucky to have such a great pop. I loved him totally, but I’m very sad I didn’t know Archie. I do,” she added, “feel tremendously sorry for both him and you. It must have been hell.”

  Her mom wiped her eyes. “Thankfully times have changed. But oh, dear, poor Archie. He must have never stopped thinking about you. What did I do, Freya?”

  Freya looked at her but didn’t answer. She did think though, what did you deprive me of, Mom?

  “Please, honey, try to not let my mistake influence your feelings for me. I only did what I thought best at the time.”

  Freya leaned over to kiss her. “Sure you did, Mom. I still love you.”

  Sammy returned, dessert was served, and when they’d finished, her mom told them to scoot; she’d finish loading the dishes. Joe turned the TV on, and Freya took hold of Sammy’s hand and led her out onto the enclosed back porch.

  “Excited, hon?” Sammy said.

  “Of course. I find the whole thing quite staggering. There does though appear to be only one little blip I can see in all this.”

  “Which is?”

  “The extra land. It’s been mentioned twice now. I had a call from another lawyer. John somebody or other, who informed me there had been a verbal agreement in place to sell at some point. He said the guy involved was in his office, and still interested in buying the land.”

  Sammy looked at her. “What is he, an investor?”

  “Sort of. He’s a guy who designs and builds—if that’s the right word—golf courses. Apparently the extra two hundred acres is ideal for an eighteen-hole course, and because of the so called, and I quote, ‘verbal agreement,’ he’s already had plans drawn up.”

  “So this developer won’t be very pleased to have you on the scene upsetting his apple cart?”

  “I wouldn’t think so, but I mean, a verbal agreement’s worth nothing surely?”

  Sammy frowned. “I suppose it depends how seriously it was taken, you know… Did they shake hands on it, was it an old-fashioned promise?”

  “I have no idea. I just hope there won’t be any unpleasantness over whatever decisions I choose to make. Who knows what sort of a person this man is?”

  “Do you have his name? We could Google him.”

  Freya smiled. “No, the lawyer was very good at avoiding giving out any information about him. Confidentiality, he said.”

  “Well, Sis, perhaps it would be best to get rid of the whole thing sooner rather than later. You don’t need the hassle.”

  “Mm. I’m not so sure. I mean, just look at that weather!” They turned to the porch window, streaked with rain. Freya smiled. “I think winter in California is just what I need.”

  Sammy grinned. “Lucky you. But what about your job, your apartment?”

  “I’ll keep the apartment, but the job… Hey, have you any idea how boring accountancy can be?”

  “And Phillip?”

  Freya shrugged. “I’m done with him.”

  “Good. I never liked him,” Sammy muttered.

  »»•««

  In her apartment that evening waiting for the bath to fill, Freya studied her face in the misting mirror and stuck her tongue out. I do, she thought, look much older than my years. Tiny lines had appeared overnight it seemed, and her green eyes had definitely lost their sparkle. She stuck her tongue out again.

  Too many hours sat in front of a computer screen in an over-heated, falsely bright office worrying about Phillip, who couldn’t give a damn about me?

  Her thick red hair though was still as lustrous as ever. She wiped the mirror, moved closer. “Who are you really, Freya Martin?”

  She had loved her dad dearly, there was no doubting that, but suddenly discovering she had a completely different ancestry, Freya found intriguing.

  Scottish blood ran in her veins!

  Her father and his before him, and heaven knows how many before that, had all been born and bred on the Isle of Arran. “Freya McFee,” she mused, “Gaelic!”

  And yet her mom had deprived her of that knowledge for twenty-seven years. Freya tried to quell the rising tide of anger at the thought. She had been treated like a child through her teen years and adult life, could have built up a relationship with her father had she known about him, but that had been denied her. It now struck her as a cruel and selfish thing to do on her mother’s part. The past, and what had happened between her and Archie, was gone. She’d married, made a new life, and in the process taken part of Freya’s. Thoughts niggled endlessly, refusing to go away.

  She should have told me about him, let me make the decision on whether or not I wanted to contact him.

  Freya sighed and pulled on her nightdress. There was, she thought, really no point at all in trying to lay blame anywhere now. Nothing could be done about it, and it wasn’t in her nature to hold grudges.

  Chapter Four

  Flynn and Mike were seated at a table overlooking the ocean. The men, dressed in smart, casual clothes, looked nothing at all like brothers. Mike O’Neill, smaller by a few inches than Flynn, had fair hair and skin, gray eyes, and a pale complexion. Flynn had the dark, brooding good looks passed down through generations on his paternal grandfather’s side—thick, jet black, wavy hair and deep piercing blue eyes—characteristic of many Irish people, a heritage he was intensely proud of. Tall and muscular, he loved to work out and keep his body in perfect condition. He ran, swam, attended karate lessons, and used his home gym as often as possible.

  With them at the table was Rochelle Hand, Flynn’s personal assistant and Girl Friday.

  The day, typical in California for early September, was crisp and sunny, still warm enough for shirt sleeves. Flynn rolled his up, showing fine dark hairs on his arms.

  “What are we having?” He studied the menu. “Seared tuna for me with a Caesar salad.”

  “Same for me.” Rochelle pushed her long, blonde hair back.

  “Battered fish with fries for me.” Mike handed the menu to the waiter.

  “And a bottle of Pinot Gris, please. All right with you two?” Flynn asked.

  The waiter disappeared, and Flynn, one elbow resting on the table, fingered his chin. “I had a call from John just before I left. Wainright…you know the lawyer dealing with Archie’s will? Well he rang him to say Miss Martin’s due in San Jose this afternoon. Apparently she intends moving into the house immediately.”

  “Surely not.” Rochelle looked aghast. “From what you’ve said it needs a helluva lot of work?”

  Flynn shrugged. “She was told. Though we are talking Cali standards h
ere. As I recall the house is perfectly livable.”

  “You’re really bothered about this woman, aren’t you?” Mike studied his brother.

  “You can say that again! If she was a girl from the sticks I wouldn’t be so concerned, but she’s obviously intelligent…accountants usually are!”

  Mike shook his head. “You don’t mince words, kid!”

  “I’m right though, Mike. She will have worked out pretty quickly how valuable that land is.”

  Conversation ceased as the wine waiter appeared with an ice bucket. About to take the bottle out and open it, he stopped, restrained by Flynn’s hand.

  “That’s fine,” Flynn assured him with a smile. “I’ll pour.” He filled the three glasses and held his own out across the table. “To the successful acquisition of Byron House,” he said, as their meals arrived.

  Mike cleared his throat and glanced at Rochelle. “Ahem. Not too sure about that as a toast, bro.” Three glasses hovered.

  “Okay then.” Flynn’s blue eyes narrowed wickedly, deep creases appearing at the corners. “How about, to my seduction of Miss Martin?”

  Rochelle glared at him, her face tight with anger. “I hope that was a joke, Flynn O’Neill!”

  Flynn laughed. “Of course it was. For heaven’s sake don’t take me so seriously, Roch. Come on, enjoy the meal.”

  When Rochelle’s cell phone rang, she turned her back to answer it. The conversation was short, and she tersely reported to Flynn that a contract had arrived in the office that needed drawing up. “The Wilson one,” she said. “So if you’ll excuse me.” She rose, placing her napkin on the table. “I’m not really hungry and I’ll need to get that done this afternoon.”

  “It can wait another hour,” Flynn said, looking at her, knowing he’d overstepped the mark and wanting to make up to her for it.

  “Better not. See you later.” And she strode across the room.

  “Rochelle?” Flynn called.

  She turned, her blonde hair swinging. “What?”

  “You’ll need to take my car.” He held up the keys.

  Her face tight with annoyance, Rochelle walked back and took the offered keys.

  “Mike will drive me back,” Flynn said with a devastating smile.

  They both watched her trim figure as she strode from the restaurant.

  “That remark about Miss Martin,” Mike said turning to Flynn with a frown, “was in real bad taste, bro! You know perfectly well how Rochelle feels about you.”

  Flynn shrugged, the sparkle already back in his eyes. “It was a joke, I said so. I’m not interested in, or capable of, seducing anyone. Not my style.” He picked up Rochelle’s plate and slid the tuna steak onto his own. “Besides, Roch is my P.A, Mike, not my keeper. Now getting back to the property. I’m deadly serious. Apart from my crass joke regarding the seductions of Miss Martin, I will do what it takes to get that place.”

  “But why? Why not let it go and we’ll find something else?”

  “Because you know as well as I do there’s no other flat land in this region, not with that acreage, not to mention the gold nugget.”

  “The well?”

  “The well! I’m really saddened by all this, you know. Why couldn’t Archie be truthful with me? He strung me along for almost a year!”

  Mike wiped his mouth on the napkin. “Maybe he lacked the courage. Imagine this, he makes the verbal promise with you then thinks, ‘damn! I have a daughter to think of.’”

  “Nah. I’m not buying that.”

  “Okay.” Mike pondered. “Well consider this then…he could have intended leaving his daughter just the house and the land it sits on, but didn’t get around to changing his will in time. That heart attack was pretty unexpected.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you could be right. Apparently when he lived in New York she was in that will to inherit the apartment, I suppose it’s easy enough when you move from one property to forget to change the will.” Flynn twirled his glass. “I know you and Rochelle didn’t like what I said, Mike, but if I can wheedle my way around this woman with the old Gaelic charm, I will.”

  “Well don’t let Donna hear you talk like that. She’d ban you from the house.”

  Flynn laughed. “How is my gorgeous sister-in-law?”

  “Feeling like a stuffed elephant, she told me this morning. Only another few weeks to go. We can’t wait.” Mike looked at his brother. “It’s about time you settled down…nice girl, Rochelle, she’d make a great wife and mom, and she’s clearly crazy about you.”

  Flynn shook his head. “For someone else maybe. I couldn’t make her happy because I’m not in love with her. We get on well together, but marriage, nah. There’s got to be love there, you know that, Mike! And hey, are you forgetting something, I’m still only the right side of thirty, old fella. Bags of time for marriage!” He laughed. “Not that Rochelle would have me anyway after that remark. It really cheesed her, didn’t it? I’ll be extra pleasant this afternoon, but for now, back to Miss Martin.”

  Chapter Five

  Freya wound the window down, maneuvered the rental car out of the parking lot at San Jose airport, and drove carefully onto the freeway. For early September, and especially to someone from the East Coast used to colder temperatures, the weather was wonderful.

  Deep blue skies seemed to stretch forever, and the valley floor looked green and lush with crops. Settling back, easy with the drive, enjoying the scenery, she cast quick, amazed glances at the acres upon acres of fruit fields, filled with the bent figures of the pickers.

  After driving for forty minutes, the sign for Morvenna appeared and she exited the highway, driving for another fifteen minutes before reaching the main street. Driving slowly down it filled her with a rush of childish excitement.

  She loved old country towns, and this one, while looking quaintly old-fashioned, appeared to have everything, from its upmarket boutiques and delis to the supermarkets and home appliance centers discreetly tucked down side streets. Freya pulled to the curbside and studied the map. Down to the last junction, turn right, carry on for two miles, and the gateway to Byron House was on the left.

  She restarted the car and bit on her lip, wondering briefly what awaited her there.

  Would it be in a bad state of repair? Livable, even? She hadn’t noticed any accommodation signs in the town if it wasn’t. Glancing in the rearview mirror, noting the frown creasing her forehead, she muttered, “Stop it, you’re here now. No going back, not for a while at least!”

  It didn’t take long to get there. The right turn took her onto a wide tree-lined avenue, and on the left, standing out, were the imposing opened iron gates of Byron House. Freya’s heart rate quickened with anticipation. Making her way slowly up the graveled driveway, she finally came to a halt on a circle in front of the attractive house and sat quietly for a moment taking in its features. It was a solid-looking, fine red brick building with tall windows which, on the ground floor, peeped enticingly through the ivy-covered walls. Central to the house, stone steps led up to a porch, beyond which she could see the open door.

  Open? What’s this?

  As she clambered from her car, a woman appeared in the doorway, waving. She hurried down the steps.

  “Miss Martin? Oh please don’t look alarmed. I’m a neighbor. I took the liberty of putting a few groceries in the fridge for you. The lawyer said you were arriving on the two o’clock flight, and we thought if you were delayed and had no provisions with you…I hope you don’t mind?” She smiled. “Everyone around here leaves their key under a pot or something. When Archie was alive I often called in…”

  “Oh do go on,” Freya urged. “You visited him?”

  The woman smiled. “Yes, I did. I’d bring roasts and casseroles sometimes. Though you had to bang hard on the door to be heard.” She smiled. “Archie never did go along with what he called the free and easy lifestyle here. He liked locks.”

  Freya laughed, liking the attractive woman immediately, whom she estimated in her late fift
ies. “It’s lovely to know someone cared about him. How kind you are. Do you live close by?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude not introducing myself. Margaret O’Neill. I live on one of the roads out from the center of town, just around the corner from here really. Morvenna isn’t very large. And,” she added, handing over the key, “I must introduce my father-in-law to you sometime. He spent a great deal of time with Archie.”

  “Did he? Oh, yes, I’d like that.”

  Margaret smiled and creases appeared around her deep blue eyes. “If you need anything at all, just call me.” She searched in her pocket, drew out a card, and handed it over. Freya studied it.

  “Furniture restoration. How interesting!”

  Margaret laughed. “My husband, Ron, calls it Shabby Chic, although he doesn’t always pronounce it that way! I buy old pieces of furniture and all I do, basically, is paint them.”

  “Well, I’d love to see some of your stuff. I’ll call in the shop once I’m settled.”

  “You’re staying then, Miss Martin?”

  Freya thought she’d seen a shift in the warmth of Margaret’s eyes.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m staying while I decide what I want to do.” Freya looked up at the house. “It’s a gorgeous old building, looks in much better condition than I expected. I think I could quite enjoy living here.” She turned back to Margaret, whose mouth, she noted, had tightened. “And please,” she added, “call me, Freya. Can I give you a lift back to town?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I have my car. It’s parked at the back. I’ll be off then. Don’t forget to call in the shop. Goodbye, Freya.”

  Freya waited until the small silver car came around to the front, waving as it drove away. “Mm. Interesting,” she mused, watching it disappear down the drive. “Mentioning I was staying sure did upset the apple cart!”

  »»•««

  Flynn sauntered into his mother’s shop, his eyes flickering over the painted furniture. It never ceased to amaze him how inventive she was. Busy taking payment from a customer, she looked unusually flustered.

  The meeting, he thought wryly, must not have gone well!