by Cara Colter
And then David leaped up and took chase, with Kayla hard on his heels, and the chef scowling at their departing backs and his ruined finale.
It seemed it was hours later that they finally caught up with the little dog after doing a backyard and alleyway tour of most of Blossom Valley.
They captured the dog and Kayla admired his little outfit and David retrieved the ring, and she laughed at the little bumble bee box and she laughed right until the moment that David got down on bended knee in front of her.
Then the tears came. She had Bastigal clasped to her chest and tears running down her face, whether from laughing or crying, he wasn’t too sure.
And he wasn’t too sure it really mattered which it was, either. Because the essence of that moment was startling in its clarity, more multifaceted and brilliant than the ring he was about to give her.
“Will you marry me?”
The look on her face was a look that could make any man find the courage in himself to believe in the future.
She had not said yes, yet, when a spotlight caught them in the harshness of its glare.
“Sheesh,” David heard a voice behind him say, “I should have known.”
Kayla’s laughter was better than a yes. It was the laughter of a woman who wasn’t the least bit guilty about her happiness. It was the laughter of a woman who did not have one ounce of fear in her.
Her joy filled her eyes with a light that drenched him, and that drenched the world around him, turning it from black and white to pure gold.
This, then, was what his future held.
EPILOGUE
ONCE, DAVID BLAZE THOUGHT, he had been the most arrogant of men. Had he really believed that he knew the things that intensified love? Had he really been convinced he knew of the things that should be included in a memory box?
Now he was humbled by how little he had known.
The moment Kayla and he had stood on a beach in the Caribbean, she in a sundress and a spaghetti-strapped T-shirt and a hat that reminded him of the day she had bicycled back into his life, he had felt the love between them intensify to what he believed was a breaking point.
But then, when she had whispered I do, his love had intensified to such a point that he did not know how a heart so full could not explode. He had been sure it could never get fuller. Or better. Or more intense.
When the doctor had sat him and Kayla down, and smiled slightly and said congratulations, that was the moment he realized something in him was expanding to hold a whole new level of intensity.
But it surely had reached its limit now? His heart was fuller than full. It could not expand any more.
But then it did. Any other intensity David had ever experienced had been eclipsed by the ultrasound pictures.
And then that had been eclipsed again by that terrifyingly beautiful night when David would have done anything to take the pain from his wife.
And then that moment moved into the shadows when he held the baby in his arms, that wrinkly, loud, ugly, hair-sticking-up-every-which-way bundle of life that was his daughter.
And now, Kayla punched the code on the door, simple one-two-three, but more complicated than anyone on the wing could figure out, and they went down the hall to his mother’s room.
His mother was sitting in a chair, and when they came in, she looked at them blankly. He was thankful that today, at least, she had her clothes on.
But then she saw the baby, and something soft bloomed in her face.
Not recognition of them, perhaps, and perhaps that was not what was as important as what she recognized, anyway.
She looked eagerly at the bundle he was holding, and held out her arms.
He glanced at Kayla. Was it okay to give their daughter to his mom? Who admittedly was not all there? Could this poor addled soul be trusted with something so fragile as a baby, less than a week old?
But Kayla nodded without the slightest hesitation.
David passed the baby to his mother, ready to rescue her in an instant if something went wrong, but it did not.
He felt himself relax as something went beautifully, wonderfully right.
It occurred to him that this was a moment he would put in his memory box, the way his mother’s instinct was still there, and her one hand went naturally to cradle the baby’s neck while the other supported her tiny body.
This would surely always be in his memory box, his mother’s face when she held her granddaughter. It was as if everything else they had been through was gone, and there was only this moment of shining truth left.
What the memory box held—the only thing of any importance at all—was the love.
An experience so intense that by some miracle it took the limits off a human heart, letting it expand beyond measure to hold it.
“Her name is Polly,” he said softly.
“But that’s my name,” his mother said, bewildered.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, it is.”
The two Pollys regarded each other solemnly. And then the baby wrinkled up her face, opened her eyes and blew spit bubbles from her lips. She made a cooing sound and she blinked and she wriggled a little bit, tiny fists finding their way out a pale pink blanket and flailing at the air.
And the light that came on in his mother’s face held every Christmas morning, and every fireworks display they had ever seen together, and it held the puppy he had brought home. It held safe the memory of his father, and all that they had been as a family. It held his friendship, his brotherhood, with the boy next door.
The light in his mother’s face held joy and tears, and sorrow and laughter.
And Kayla’s hand crept into David’s and he looked down at her and saw the contented smile on her face.
Of all the gifts she had given him, and those were many, he was aware of how tenderly she had revealed his dishonesties to him.
And this was the biggest one: once, he had convinced himself that he could not go to her because he was protecting her from his bad genetics.
Now he saw not that he had wanted to protect her, but that he had wanted to protect himself. Because to love greatly meant a man had to open himself to the possibility of great loss.
Unbearable loss, even.
And yet, that same love he feared, when he turned his face to its sunshine, did not burn him, but day by day lifted him up and filled him with a simple faith.
It was a faith that for all the bad, the good still won out, still outweighed the bad ten to one. Or maybe a hundred to one. Or maybe even a million to one.
And in the end, it seemed to David, when everything else was gone, even the memories, you could trust one thing.
The love remained.
In the end, you could trust that the intensity of love, the essence of it, remained and traveled—relentlessly, unstoppably, breathtakingly—toward the future it had helped to shape.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from THE HEIR OF THE CASTLE by Scarlet Wilson.
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CHAPTER ONE
‘THANK YOU FOR coming to the last will and testament reading of Angus McLean.’
T
he solicitor looked around the room at the various scattering of people, some locals, some not.
Get on with it, thought Callan. He’d only come because the ninety-seven-year-old had been like a father to him. Thoughtful, with a wicked sense of humour, and a real sense of community about him. He’d taught Callan far more than his father had ever taught him.
He wasn’t here to inherit anything. He could have bought the castle four times over. He’d offered enough times. But Angus hadn’t been interested. He’d had other plans for the estate. And after pretty much living there for part of his life Callan was curious as to what they were.
The solicitor started reading. ‘Some of you are here by invitation. Others have still to be contacted. As you may well be aware Angus McLean had a considerable estate.’
He started with some charitable donations, then moved on to the staff that had served Angus over the years—all of them left sizable bequests that would see them into a comfortable age.
Then he cleared his throat and looked nervously around the room, his eyes deliberately skittering past Callan.
Uh-oh. The castle. What has old crazy done now?
‘Most of Angus McLean’s friends and relatives knew that Angus was a bachelor. It was always assumed—at least by those of us who knew Angus well—that Angus had no children.’ He hesitated. ‘But it seems that wasn’t the case.’
‘What?’ Callan couldn’t help it. He’d spent most of his life around Angus McLean. Never once in all those years had Angus ever mentioned any children.
Frank, the family solicitor, was clearly not designed for situations like this. His legalese seemed to leave him and he laughed nervously. ‘It appears that in his day Angus McLean was a bit of a rogue. He had six children.’
Heads shot around the room, looking back and forth between each other aghast.
But a few heads stayed steady—as if they’d already heard the news.
Callan couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Six children? Who on earth told you that?’ This had to be rubbish. Was a bunch of strangers trying to claim part of the McLean estate?
Frank looked him clearly in the eye. ‘Angus told me,’ he said quietly.
Callan froze. Every hair on his body standing on end. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t.
Frank cleared his throat nervously. ‘As a result of Mr McLean’s heirs—and with some further research—we’ve discovered there are twelve potential inheritors of the estate.’
Callan shook his head. No. Twelve people all wanting a part of Annick Castle. It would be sold without hesitation to the highest bidder. Everyone would want their share of the cash. Angus would have hated that.
‘On Mr McLean’s instructions, all twelve potential inheritors are to be invited to attend a weekend at Annick Castle.’ He bit his lip. ‘With true Angus McLean style, they are to be asked to take part in a Murder Mystery Weekend—with the winner becoming the sole heir of Annick Castle. After confirmation of their claim with DNA testing, of course.’ His eyes finally met Callan’s. ‘Mr McLean’s last wish was that Annick Castle stayed in the family and was inherited by one person.’
The words chilled Callan to the bone. It was exactly the kind of thing Angus would have said—the only thing they’d ever argued about in this world. But Callan had always assumed there was no real family to inherit, at best, or worst, a few far-flung distant cousins. Nothing like this.
Chaos erupted all around him. Voices shouting and asking questions, people talking amongst themselves, pulling phones from their pockets and dialling numbers frantically.
There was a reporter in amongst the mix who walked out with his phone pressed against his ear. Who inherited Annick Castle was big news—particularly when it was being decided in such an unusual manner. It was one of the few privately owned castles in Scotland.
Callan stood up and walked outside into the rain and biting wind. His eyes landed on the building in front of him. Annick Castle. The place he’d called home for the last twenty-five years.
From the first night Angus had found him cowering in the bushes, hiding from the drunken, abusive bully that was his father, he’d welcomed him into his home. It had become his haven. His safe place. And in later years, when Angus had become frail and needed support, Callan had been the one to provide it.
Annick Castle was the place he’d laughed, cried and learned to be a man.
And it was all, doubtless, about to be destroyed by some stranger.
* * *
‘Sign here, please.’
Laurie looked up at the electronic screen placed under her nose. She looked around; her secretary had vanished and the courier looked impatient. She lifted the electronic pen and scrawled her signature. ‘Thanks.’
She stared at the envelope. It was hardly unusual. A letter from another firm of solicitors. She put it on the pile on her secretary’s desk. It would need to be logged in the system.
She rubbed her forehead. Yet another tension headache—and it wasn’t even nine a.m. She would be here for at least the next twelve hours. She sighed and picked up the court papers she would need for later and headed back to her office.
Five minutes later Alice appeared at her office door. ‘Laurie, did you see who signed for this letter?’
Laurie looked up. It was the heavy cream envelope. ‘Yip. It was me.’
Alice looked a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry I missed it.’ Her hand rested on her slightly protruding stomach. ‘I’ve been at the bathroom three times already this morning.’
Laurie waved her hand. ‘No worries.’
Alice smiled. ‘I think you should look at this yourself. It’s not work-related. It’s personal.’ She crossed the office and laid the now opened envelope on Laurie’s desk. Receiving letters from other solicitors was an everyday thing. But none of them had ever been personal.
Laurie looked up at Alice’s retreating back as she closed the door behind her.
Why had she closed the door? Alice had already seen the contents of the letter and unless Laurie was in a meeting with clients her door was always left open. It felt kind of ominous. Was someone suing her? But if they were, surely that would be work-related, not personal?
She picked up the envelope and turned it over in her hands. She didn’t recognise the logo on the outside. Ferguson and Dalglish.
She pulled the letter from the inside. Heavyweight white bond paper. Exactly like the kind they used for legal documents. Her eyes scanned the page...‘as the daughter of Peter Jenkins you’ve been identified as a possible heir to the estate of Angus McLean...invited to attend Annick Castle...’ The next page gave contact details and a map of how to get there. The letter dropped from her hands. Her heart was thudding against her chest and she couldn’t help but automatically shake her head. This was crazy. This was mad.
As the daughter of Peter Jenkins... Her father had died more than ten years ago. He’d never known who his own father was and had always been curious, but apparently his mother had never told him and refused to discuss the matter. Who on earth was Angus McLean? Was he the father he’d never known?
Because that was what this letter implied. What a way to find out.
She felt her stomach clench a little. Angus McLean could have been her grandfather. Why hadn’t he contacted her when he was alive? Why wait until he was dead? It almost seemed pointless. And it was certainly pointless for her father.
Her fingers flew over her keyboard, pulling up a search engine and typing frantically. He wasn’t hard to find. Angus McLean, died aged ninety-seven, one month ago. Never married. And apparently no children.
She let out a stream of words into the air. Really?
She scanned the letter again. How many children did this guy have? And had any of the others actually been acknowledged?
The phone rang and she ignored it. Whatever it was it
would have to wait. She typed again.
A picture appeared before her and she took a sharp breath, her head moving closer to the screen. Annick Castle. On the west coast of Scotland.
Only, it didn’t really look like a castle. More like a beautiful stately home perched on a cliff above the sea with gorgeous surrounding gardens and a swan pond. It was stunning, made of sand-coloured stone, with drum towers at either end and complete with cannons on the walls overlooking the sea.
She looked at the photo credit. The picture was taken twenty years before. Did Annick Castle still look like that?
Her curiosity was definitely piqued. What kind of a man stayed in a place like that? And why would he have family that he never made contact with?
She scanned the letter again. In her haste to read she’d missed the last paragraph.
You are invited to attend Annick Castle to take part in a Murder Mystery Weekend along with eleven other identified family members in accordance with Angus McLean’s Last Will and Testament. The winner of the Murder Mystery Weekend shall inherit Annick Castle, familial claim shall be verified by DNA testing.
It didn’t say that. It couldn’t say that.
Lawyers all over the world would be throwing up their hands in horror.
She screwed up her eyes and pinched her nose, then looked from side to side. This was a joke. This was an elaborate hoax. Somewhere, in this room, there must be a hidden camera.
She stood up and walked around. First to the bookshelves on the wall, then to filing cabinets next to the door. She couldn’t see anything. But weren’t cameras so small now that they could be virtually invisible?
She opened her door and looked outside. Everyone was going about their business. No one was paying her the slightest bit of attention. It was a normal day at Bertram and Bain, one of the busiest solicitors’ in London. Twenty partners with another thirty associates, specialising in employment law, partnership law and discrimination law. The phones started ringing around seven in the morning and continued until after nine at night.
