Who is he? she wondered. He bore himself as a man of dignity and no doubt education. But he was dressed in modest, almost shabby, attire. And what an enchanting boy, with such tender feelings for a fallen bird.
With a thoughtful sigh she placed the leather journal in her lap and traced with a finger the embossed design of a Celtic cross on its brown cover. Almost reverently she opened the volume. After her aborted attempt to draw a puffin near the cliff earlier that morning, this would be her first written entry since her arrival.
She took a fountain pen from her bag, removed its cap, thought for a moment, then methodically began to draw. Soon a remarkably lifelike sketch of the bird on the ground and the boy on the stone beside it began to emerge. After a quarter of an hour, when she was satisfied with the image, she paused and strained her mind to remember every word of the conversation she had heard, trying to make sense of the exchange.
Above the sketch, in an artistic script, she wrote, A Boy and a Bird. Below the drawing she began to record her experience. She did not want to omit a single detail of the memorable scene.
After several minutes she glanced up. The man still sat in the distance where she had left him, as if keeping watch out over the sea.
5
Life Stories
Still seated beside the dead bird at the edge of the bluff, Ernest Tulloch, laird and chief of the small island clan of Whales Reef, watched the quiet maiden walk away from him in one direction while young Sandy Innes and Shep receded from view in the opposite. He smiled as the back of Sandy’s head bobbed away like a small orange ball against the green of the moor and the blue of sky and sea.
The youngster gave the impression of being an urchin, to all appearance poor, raggedly dressed, his thick crop of bright hair shooting out in all directions. He could be seen roaming every inch of the island the whole of the day and half the long twilight of summer nights. Unusually small for his age, he had few playmates among the boys of the village, and behaved oddly, so it was thought, around animals. All contributed to the generally accepted notion that he was a little touched in the head.
The chief knew such perceptions were as false as most gossip. The lad was cared for, nurtured, and loved at home. He himself made sure that his parents were well provided for, and the elder Innes was invaluable to him. The boy was small but hard, wiry, and in splendid health. Both eyes and brain were quick, sharp, roving, and possessed of more intelligence and insight, and in more important directions, than that of most adults in the village.
He was certainly a philosopher in the making, thought Tulloch. He might even be a genius. It would require time to reveal whether the latter was so. The fact that the general perception of him lay in precisely the opposite might have indicated the clearest evidence of the future possibility.
As if his thoughts were drawn in the same direction as the young woman’s, the laird smiled to himself. He would have been proud to call the lad his grandson.
As yet, however, he had none of his own. What would his grandchildren be like, he wondered. Would they love this island and its heritage as he did? Would they carry on the Tulloch name with pride? What would become of the lairdship and chieftainship that now rested together on his shoulders? In this new century of progress, would a day come when the very words laird and chief had no more meaning and perhaps cease to exist at all?
Times were changing, thought Tulloch. He knew change was inevitable. But many of the modern trends taking place in the wider world did not bode well for small communities like Whales Reef with their traditional values and culture. Would his posterity share the love he felt for these people who were his to watch over?
It was already clear the modern century would not wait even two generations to infect his beloved island with the lure of self-gratification. Brogan, his eldest and heir, had left for university in England and had not been the same since. He certainly showed no inclination to carry on the family heritage. He was twenty-three and, to all appearances, hated every minute he had to spend on the island. For all Ernest could tell, Brogan despised his name and upbringing and everything they represented.
The very thought sent a knife into Ernest’s heart. And the broader question was: What would become of the lairdship if Brogan left Whales Reef for good? A laird and chief must be intimately involved in the daily life and affairs of his people. He had to mix with the fishermen, visit with the shopkeepers, know every name on the island, and be aware of every concern of every family. None of that could happen if Brogan was living in London or Manchester or Glasgow.
In such a case Ernest would have no choice but to pass on the mantle to Brogan’s brother, Wallace. As for their younger sister, Delynn, and stepbrother, Leith, much about the future would depend on how they grew, even on whom they married. The same could be said of Wallace. At twenty-two, he was a retiring young man. Passive of personality, a lifetime in Brogan’s shadow had deepened the inborn reticence of his nature. Tulloch feared that his second born could be susceptible to an unwise alliance, a possibility that bore heavily on his decision about the lairdship. Would Wallace be capable of carrying the responsibility as custodian of the island’s property and the fortunes of its people? Not if his future wife turned out to be anything like Ernest’s own mother, who had possessed not the slightest affection for the island or its residents. It was probably her lack of interest that made Ernest more determined than ever to preserve the legacy of both lairdship and chieftainship. He realized, however, that not every man was fortunate enough to find a wife perfectly suited to such a life. He had loved his mother, but she had not cared about Whales Reef. He had indeed been the most blessed among men, thought Ernest, to have found two wonderful women—Elizabeth, the wife of his youth and mother of his first three children, and dear Sally, the wife of his maturing years.
The only one of his three sons whose heart seemed to beat with the same abiding love for their ancient pedigree was fifteen-year-old Leith, the only child of his second marriage. Yet he was still a teen. Much could change in a short time. Ernest had not foreseen the alteration of outlook the university years would bring to Brogan. What wonderful times they had shared as father and son when Brogan was Leith’s age. The reminder brought tears to Ernest’s eyes. He had tried to be a good father. But whenever he detected the discontented look in Brogan’s eyes, all he could think was that somehow he had failed.
It was with bittersweet memories that a father watched his sons and daughters grow into adulthood and leave the playfulness of youth behind. Yes, change was inevitable. One had to make the best of it. Yet not all change was accompanied by joy. Only a few short years after the happy days of their childhood, if things did not change, he was contemplating what circumstances might force him to the heartrending decision of divesting his eldest son of the lairdship and chieftainship.
The idea had even crossed Ernest’s mind—he had not yet confided it even to Sally—that he might find it necessary to break with tradition altogether and pass the two titles on separately after he was gone. Hopefully it would not come to that. He was loath to break the practice of the double title endowed upon the same man.
Ernest turned his gaze once more to the young woman in the distance, sitting with book in her lap. From the looks of it she was writing.
Who is she? he wondered. He had been drawn to her countenance the moment she had come walking toward them. He hoped to find out more about her. He had the feeling, young as she was, that her life had a story to tell.
His brow furrowed with a question that gnawed much closer to his own soul. What story will Brogan’s life tell?
And what about his own?
Like every man, Ernest Tulloch wondered whether his life would have a lasting impact. Would anyone remember him two or three generations from now? What would they write on his tombstone? What permanent legacy would he pass on to his posterity, both his children and those who came after?
He did his best to shake away the pensive thoughts. But it was not easy. Melancholy h
ad become his unwitting companion in recent years. The estrangement with Brogan had plunged like a thorn into his father’s heart.
Legacies, however, were God’s business. His own duty was to live every day as God’s man and leave the rest to his heavenly Father. The only legacy he needed be concerned with was that God remembered his name, even if no one else did.
Ernest’s eyes still rested on the young woman across the moor.
What is the story of her life? he asked himself again. Perhaps she was writing it even now.
6
Bright Future
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Pensive reflections can be dangerous to your health, especially for one trying to leave the past behind.
A smartly dressed woman of about thirty stood looking down on a corner of D.C.’s famous Mall. It was nothing like the view commanded by the corner office of her boss, who in her leisure moments gazed out on the Washington Monument, the Capitol Dome, and the White House in the distance.
But hey, she thought, at least she had a window. Not bad for a country girl.
And an office of her own!
She had never dreamed of occupying more than a cubicle in a dingy back room of some small business in Podunk, U.S.A. That was all a pencil pusher like her could hope for. People from her family didn’t go to college, certainly not university. She knew she had been lucky just to get past junior college.
She remembered thinking in those days that maybe someday she might open an accounting office or even a small antique shop—in spite of the past, she still loved old furniture—though she had no idea where she would get the money to start a business of her own. If she could just earn a degree, land a job somewhere, and support herself, she would be happy.
So much for the vague dreams of a business major named Loni Ford entering her junior year at the university.
Everything changed when Madison Swift bounded with all her energy and dynamism into her life.
Now here she was looking out from a modern high-rise office complex in what was arguably the most important city in the world. At least in the political world.
Standing in an office of her own! Sometimes, thought Loni, she still had to pinch herself.
If she didn’t yet have an office in the financial center of the world, that day might come eventually. An expansion of their firm to New York was rumored to be in the works for next year. If the suits upstairs picked her boss to head up the new division, who could tell where her own future might lead? A year or two from now she could be staring down on Central Park, the Hudson River, or the Statue of Liberty.
Why, then, did unwelcome waves of disquiet sweep over her at the most inconvenient times?
Loni never knew when they might strike. Uncomfortable memories out of the past.
Unbidden.
Uninvited.
Unwanted.
Rising without warning.
Until . . . suddenly a spiral of bittersweet nostalgia engulfed her.
This morning, on her way across the Mall, it was a tourist family gazing up at the Monument. She recognized them instantly. She didn’t know them, but she knew them.
For one like her, the signs of religious conservatism were unmistakable.
The long dresses, the bonnets and beards and wide-brimmed hats, the flock of compliant children, exact replicas of their parents, trailing behind. Mennonite, Brethren, Pentecostal . . . it didn’t matter.
They always sent her thoughts in the same direction. They were ubiquitous reminders of her grandparents’ plain dress and antiquated ways.
Sight of the family had been enough. Her thoughts quickly tumbled back through the years . . .
To think that she might have become such a one herself.
Or . . . had she always been destined to go her own way, to forge a different path?
Such reminders and the questions they raised—she could never put her finger on it—oddly almost made her homesick, but with a longing for a home she had never known. Sometimes the yearning in her heart became so strong she felt its ache inside.
But she couldn’t go back. She had no desire to return to that life. The home she yearned for wasn’t back there anyway.
It never had been.
Where was it? Maybe that was what part of her was still trying to figure out.
Loni shook her head and tried to dismiss the morose musings from her brain. Important developments were in the wind. This was no time to get maudlin and melancholy.
She needed to put all that out of her mind and focus on the business at hand.
The deal had been all but closed last week. She and Maddy had flown out to meet with the Board of Directors of Midwest Investment Group at their headquarters in Des Moines. Even if she did say so herself, their presentation had wowed them. She and Maddy had arrived back on the East Coast confident that Midwest’s execs would sign on the dotted line. The phone call from the board’s chairman ten minutes ago confirmed that their instincts were well-founded.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanley,” Loni had said into her phone. “Express our appreciation to the rest of your board for their gracious hospitality during our visit as well. The moment Miss Swift is back in her office I will have her call you.”
She listened a moment.
“Yes, I’ve been following that,” she added, then paused and listened again. “It’s so hot that livestock is actually threatened . . . yes, you’re right, a hundred and five is certainly off the charts . . . well, we shall all have to pray for rain and a cold spell. We wouldn’t want to start this new partnership with your clients having a disastrous year! No,” she laughed, “that wouldn’t make either of us look very good!”
Loni continued to listen to the man heading up the group of Iowa investors.
“That sounds fine,” she said. “I’m sure Miss Swift will have me working on the final documents immediately. You will have them before the weekend for your signatures. Then all that will remain is to have the funds transferred to us so that Miss Swift can get it working even harder for you and get those dividends for your investors bumped up. . . . Good, that will be fine. I know you will be happy with the results. . . . Yes, and I won’t forget about the rain! Miss Swift will be in touch within the hour. Good-bye, Mr. Stanley.”
She set down the phone, walked to the window, and stood a moment. It was a great triumph and she had been part of it from the beginning.
Yet with the exciting phone call still resounding in her ear, from out of nowhere had come the reminder of the family she had seen that morning. Yes, too many reflections could be hazardous to your health, and this was no time for them!
With a final effort she shoved the images of her grandparents back into her subconscious, like she did with her journal when she wasn’t traveling—out of the way, tightly shut. Out of sight, out of mind.
Alonnah “Loni” Ford turned and strode back to her desk. Listening carefully through her open door, forty minutes later she heard the latch from across the hall. She jumped up, hurried from the room, and followed her boss, investment analyst Madison Swift, into her expansive office.
Swift heard her steps and turned.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary!” she said.
“Congratulations, Maddy!” exclaimed Loni. “You got the Midwest account! I got off the phone with Stanley half an hour ago.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“I said you would call him the moment you returned.”
“I certainly will. This is one of my biggest catches yet. And I couldn’t have done it without you, Loni.”
“I am only your assistant,” said Loni with a smile.
“Hardly! If I don’t watch out, the men upstairs will start noticing you instead of me—if they haven’t already.”
“That will never happen, Maddy. I owe everything to you. You do know how grateful I am for all you’ve done, for the confidence you have in me.”
“Plenty of time for all that later. Besides, you earn every penny I pay you. Your
presentation to those folks in Iowa couldn’t have been better. Midwesterners can be tough. Going into the thing, when I told you to research it, I suppose part of me was pessimistic we could pull it off.”
“Hog and wheat farmers have money too. Midwest has been the safe investment for farms throughout six states for decades. Their assets are enormous. I knew you could increase their return and their dividend share to their investors.”
“Well, I’m glad you kept prodding me,” said Maddy. “And once we got there, you certainly spoke their language! All it took was to put a country girl with a straw hat and down-home twang in front of their board.”
“You were the star, Maddy. I did nothing more than pave the way for you to close the deal. But maybe you’re right that, as you say, I speak their language.”
“I know you have a rural background, Loni. Are you from Iowa or Nebraska?”
“No, my roots are closer to home. Actually I grew up just a stone’s throw from here.”
“Are you a farm girl?”
“Not exactly. Rural and country, yes, but we raised no hogs or wheat. Just a few chickens for eggs, and several cows. Everybody has cows.”
“What did your folks do then, Loni?”
“What is this, Maddy, twenty questions? I’m a city girl now.”
“I doubt that. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Isn’t that how it goes?”
“Not true in my case. To answer your question, we made furniture. But those days are behind me.”
“However you did it, I’m glad you were able to help me charm those Midwesterners into entrusting their money to us. And now we’ve got work to do. Sorry, Loni . . . this means a late one tonight. Hope that’s okay.”
The Inheritance Page 2
