The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  David twisted away and sprinted over the cement quay to the farthest reach of the harbor wall. The danger to himself was great, for giant waves were breaking over it. None of the men made a move to stop him.

  Proceeding as far as he dared, David stopped and sent his gaze out to sea. By now the Bountiful was attempting to return. But the tide was against her, and the swell had risen dangerously. David watched, tears stinging his eyes. He could tell she was taking water.

  Finally the brave but aging craft began to list. Huge waves slammed against her side as if she were a toy. One after another, great breakers crashed over the bow.

  Slowly and inexorably the sea claimed its victim.

  She sank lower and lower . . . until the Bountiful was lost to sight.

  ———

  David filled his lungs again as if to shake away the memories that seemed determined to haunt his thoughts on this day. He turned and made his way along the well-worn sea path encircling the island, set back some eight feet from the edge of the cliff.

  A few minutes later he turned again seaward, left the path, and crept over the side of the bluff. Though dangerous enough, it was not so treacherous here where the cliff face gave way to a slope blanketed in thick, tightly rooted sea grasses. After a steep descent around several great boulders, then stooping beneath the projecting overhang of a horizontal slab of granite, he entered the dark recess of a cave carved into the vertical north wall of the island by eons of time and the fabled Shetland winds and rains.

  It was probable that the adventurous boys of the island, now as in generations past, knew of the cave and had secretly visited it. Technically, however, the cave was off-limits, not only because access was dangerous but because for as long as anyone alive could remember it was called the Chief’s Cave. Right of entry could supposedly be granted only by the chief. By reason of its location, however, it was not an ordinance rigidly policed by chief or laird or anyone else.

  How former chiefs may have used the cave, David didn’t know. But after the two deaths that had stung his youth, it had become his secluded hideaway from the world. He came here to read, to think, later to write. He had shed tears here, too, especially for the two whom he had loved who had been lost to the waters of the deep.

  He loved this place for a host of reasons, certainly among them the view it afforded of the sea. Its mouth also commanded an unsurpassed vista over the cliff faces extending to the right and left of the cave. Hundreds if not thousands of nests, rookeries, and roosts along the rocky and treacherous bluff’s surface opened their secrets to him from here. Protected as he was by the shadow of the cave, he could sit for hours without being detected by the birds that made these north cliffs their home. He had handwritten drafts of his books and taken thousands of the photographs that filled his files while sitting in this very place.

  Pleasant recollections flew through David’s head as he entered the Chief’s Cave.

  His eyes gradually accustomed to the dim light, slowly coming to rest on the three small “standing stones” that had been set in a triangle into the dirt floor of the cave toward its back wall. They were obviously but tiny replicas of the great stone on Muckle Hill, only fifteen or eighteen inches in height. Still, getting them down the steep narrow grassy path from the plateau above and into the cave had been no small feat.

  His father once told him a true story from their own generational past. It explained why different Tullochs now bore the duties of laird and chief, whereas in former times both titles had rested on a single head of the clan. He had been too young to remember the details. Being two generations closer to the events, his uncle surely knew them. But he rarely spoke of the past. David could remember little more than that three brothers were involved, not two, and that Chief, Laird, as well as a mysterious clan Bard all had something to do with it. During their time the roles of chief and laird had been split. How and under what circumstances, David could not remember.

  David walked into the darkness of the cave’s interior. He stood before the three stones, laden in his mind with heavy symbolism from antiquity. He was convinced they signified some truth from more recent times in the legacy of his own family as well. They had not been placed as they were without purpose.

  “What is your tale, you three stones?” said David softly. “What mysteries do you have to reveal?”

  The stones remained silent. Whatever their secrets, he would have to await another day for their revelation.

  11

  Big Oil

  ABERDEEN, SCOTLAND

  In the Aberdeen restaurant, the last of the early morning coterie arrived and joined the Texan and his three Scottish colleagues.

  The newcomer was a slight man, thin and not more than five-foot-nine. The walking stick in his left hand was sturdy and served more than a decorative purpose, for the man’s gait was accentuated by a pronounced limp. Probably in his early forties, he was easily five or six years older than his thirty-seven-year-old employer, though an initial glance at the two gave precisely the opposite impression. In appearance and demeanor the two men were striking opposites. The Scotsman was soft-spoken and gentlemanly. His kindly manner, however, belied a ruthless streak known only to his closest intimates—one of his most valuable assets in the eyes of his American boss. The same fire of ambition drove them both, which explained why the diminutive Aberdonian had for the past five years been Jimmy Joe’s right-hand man in the U.K.

  “Hey, Thorburn!” exclaimed the Texan ebulliently, yanking a chair out from the table. “Park it here—take a load off them feet.”

  “Hello, Mr. McLeod,” said the Scotsman, extending his hand. “I trust you had a satisfactory flight.”

  “Middlin’ is about the best I can say. Even with my own personal jet, the altitude blows up my head. And jet lag always—”

  Just then the coffee and tea arrived.

  “This oughta help!” said the Texan enthusiastically.

  McLeod stretched out his massive arm and took hold of the pot with his fist. “Anyone else for coffee?” he asked.

  “I’ll have some,” said Thorburn.

  The other three Scots opted for tea. Their breakfasts arrived shortly, one plate piled high with thinly cut ham to accompany several thick links of sausage. With three hastily gulped cups of weak coffee inside him, the Texan was anxious to get down to business.

  “I want to know the status of our offer on that island,” he said. “You got that ol’ codger to sign on the dotted line yet?”

  “Unfortunately, we have no progress to report,” answered the man called Shaw.

  “You took him my latest offer?”

  “A month ago. I delivered it personally.”

  “And?”

  “Same answer as he’s given for six years. He refuses to sell a square foot of his land.”

  “Dad-blamed coot. I’ve been more than patient, but time’s running out. If I don’t get my hands on it, BP’s gonna control the whole dang place. I’ll have no choice but to fold my cards. That’s not a thing I like to do. What’s it gonna take?”

  “Unfortunately, money means nothing to him.”

  “What does? What’s the old boy’s game? It’s high time we called his bluff, put an end to this standoff.”

  “I am afraid the man is as old school as they come, Mr. McLeod,” now said Alexander Crawford, their resident Shetland expert. “There’s nothing he wants except to keep everything as it is. He wants to protect the village and its people.”

  “Protect his people? Dang, how better can he do that than selling? We’ll fix the whole lot of ’em up for life.”

  “It’s more about protecting the old ways and traditions. He sees the people as his clan. He insists he won’t do anything that jeopardizes their way of life. He’s old and set in his ways.”

  “Dad blame it—doesn’t he know we can make him a millionaire?”

  “He cares nothing about that,” replied Crawford shaking his head. “I know his type. Shetlanders are a breed apart and o
nly give lip service to being British. They’re as independent as any people on the planet.”

  “I gotta have that real estate!” Jimmy Joe banged his fist on the table. “I’ll fly up there myself and talk to the old boy.”

  “I’m afraid that would do more harm than good. I’m sorry to say it, and no offense, but the instant he set eyes on that hat and your alligator boots, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. The only thing Shetlanders dislike more than the English is Americans who think they can buy anything they want.”

  “Did you tell him that we’d relocate his people, pay ’em top dollar? What can those shacks they live in be worth? I’ve seen the pictures. Couldn’t be worth twenty thousand each. We’ll pay ’em fifty. Heck, I might even go to sixty thousand. Make ’em rich. Why would they refuse an offer like that?”

  “They don’t care about being rich.”

  “Nobody doesn’t want to be rich!”

  “Maybe not in your world,” rejoined Crawford. “Things are different up in the Shetlands. Sure, oil has changed the islands. Quite a few landowners did get rich and are loving every minute of it. But overall they’re an independent breed. Some of those houses you’re talking about are over a hundred years old.”

  “There, you see what I mean. That’s exactly what I was saying—it’s time they were leveled and the place put to better use.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t make my meaning clear. What I mean is that they are so old that to the people who own them they’re as valuable as a castle. The old man owns all of them anyway.”

  “A hundred-year-old shack of rocks is no castle.”

  “For the man or woman who calls it home it is.”

  “You’re talking plumb nonsense—most ridiculous thing I ever heard.”

  The Texan leaned back in his chair and let out a sigh. “I’ll go up and talk to the old boy myself,” he reiterated. “Nobody says no to Jimmy Joe McLeod when there’s a deal on the table. I tell you, I’m holding the cards to win this pot.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. McLeod,” put in Shaw, “in my opinion Mr. Crawford is right. The frontal approach is not likely to be appropriate with these people, going in, as I believe you Americans say, with all guns blazing—”

  The Texan threw his head back and roared. “You got that right, boy!” he laughed. “I think you picked up my meaning exactly. That’s how we do things in Texas!”

  His laughter died away. A more serious expression than he had yet assumed came over the Texan’s face. He turned to Thorburn, who had remained mostly silent thus far.

  “Look, Ross,” he said in an uncharacteristically soft tone, “I need that real estate. I don’t care what it takes. There’s always a way. I want that land.”

  “I will see what I can do,” replied Thorburn. “There may be a possibility or two we have not yet exhausted. I’ll explore some legal channels. There may be pressures we can exert, and . . . well, as you say, there are always ways.”

  “I assume you have people who can take care of it?”

  “Yes, we have people,” nodded the other.

  “Then whatever it takes, Thorburn. You get me that island.”

  12

  Reminders

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Neither two double-shot lattes nor the intense concentration needed to finalize the Midwestern Investments deal had been able to expunge from Loni Ford’s mind the effects of her unsettled broodings from earlier in the morning.

  She slept fitfully that night, awoke early, drank more coffee, and was back in her office by 7:30. Maddy had her working straight through till noon on the Midwestern paper work.

  “You look like you’re ready for a break,” said Maddy at her door about 12:15. “We’re nearly there, and I have a lunch meeting with some of the execs. Why don’t you take an hour or two and get out of the office?”

  “That’s thoughtful of you, Maddy,” said Loni. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll have it wrapped up this afternoon. We’ll hit it again at two or two-thirty.”

  Loni leaned back in her chair and exhaled a long sigh. The thought crossed her mind to call Hugh and see if he could break away for an impromptu lunch. On second thought, she wasn’t hungry. She was more in the mood to be alone. “I think I’ll go out for a walk then,” she said. “Fresh air is just what I need.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in a couple hours.”

  “Thank you, Maddy.”

  Forty or fifty minutes later, returning from a walk along the Mall and munching the last of the apple in her hand, Loni found herself sharing the congested sidewalk in equal measure with tourists and political types on their way to and from the power lunches for which the city was famous.

  These particular two or three blocks, known for their specialty boutiques, galleries, and antique shops, were so familiar by now she usually hurried past every window without a glance. Today her pace was more leisurely.

  Amid the din of cars, taxis, buses, and pedestrians, an occasional shout and a dozen blaring conversations on every side, the faint strains of music caught Loni’s ear. It was soft, eerily melodic, as if coming from some distant world. Hauntingly it drew her.

  She walked toward it. Moments later she entered the open door of an antique furniture shop. The soft music coming from the back of the shop enveloped her with peace. The bustle of the city faded as if she had stepped through a Narnian portal into another century.

  Loni stood and breathed deeply—the familiar aromas of old oak, wood stain, varnish, and leather instantly transported her back to her grandfather’s workshop.

  Mesmerized by the music and nostalgic reminders of childhood, she looked around to find herself surrounded by a great variety of antique pieces large and small. She recognized every design—armoires, dressers, mirrors, picture frames, plant stands, tables, chairs, travel escritoires, chiffoniers, desks, cabinets, benches, bookcases, secretaries, side-by-sides.

  Slowly she wandered about, gazing at the various pieces with a more knowledgeable eye than a casual browser. She loved the smells, tools, implements, and supplies of the furniture-maker’s craft. With a pang she recalled her grandmother’s recent letter, explaining her grandfather’s decision to retire from the work he loved. She could not escape the gnawing realization that his hope had been for her to marry within the Fellowship and carry on the business. She knew he was disappointed. But it was not a life in which she could ever have been happy.

  Making her way to the back of the shop, she detected the strong aroma of Danish oil coming through the open door of a workshop. Rag in hand, the man inside stood and came toward her.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “That’s fine,” Loni said with a smile. “I was enjoying a look around. I can never resist vintage furniture, especially the wonderful smells.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m never happier than when my hands are brown with stain and oil.”

  “That is an exquisite Hepplewhite chiffonier you have over there.”

  “You know your antique furniture!”

  “And from 1790, according to the date inside the drawer . . . when they were at their best. Did you refinish it yourself?”

  “Yes, actually, I did. I stripped it down and refinished it, as far as I have been able to research it, with what I believe was its original lacquer. And how, if I may ask, do you know so much about eighteenth century furniture?”

  “I come from a family of furniture makers,” answered Loni. “I practically grew up in my grandfather’s workroom. I’ve sanded and oiled and varnished more pieces than I can count.”

  “You’re not looking for a job?”

  Loni laughed. “I’m afraid I’m overextended as it is!”

  “Might I have heard of your grandfather’s products?”

  “I doubt it. It was a relatively small family business. My grandfather is William Ford, from Pennsylvania. He specialized in replicating classic designs from the past.”

 
“I do know of your grandfather’s work! He has a fine reputation. In fact . . .” The shopkeeper laid aside the rag and walked into the front showroom. Loni followed.

  “I thought so,” he said. “Look—here is one of your pieces.”

  Loni came alongside him. He was standing in front of a small writing table. She drew in a gasp of astonishment.

  “That is my grandfather’s!” she exclaimed. “I remember this very piece. Actually . . . you’re not going to believe this, but I sold this table myself to a customer from Pittsburgh, if I’m remembering accurately. How did you come by it?”

  “It was part of an estate sale,” explained the shopkeeper. “Obviously, the recent crafting of your grandfather’s pieces does not technically qualify them as antiques. But the design is classic, the quality impeccable. So on the few occasions when a Ford piece comes my way, I price it for its quality rather than antiquarian value.”

  “This is remarkable!” said Loni, stepping back to view the desk better. “I’ll tell my grandfather what you say about his work. He will be very pleased.”

  “What about your father? Is he in the business as well?”

  “No, my father is dead. I never knew him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Loni. “Actually,” she went on, “what drew me through your door was the music. What is that you have playing? It is very unusual.”

  “It is Celtic music,” replied the shopkeeper. “I’ll show you.”

  He led the way to his counter and a small CD player. He handed Loni the case.

  “My wife and I love Celtic music,” he said. “This particular piece is called ‘Leaving Lerwick Harbor.’”

  “Where is that?” asked Loni.

  “Lerwick is the main city in the Shetland Islands.”

  “There is something about it so . . . I don’t know what to call it,” said Loni. “Haunting . . . melancholy . . . nostalgic. It gets inside you.”