The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  “He is a relative of yours?”

  “My third cousin.”

  “According to my father, the other Mr. Tulloch’s solicitor has presented documentation to show him as the rightful heir.”

  “Hardy has a solicitor?”

  “He is represented by a firm headquartered in Edinburgh, a rather prestigious one actually.”

  David exhaled slowly. “Yes, that does complicate matters.”

  “I’m afraid so. We should set up an appointment for you to talk with my father,” said MacNaughton. “He established the trust for you and your sister in the first place. He was intimately familiar with both estates—your parents’ and your great-uncle’s.”

  “I would like that very much.”

  “My father, as you know, is semi-retired. He and my mother left for Cornwall two weeks ago. The cold here has become increasingly burdensome, and they will be with relatives in the south until spring. When I speak with him on the telephone, though, I will explain the situation and see what light he can shed. Though we will hope that things may have resolved themselves long before he returns.”

  29

  “Loni”

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Loni paused in her reminiscences, closing her leather journal and tracing the engraving on the cover with her fingers. She wasn’t sleepy. Now that the memories had been unleashed, she couldn’t stop them.

  When she arrived on the Harrisburg campus, she knew she still turned heads as before. But when she summoned the courage to look up, she gradually realized that those heads were accompanied by smiles. If she gave them the chance, most people nodded or greeted her with a hello or a good morning.

  They were friendly smiles! The teachers in her new classes treated her courteously too.

  Gone were the suspicious glances and whispers. She was no longer a black sheep. She was simply one of several hundred other freshmen adjusting to the newness of college life.

  Anonymity spelled freedom!

  Freedom to become, to grow, to think, to explore life. Freedom to be whoever she wanted to be.

  In the middle of an entirely new environment, learning new things, meeting new people, even the haven of her grandfather’s showroom felt suddenly very far away. She was breathing deeply of the fresh air of her own newly discovered personhood.

  The most dramatic outward change came after her grandparents had seen her safely settled and returned home. The very next day she went into town for some new clothes. By now Loni knew she was no mere foundling. Though her ancestry was still a mystery, that she at least had an ancestry was evidenced by the small inheritance left her after the death of her mother’s father. Though she knew nothing about her grandfather on her mother’s side, it was his will that made it possible for her to go to college. She was grateful that he had left enough for a few expenditures beyond the bare necessities of tuition, books, room and board, and a few nonessentials like clothes.

  The prospect of going shopping filled Loni with both guilt and excitement. She had never been to a clothing store in her life!

  In the midst of Pennsylvania Dutch country, the clerk assumed her nervous customer in the long drab dress to be Amish. She could not have been more kind and patient. She gently made suggestions that were not too dramatic. Loni walked out an hour later with two dresses, a skirt, two blouses, and a cardigan, her wardrobe for the coming year.

  The next change would prove even greater, for it struck at the very core of her identity. If she did not know where the Alonnah originated, she could trace the beginnings of the Loni to an exact moment.

  The first day of classes arrived. Full of anticipation and exhilaration, her first course of the morning was United States History. She sat as far in the back of the room as possible. After a few introductory remarks, the teacher instructed the students to write their names on the sheet being circulated.

  She took the paper a few minutes later from the girl in front of her. Without planning what came next, she set her pen on the next line and wrote Loni Ford.

  She walked out of the room at the end of the hour sensing a momentous change had come. Her life had taken a new turn.

  Loni was born.

  Her roommate that first year could not have had a more contrasting personality from her own. How such opposites could become friends was a mystery to her.

  Kathy was thoroughly a young woman of the world—loud, brash, outspoken, confident. She swore nearly every time she opened her mouth. Loni heard words she never dreamed existed . . . and wished she’d never heard. Kathy drank, smoked, and dated two or three times a week. Loni found herself in for a greater education than she’d bargained for. Yet in her own way, Kathy was kind to her goody-two-shoes roommate and, as the year progressed, made an effort to “behave” around Loni.

  Kathy’s ongoing project was to fix Loni up with one of her rowdy guy friends. She could not grasp how any girl on the planet could be so uninterested in dating. Yet Kathy also showed a tender, almost gentle side that came out around Loni—completely opposite from the face she presented to the world.

  Another turning point came a month into the school year, which added its own dimension to her expanding self-image as Loni Ford. She was seated at the desk in their dorm room, homework spread out in front of her. Kathy plopped down on the opposite side of the desk and stared into her face, looking more serious than usual.

  “What?” Loni laughed.

  “I was just thinking how beautiful you are,” she said. “Gosh—you are stunning!”

  Loni stared back in bewilderment. “I don’t . . .” she began. “I mean . . . you don’t—do you really think so?”

  Incredulity filled Kathy’s face. “You’re kidding, right!”

  “No . . . about what?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Loni shook her head, more perplexed than ever.

  “Know how beautiful you are! Don’t you know that every guy in this school wants to go out with you? You’re gorgeous!”

  Loni continued to stare back at her roommate. The words refused to register.

  Then slowly Loni began to cry.

  “Loni . . . gosh, I’m sorry,” Kathy said quickly, “I didn’t mean . . . I thought—”

  “It’s all right.” Loni reached for a tissue, blew her nose, and struggled for a shaky breath. “I know it’s probably hard to understand,” she said after a minute, “but where I grew up, I was always an oddity, a tall, clumsy girl who didn’t know her place. All my life I’ve felt wrong and that I didn’t belong. What you just said . . . all of a sudden I was crying.”

  Kathy reached across the table and took Loni’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Loni. I had no idea.”

  “I know. You’re trying to make me feel good. And probably when I think about it later it will make me feel good,” Loni added, trying to laugh. “The words just hit me funny, I guess. Whenever I look in a mirror, I still see the twelve-year-old giraffe everyone made fun of.”

  “I’d like to get my hands on whoever’s made fun of you!” said Kathy. “I would—well, I won’t say what. I know you hate it when I swear. All I can say is that they’d never make fun of you after I got through with them!”

  Loni laughed again and grabbed another tissue. “You can always make me laugh, Kathy,” she said, dabbing at her eyes.

  “Sure better than making you cry!”

  “I promise, nothing you say will ever make me cry again.”

  “Is that why . . . you know, not realizing you’re pretty—is that why you don’t date?”

  “No, it’s not that,” Loni said. “I’m just not interested.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because most of the guys I see, the ones around you—and I mean no offense to you, Kathy—but they are so superficial. They drink and talk endlessly about themselves and try to impress every girl they see. It’s so shallow. If I met a young man of virtue and character, who had depth enough to talk about something real, maybe it might be different. But why should I waste my time wi
th self-centered bores?”

  “You do speak your mind!” Kathy laughed.

  “Sorry,” said Loni sheepishly.

  “Hey, no problem. I guess I like having a good time. I never stop to think about virtue and character and all that. That would certainly change the dating game.”

  Thinking back, Loni recalled the day with a fond smile.

  Kathy’s words, even after so many years, went deep into her soul.

  Does anyone, she wondered, see in a mirror the same image everyone else sees? Others are aware only of the outward shell of appearance. But when she looked at herself in a mirror, her self-perception illuminated something entirely different . . . what she was inside.

  Until the moment those fateful words had tumbled out of Kathy’s mouth, beauty was the last thing Loni had seen reflected back in a mirror. She knew she had changed since she was a girl. Yet when her eyes fell on her own face, it was just . . . her.

  After that day she found herself paying more attention to the smiles coming her way. Were they because of what Kathy had said? Were people taking a second glance because they saw what Kathy saw? The idea was unnerving. But she could hardly deny that over the next months Kathy’s words enabled her to carry herself with more confidence, walking tall even at nearly six feet.

  At the same time, Kathy’s words created a double-edged sword. Along with the newfound confidence, Loni also knew that the young men were often looking at her face. . . . not at her. She was just an object in their eyes, not a person.

  All in all, though, Harrisburg’s junior college represented two of the best years of her life. She received mostly A’s and a few B’s, confirming Kathy’s good-natured observations that her beautiful roommate was more than a little weird.

  She competed on the swim and track teams and became a standout in both venues. She shocked herself even more than her coaches when she began regularly winning the 100m freestyle in the pool, and the 800m and 1,500m on the track.

  After two years, Loni’s academic and athletic achievements resulted in a partial scholarship to the University of Pennsylvania. She majored in business, was lucky enough to meet Madison Swift at the fateful seminar that had changed her life, graduated from the university with honors, and, as the saying goes, never looked back.

  She knew leaving the community and her eventual career path was hard on her grandparents. Nothing would have made them happier than for her to stay in the Fellowship, marry some nice young man from their Meeting, and one day inherit the business and continue the family tradition of Ford Handcrafted Furniture.

  But she could never have been happy with such a life. She knew deep down that what her grandparents wanted for her most of all was the happiness of doing what fulfilled her most deeply.

  After leaving for junior college at eighteen, Loni only returned to the community of her upbringing for a handful of birthdays, a half-dozen Christmases, and for her grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Even then she had done so cautiously. The last thing she wanted was to damage their reputation further. She had no intention of driving into town in her red Mustang convertible—her first major purchase after going to work for Madison Swift—weaving between tractors and wagons and pickups, and getting her poor grandparents subtly shunned as a result, if not being subject to an official disownment from the elders. On most such occasions she had crept in by taxi at night and left the same way. Very few in the community ever knew she was there.

  Over the years most of her youthful anxieties gradually faded into the mists of the past. And now, at thirty-one, Loni knew that her mother and father, Chad and Alison Ford, had been killed in a traffic accident when she was less than a year old. She was still unsure of the details or how she had survived, and the Fords remained strangely tight-lipped.

  But she had also accepted the fact that her grandparents knew little more than they were telling. That realization forced upon her the reality that her mother’s life was a closed book.

  She would never know more. There was no denying, however, that all her life she would yearn to feel a mother’s embrace and a father’s love.

  Loni drew in a deep breath and closed her journal. After a few more minutes she stood and returned it to the bookcase where she kept it between trips.

  Turning away, she was arrested by the mirror on the adjacent wall.

  She paused and gazed into her eyes. Her reflection stared back at her . . . and then seemed to speak.

  You think you’ve moved on, it said as if silently reading her mind. You think you’ve dealt with all that. You think you’ve got life figured out, with your past tidily closed up in that book you just put away. But don’t be so sure. Alonnah is still alive and well. And you still don’t know who she really is.

  30

  Craigsmont Lounge

  LERWICK, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  The rough-edged Shetland fisherman had of course heard of the Craigsmont Lounge, but never in his life had he set foot past its threshold. It was in a part of town the likes of him did not frequent.

  When the first summons came several months ago, at first he thought it a practical joke. But the invitation specifically warned him against breathing a word about it to a soul. And in light of the words make it worth your while, he had taken it seriously enough to follow the instructions, say nothing to anyone, and appear at the appointed place at the designated time.

  His cautions had been well-founded. It had not been a joke. If the thing came off, it would be more than just worth his while, it would make him a very wealthy man. He might even become a regular at the Craigsmont in his own right.

  When the second summons came two days ago, this time he harbored no doubts. He shaved, put on his best suit of clothes, and presented himself half an hour before the appointed time.

  All his preparations were not sufficient to entirely remove from his person the characteristic aroma of his profession. He had come to the city on the Hardy Fire, alone. The worthy craft was so saturated with the smell of fish that it permeated everything that came aboard within minutes.

  Even without that distinction following him through the door, he still would have drawn stares. Obviously he was no oil executive or businessman, notwithstanding clean clothes, combed hair, and shaven face. The man had fisherman written all over him. He lumbered in and glanced about uncertainly, looking every inch, to use a phrase appropriate to the circumstance, like a fish out of water. He shuffled to the bar and showed the man behind it the invitation in his hand.

  Expressionless, the man nodded, walked out from behind the counter, and motioned for him to follow. He led him across the common room, halfway down a dim corridor, then opened a door. He gestured his guest inside the small private room and closed the door behind him.

  Hardy glanced about. The luxuriously appointed room was empty. On his first meeting with the mysterious man who introduced himself as Smith, the interview in the pub had been brief. He’d been told little more than an overview of what Smith’s people had in mind. Smith handed him an envelope that held a plane ticket to Edinburgh, a solicitor’s card containing time, date, and address for a second meeting at which time more would be explained, and five hundred pounds in cash for his trouble. There was more where that came from, Smith had told him.

  That was enough to get Hardy’s attention. He had slipped out of Whales Reef without anyone knowing of it, had flown from Sumburgh to Edinburgh, met with Smith and the solicitor, signed a slew of papers—which he probably should have read more carefully, but he could scarcely understand a word of all the legal applesauce—and that was that. He returned home full of dreams and schemes. It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut and allow the slow-grinding wheels of the legal system to do their work. Word had leaked, of course. Smith told him to expect that and just to play it coy and cool, to exude complete confidence in the eventual outcome.

  He’d heard nothing more from Smith or the solicitor’s firm until two days ago.

  Now he was in the Craigsmont again. A table i
n the middle of the room held a full pitcher of dark ale. Beside it sat a full bottle of Courvoisier. Glasses were provided. He was not a brandy man, but no one had to tell him what the pitcher and pints were for. He stepped forward and poured a tall glass full. He carried it to one of five easy chairs upholstered in rich blue leather and sat down to wait.

  Hardy was halfway through his second pint when Smith entered. With him was a man Hardy did not recognize.

  “Mr. Tulloch,” said Smith, shaking Hardy’s hand as he stood. The other man glanced about the room with an uncertain expression and sniffed a time or two. He did not offer his hand. No introductions were made.

  Both men poured themselves glasses of brandy but remained standing.

  “We have a few more papers for you to sign, Mr. Tulloch,” said Smith, removing several folders from a leather satchel and spreading them on the table. “We brought them here for your convenience. There is no need for you to go to Edinburgh again. Our people are handling everything. You have filled out the application to have your birth certificate sent?”

  Hardy nodded.

  “It should be coming anytime then. There is also information on a new development we feel should help solidify your claim. We are very optimistic that this will, as we say, seal the deal.”

  “What information?” asked Hardy.

  “It’s all explained here,” replied Smith, tapping the document. “So if you will just sign here”—he pointed and handed him a pen—“we can all be on our way.”

  31

  Village Talk

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  In that mysterious, secretive, uncanny way in which news circulates in a church or village and becomes in time common currency without knowledge where the stories originated, Whales Reef was thus not long in learning that Hardy Tulloch may have held a closer legal relation to departed Macgregor Tulloch than Macgregor’s favorite, the young chief himself.