The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

She had already turned her back on one legacy. Was she now going to do so with another?

  “Of course, I will do whatever you instruct me to do,” MacNaughton went on. “But I strongly urge you not to act rashly, Miss Ford, or to make a hasty decision. Please at least give the matter serious thought for a few days.”

  “I plan to be on a flight back to Washington the day after tomorrow.”

  “I hope you will change your mind. I would at the least implore you to visit the island and see the Cottage and property before making a final decision.”

  “How far is it?”

  “A drive of thirty or forty minutes, then a ferry ride across the isthmus to the island.”

  “A ferry ride! I thought I was already on the island.”

  “The Shetlands comprise many islands. Whales Reef is one of its medium-sized ones, though it is only some four miles from top to bottom—north to south, as it were. The ride across is short, ten or fifteen minutes. In addition to the Cottage, there is the land to consider as well. It is not agricultural but mostly used for grazing sheep. There are also some oil leases here on Shetland included in the estate.”

  “It sounds as though I underestimated everything about this,” said Loni, letting out a long sigh. “It is more complicated and extensive than I imagined. Still, it remains my intention to see to the legalities, sell or transfer the property, and return to the States as quickly as possible.”

  “Again I implore you not to make a hasty decision. Having said that, however, the final documents must be signed in a timely manner. I hope you will at least see the property?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good. I took the liberty of arranging for Dickie to deliver you there this afternoon. You can spend the night and stay as long as you wish. I have arranged everything for your comfort. The housekeeper will have fresh linens on the beds. The kitchen will be well-stocked. I have also arranged for a rental car to be delivered to you at the Cottage early tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure all that is necessary for such a brief stay.”

  “Nevertheless, all will be ready for you . . . for however long you do stay. But now,” he said, glancing at his watch, “it is nearly one. I hope you will join me for lunch. Then perhaps I can show you a little of our fair city. I arranged for Dickie to be back at 3:30.”

  “Before we go,” said Loni, “I would like to know who is next in line for the inheritance. I would like to meet him.”

  “Actually . . .” began MacNaughton slowly, “I’m afraid that is somewhat ambiguous.”

  “In what way?”

  “There is some question of the legitimacy of a marriage back in the family line, which could disqualify one of the young men I mentioned. That is one of the reasons probate has dragged on so long. I am merely a private solicitor and am not privy to the complete findings of the probate court. I have not been told definitely who would inherit if you do not sign the inheritance documents.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “I only know which direction their decision was leaning before your identity was discovered.”

  “Then may I ask toward whom is it leaning?”

  “It would be premature of me to—”

  “Please, Mr. MacNaughton. I would like to meet him. It is probable that I will want either to decline the inheritance or else follow whatever legalities are necessary to sell or transfer the property to him. What is his name?”

  “He is a Tulloch,” said MacNaughton with obvious reluctance. “A fisherman by the name of Hardar Tulloch, though of a different branch of Tullochs. He would, as I said, be your third cousin.”

  “How may I contact him?”

  “That will not be a problem. Everyone on the island knows Hardy Tulloch.”

  72

  On the Trail

  ATLANTA

  “Hey, Thorburn . . . Jimmy Joe here. Got just a minute—in Atlanta about to board a flight to London. I’ll be up in your neck of the woods tomorrow afternoon. You get the email with my itinerary?”

  “I did, Mr. McLeod.”

  “Good, good! Then you meet me at the airport when I land in Aberdeen. Book us both on the first flight you can up to the islands. I’m fixin’ to stay on that filly’s trail before the scent goes cold, know what I mean?”

  “I seriously recommend that you reconsider, Mr. McLeod. The last thing we want to do is—”

  “You leave all that to me, Thorburn. She’s an American, isn’t she? Know anything about her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, whoever she is, she’s gotta be able to use the dough—just a flunky to some ornery gal who thinks she’s big stuff in D.C. Money talks, Thorburn, you mark my words. I know how to deal with her kind—seen ’em a million times. Gotta head this thing off at the pass.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the Scotsman, “we have to play it out without causing waves. It may be that the big fellow can win her over. We’ll get her to sell to him, and we’ll advance him the money, then buy from him as per the previous arrangement. It could all still work as we planned. But I strongly recommend that we not push too hard.”

  “That’s all okay, but I got my own way of doing things. So I’ll see you tomorrow, Thorburn. You just get me to the Shetlands, you hear? I’m going to rope in this gal before anybody puts contrary notions in her head.”

  73

  Into the Country

  SHETLAND

  The taxi sat in front of the office building as Jason MacNaughton and Loni Ford walked back from lunch through Lerwick’s downtown district. The colorful figure of the unshaven minister-chauffeur stood on the sidewalk beside it.

  “Good afternoon tae ye again, Miss Ford,” he said, again removing his cap.

  “And to you, Mr. Sinclair,” rejoined Loni with a smile.

  “So ye ken my name noo, do ye? Has this bounder o’ a solicitor been spreadin’ tales aboot me?”

  “He has indeed, Mr. Sinclair. I know all your secrets!”

  MacNaughton laughed. “Not to worry, Dickie,” he said. “I told her none of the juicy stuff. I’m saving that for when I need to blackmail you!”

  “An’ ye call yersel’ a lawyer!”

  “Miss Ford’s luggage is still up in my office,” MacNaughton said. “If you could bring it down, then take her to Whales Reef and see her safely to the Cottage.”

  The man disappeared inside the building. Loni and MacNaughton exchanged a few final words.

  “If there is anything you need or that I have neglected, Miss Ford,” said the solicitor, “telephone me immediately. You have my card.”

  “Thank you, Mr. MacNaughton,” replied Loni. “I’m sure I will be fine. I will be in touch.”

  Sinclair returned with her bags, and they were on their way.

  “Mr. MacNaughton tells me you are also a minister,” said Loni.

  “Aye, that’s me—a jack o’ many trades.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, why two professions . . . and such diverse occupations?”

  “I pastor a wee kirk o’ nae mair nor forty or fifty folk,” answered Sinclair. “Isna a parish kirk, ye ken, an’ the folk canna afford tae pay me. Nor would I take it if they could. I haud what some would call unorthodox views, Miss Ford. One o’ those is that I dinna think the Word teaches that ministers are tae be paid. So I earn my ain livin’, an’ give o’ my time as a pastor wi’oot obligation. ’Tis hoo I think it ought tae be in God’s Kirk. I hae my taxi an’ limousine service as what they call my day job.”

  “That is very interesting,” said Loni. “That is also the custom in the Fellowship where I grew up.”

  “Aye, so ye’re a believer yersel’, then?”

  The question took Loni off guard.

  “I, uh . . . uh, yes,” she answered, though her tone betrayed an obvious lack of conviction.

  “What was the Fellowship ye spoke o’,” said Sinclair, “if ye dinna mind my askin’?”

  “Quaker. I grew up in a small conservative sect o
f the Society of Friends.”

  “Oh, aye—a Quaker, are ye?—George Fox an’ John Woolman an’ the like. Ye come o’ a long line o’ righteous folk. ’Tis a rich an’ worthy heritage.”

  They settled into the drive, and Loni grew pensive. The long talk with Jason MacNaughton replayed itself in her brain, working deeper and deeper into her consciousness.

  As they bounced along the two-lane road, though occasionally distracted as they whizzed along on the wrong side of the road, Loni found herself caught up in the mystery of what she had become involved in. How often, she thought, does someone find themselves heir to a property from the “old country,” from a long-lost relative they’ve never heard of? The whole thing was straight out of a Victorian novel. MacNaughton’s description of the Cottage as the former residence of the laird and chief added yet more romance to it all.

  Quickly the city was behind them and they were driving along through open country. The scenery became more and more desolate. At last they crested a small hill. Coming down the other side, the road ended abruptly.

  In front of them lay the ocean. Sinclair braked to a stop and turned off the engine.

  “What now?” asked Loni.

  “We wait for the ferry. Shouldna be more’n half an oor.”

  74

  The Ferry

  Loni’s intrepid driver got out of the car and strolled toward the landing. Loni followed.

  The scent of the sea, suddenly so close, assaulted her with wonderfully evocative sensations she could not have described had she tried. Whereas the predominant smell she would always associate with her childhood was wood, she could already tell that the predominant fragrance of the Shetlands was the sea.

  She walked onto the thick wooden planks of the landing. It was precarious in her heels. She had to be careful for cracks between the boards. A bank of fog was drifting toward them. Nothing beyond two hundred yards was visible.

  “Whales Reef’s oot there across the water, Miss Ford,” said Sinclair as she came alongside him.

  “And there is no way on or off the island except by ferry?”

  “Aye.”

  American and Shetlander stood side by side for several minutes in silence, mesmerized by the gentle lapping of the waves along the shore.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something, Mr. Sinclair?” said Loni at length.

  “Of course not, mum.”

  “You are a minister.”

  “Aye.”

  “Would you mind . . . that is, I’ve never asked anyone this before, but would you pray for me?”

  “Aye. I hae been doin’ that already, Miss Ford.”

  “You have!”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “I could see ye was uncertain o’ what’s tae come tae ye, an’ that ye was feelin’ a mite lonely.”

  “How could you have known? That is exactly what I am feeling. I’m nervous. I don’t know if I will know what to do.”

  “Then I’ll be prayin’ that the Lord’ll speak tae ye, an’ that ye’d hear Him, an’ that ye’d ken what He’s sayin’ tae ye. An’ I’m honored that ye’d ask, Miss Ford. There’s nae greater measure o’ friendship than tae haud a brither or sister up intil the Father’s care.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

  The unlikely man of God wandered off the dock and some paces along the shoreline. Loni knew he was praying for her.

  Eventually the muffled drone of an engine was heard faintly through the mist. Five or ten minutes later, a small rusting ferry came into view through the fog.

  Loni returned to the car as the boat docked. The minister-cabman was already at the wheel. One lone car drove off. Sinclair turned on his engine and eased forward onto the deck.

  Minutes later they were off across the water. Loni got out of the car again and made her way to the front of the little craft.

  Soon they were in the midst of dense fog. Loni could see nothing but frothing water below the hull. With the fog came a chill. She pulled her new shawl up more tightly around her neck and shoulders.

  Loni drew in the aroma of salt spray, delighting in the splashing sound of waves against the prow as it ploughed through the calm summer’s sea. No one else stood about on the deck. For Shetlanders, ferrying the many waters of its inlets and lochs and sounds was nothing out of the ordinary. For Loni, however, even this brief voyage was new and magical.

  She felt more alone than ever. She had nearly reached her journey’s end, though she could see nothing of what lay ahead.

  The very fog surrounding her was symbolic of that reality, concealing many things from view that perhaps she was about to discover. She was alone and yet . . . was she at last drawing near the very roots she had always longed for?

  All the religious training of her childhood stole upon her out of the past—the quiet meetings, the Quaker tradition of silence, prayer and Bible time with her grandparents, her grandmother’s comfort amid the suffering she endured at school, the humble way her grandparents had deepened spiritual truth into her. Their influence had worked into her as if by osmosis.

  She realized then how deeply she treasured that past. It now seemed so far away.

  All at once she desperately wanted to touch that life again. Even after leaving home, that past had been an unseen anchor to her existence. But she hadn’t recognized it. She had let the tether to that anchor slip from her grasp. She didn’t even know how to pray. She had to ask someone else to pray for her.

  Maybe it was time she learned how to pray from her own heart.

  Loni closed her eyes. She let the chilly mist wash over her like a microscopic cleansing rain. As she stood, a calm slowly filled her.

  At last she opened her eyes. Staring into the dense cloud of white as if looking toward a future she could not see, Loni began to pray:

  God, I know I’ve let you slip out of my mind these last few years. I hope I haven’t let you slip out of my heart. But I don’t want to forget the foundations that were built for me, that made me who I am.

  I am grateful for the recent visits with my grandparents, reminded of so many good things in my years with them, and that I don’t want to forget you. I want you to be part of my life.

  Whatever is about to meet me on the other side, beyond the thick fog on this strange island called Whales Reef, I want you to be part of it. Help me know what I am supposed to do. Do I have a duty, like the lawyer said?

  I feel more alone than I have ever felt in my life. Yet there is something exciting about it too. I realize I need your quiet voice speaking to me now more than ever. So please speak to me and guide me. I realize how much I need you . . . and want you inside me.

  Help me, Lord—help me know what to do.

  75

  Stranger on Whales Reef

  WHALES REEF, SHETLAND ISLANDS

  The ferry began to slow. Loni could still see nothing. Her hair was dripping from the fog. She felt no different. Yet her prayer was a beginning. She was ready to discover what lay beyond the mist.

  She returned shivering to the taxi. Sinclair smiled as she climbed inside. It was one of the most tender smiles Loni had ever seen.

  “Ye’ll be at yer destination, Miss Ford,” he said. “We’re aboot tae dock at Whales Reef. Noo I’m nae one given tae the prophetic, but I’ll just tell ye this—ye hae a great adventure ahead o’ ye. I canna say where that adventure will take ye. But I’ll say this tae ye, lassie—embrace the adventure because yer Father’s wi’ ye. He loves ye, an’ He’s got yer wee heart in the palm o’ His great hand.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair,” she said softly. “Thank you so much. I will not forget your words. I promise.”

  A dull thud beneath them signaled their arrival.

  “Then let’s take ye ontil Whales Reef,” said Sinclair, starting his engine. He eased off the ferry, across the dock, and onto the island.

  Almost immediately the fog began to lift. A few of their surroundings gradually came into focus.

  “There
’s the kirk on yer left,” said Sinclair as they drove past a road leading inland from the sea. “’Tis up on the hill, though ye canna see it jist noo on account o’ the fog. An’ there’s the wool factory,” he continued. “Ye can jist see a bit o’ the building.”

  Small cottages with attached barns and gardens and surrounded by low stone walls spread out from the road in both directions. They gradually gave way to larger buildings, and long rows of two-story stone homes appeared on either side of the single street, their doors and windows just beyond the narrow sidewalks, so close that Loni could almost have reached out and touched them.

  Who lives behind these doors and windows in these long blocks of stone? Loni wondered. If she decided to accept it, would they hate her for taking the inheritance away from one of their own, the fisherman whose name she had already forgotten?

  As they reached the center of the village, the buildings now began to display shop signs painted on doors and windows or on signs hanging from above. She felt like she had been transported to a scene in a Dickens novel.

  The variety of shops whose signs she read as they passed was remarkable: Nibs and Nobs Gifts and Misc., Gretta’s Hair Salon, Olde Worlde Antiques, Willows Tea Shop, the Whales Reef Natural History Museum and Wildlife Shoppe. And there was a bakery, a small bookstore . . .

  What people were out turned to stare as the taxi passed. Their expressions did not appear welcoming. Did they know it was her who was invading their town?

  Glancing back and forth on both sides, Loni now beheld a large building called the Whales Fin Inn. Its sign boasted the best beer and fish and chips in the Shetlands.

  The door of the place stood open. Several men and two women stood near the entrance in animated conversation. A great laugh sounded from one of the men. It was followed by an unintelligible outpouring from one of the women that sounded anything but friendly toward the tall, good-natured man in front of her. The man laughed again, though the small enclave quieted as the taxi slowly drove by.

  “There’s the village square,” said Sinclair as they passed the hotel. “The harbor’s doon tae the right, jist there, where the fishermen keep their boats.”