Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  What had Sheila done?

  "Mr. Falcon," I interrupted, attempting to keep my voice firm. "What did Mitchell’s son mean when he said that Sheila had killed his father? Was she driving the car?"

  My heart beat so loudly against my chest that I was sure the lawyer could hear it.

  "Ms. O’Rourke," he replied gently. "It is a fact that Sheila was driving, yes. And slightly excessive speed was apparently a factor in the severity of the impact. But the authorities have concluded without a doubt that what happened was an accident. The car hit a deer on the road, then swerved into a tree."

  My breath let out with a whoosh, but my nerves were far from settled.

  "I understand your concerns," the lawyer continued evenly. "And I assure you that at first, I shared them. But I have uncovered some additional information."

  Restless, I rose from the desk and began to pace the sunroom, portable phone in hand. As I glanced out across the vista I caught a brief glimpse of a figure emerging into a clearing on the facing hill, then disappearing into the foliage again. It was almost certainly Mitchell’s son; he had been wearing jeans and a bright blue shirt, and at no point in the morning, I now recalled, had I heard a car’s engine. But if he hadn’t driven to the inn, where had he come from? And where was he going now?

  "You see," Mr. Falcon stated, his voice slightly uncomfortable. "I took it upon myself to personally contact the individual who performed the marriage ceremony, because I felt obligated to verify that both parties were sober at the time."

  I cringed and closed my eyes.

  "What I learned was somewhat surprising to me," he continued. "I found the minister a friendly and reasonably intelligent man, who seemed only too willing to attest to the fact that the couple were not only perfectly sober at the time of the ceremony, but that they were, in his self-proclaimed expert opinion, very much in love."

  My eyes flew open, and my eyebrows rose.

  "So you see, Ms. O’Rourke," he explained. "I now find myself in a bit of a bind. Had Mitchell sought my advice prior to his marriage, I would of course have insisted on a prenuptial agreement. Had he refused that, I would have had him revise his will immediately to ensure that his children would have no difficulty claiming whatever he wished them to inherit. But," he added without bitterness, "it appears that my rather impetuous friend, perhaps genuinely in love again, chose to cut me out of the loop. Under such circumstances I cannot legally—in good conscience and taking into account what the officiating minister has said—operate under the assumption that Mitchell did not want Sheila to share in his estate."

  He paused a moment, and I heard without difficulty the words he wasn’t saying.

  "And yet," I surmised, "it hardly seems likely that Mitchell would be happy to see half his estate go to an illegitimate child of Sheila’s that he probably didn’t realize existed. Am I right?"

  The lawyer was silent a moment, and I could picture him wincing. "Provided that no other relations of Sheila’s come forward," he said gently, "you are legally entitled to one half of Mitchell’s estate."

  Legally, but not morally?

  I sat down again, plunking an elbow onto the desktop and dropping my chin heavily into my palm. Mitchell’s children would undoubtedly contest the inheritance, whether or not their father’s attorney supported the effort. The situation had the potential for a good deal of ugliness. I couldn’t let it come to that.

  I opened my mouth to say as much, but the lawyer continued. "My recommendation to you, Ms. O’Rourke, is that you consult an attorney of your own, and the sooner the better."

  My head swam. I was supposed to pay for a lawyer now, just to shore up my claim for Sheila’s money? Money that I never asked for, much less had any real right to?

  Resolution #3: I will actively pursue my own happiness.

  The memory of my perhaps ever-so-slightly drunken words rattled loudly in my skull. Had I meant them, or hadn’t I? If so, there was no reason I should I be so quick to dismiss the possibility of good fortune. How did I know that Mitchell wouldn’t have wanted Sheila to share in his wealth—or that she wouldn’t have wanted me to? Why should I automatically assume that Mitchell’s children were devoted and deserving? For all I knew, they were nothing but spoiled, selfish brats who would squander their father’s life savings in a week. Perhaps something good was meant to come out of all this. Perhaps I was the one to make it happen.

  Bolstered, I stood up again, carefully avoiding another glance at the portrait. "Perhaps I will get an attorney," I replied.

  "Good," the lawyer answered. Yet his voice, far from approving, was almost dispirited.

  I tensed with frustration. "Is there anything else you need from me before I head home?" I asked. Though the lawyer was honest enough to follow through with the dictates of the law, his preference that Mitchell’s property stay in the family was clear.

  "Yes," he responded, "I have some papers you’ll want to look over—I’ll bring them by whenever you’re ready. But also there’s…"

  His voice trailed off awkwardly, then he regrouped. "I need to tell you that shortly after the accident, Mitchell’s daughter, Tia, decided to look around the inn for any identifying information of Sheila’s that might be helpful to the hospital in locating her family. The contents of her purse weren’t sufficient; apparently the address on her driver’s license was out of date, and she had no credit or other ID cards."

  No credit cards. Fake address. My stomach twisted again.

  "Tia came up empty handed," he continued, "but she did find a fair amount of women’s clothing and personal items stored at the inn, which led her to believe that Sheila and Mitchell had been living together before they eloped. If you would be willing to go through Sheila’s personal belongings yourself and determine what should be done with them, I’m sure the family would appreciate it."

  His last sentence barely registered as my mind locked on the first. "Mitchell’s daughter didn’t know about Sheila, either?" I asked, almost in a whisper.

  There was silence, and I envisioned the lawyer squirming uncomfortably at his desk. "Apparently," he answered, "Mitchell chose not to inform either of his children about the relationship. Not that they weren’t close," he explained, almost defensively. "There were regular phone calls between them, but Tia is an artist—she flits about the East Coast and only rarely visits the inn. Fletcher lives in California, but ever since Rosemary became ill, he’s been back quite often—"

  My body stiffened.

  Rosemary.

  I had not forgotten the words Sheila had so laboriously conveyed to me with her final breaths. Rather, I was certain they would be ingrained in my memory forever. But after speaking with her doctor, I knew that she had probably already been bleeding internally—and drifting steadily toward shock—when she awoke and saw me. Given that, I felt I should treat anything she said as suspect.

  Perhaps there was something to it after all.

  "Who is Rosemary?" I asked.

  "Rosemary was Mitchell’s first wife," he explained. "Fletcher and Tia’s mother."

  I looked back at the portrait on the wall, and the room seemed to spin. Rosemary died. Stay—.

  Stay where?

  I pictured Sheila’s eyes again. Determined. Desperate. Then finally—afraid. Was she afraid for herself because she knew she was dying? Or was she was afraid of something else?

  "You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Falcon," I said hurriedly, my thoughts racing as I scanned the green hills through the windows of the sunroom. "But there’s something I have to do."

  Chapter 5

  I locked the front door behind me, then skirted the inn’s edge and walked out into the meadow behind. Cupping my hands around my mouth, I called out the name Fletcher, then paused to listen for a response. None came.

  I walked out farther and looked around. An aged, white frame house became visible on a small rise to my right, and my steps slowed involuntarily. It was the house shown in the family portrait, that much was obvious. L
ess obvious was why it should strike such a familiar cord in my brain—and why, even in my haste to catch up with Mitchell's son, I should be so tempted to stop and go inside. Just to see…

  To see what?

  Flustered, I dismissed the urge with a shake. I had no time for mind games now. Turning myself in the direction that I had last seen Fletcher, I scanned the border of the woods for some sign of a trailhead. Several possibilities were apparent, but I decided to move towards the lowest point of the clearing, where one opening in the brush seemed particularly wide. There, a trail did indeed present itself, and into the forest I went.

  Despite my earnestness in wanting to question the man, hurrying proved difficult. The woods were brilliant. Fresh young leaves fluttered in a light breeze, sending shafts of sunlight dappling onto the groundcover below. The trail was wide and well-traveled, winding through magnificent stands of mature oak, maple, and poplar trees. Clusters of smooth sandstone boulders dotted the hills at irregular intervals, inviting adults to rest and youngsters to climb. And as the trail descended toward the ravine below, outcroppings of shale began to appear, defining small, sheer cliffs trickling with clear water.

  When I reached a wooden footbridge traversing a shallow stream, I had to pause. The stream bed was filled with tumbled rocks, creating innumerable tiny, swirling eddies and producing a pleasant splashing sound beyond what seemed possible for such a small volume of water. I felt a sudden impulse to kick off my shoes and wade barefoot amidst the stones, but knowledge of the water’s chilling temperature, if nothing else, prevented me. Mornings in the Laurel Mountains remained cool until at least July; even then, this little stream would be plenty frigid.

  I looked up the trail toward the next hill, and, still seeing nothing human, called out again. "Fletcher? Fletcher Black?"

  There was no response. I felt both conspicuous and ridiculous yelling in the midst of this natural paradise, where the sounds of the birds, the water, and the wind were infinitely more pleasant to hear than my bellowed alto. But I couldn’t give up yet. Not when I had no idea when, or if, I would see the man in question again.

  I tripped the rest of the way across the bridge and started uphill, noticing soon after that as the grade became steeper, the trail became narrower, traveled by fewer feet.

  Wimps, I muttered, motivating myself. I enjoyed hiking, though with my thin leather loafers I was ill-prepared to do battle with a dew-drenched mountainside. Picking out the driest footing possible, I proceeded with determination, and I had not climbed far before finding myself in a small clearing. The same clearing, I was sure, in which I had glimpsed my quarry just a few moments before. Two paths led away—one twisting back down to the ravine, most likely to complete a loop, the other, much narrower trail heading still more steeply upwards.

  I took a deep breath, grabbed onto a sapling, and commenced climbing. Fletcher must have continued upward, or I would have passed him already. Either way, he should surely have heard me shouting by now.

  The trail was rough in spots, but despite the dampness now seeping through my shoes, I was enjoying myself. I moved along steadily, finding easy footholds in the plentiful roots and rocks. The cool mountain air felt good in my lungs, and the exercise was exhilarating.

  I had been ascending for nearly fifteen minutes, pausing periodically to shout, when I reached a plateau with another small clearing. I moved to its edge, scouring the visible forest for any signs of movement, then called out again. "Fletcher! If you can hear me, say something! I just want to talk to you!"

  I saw nothing, and there was no response. "Blast the man," I muttered out loud. "I know he can hear me." Frustrated, I picked up a small stone and threw it out over the ravine. When it fell lamely to the forest floor not twenty feet away from me, I groaned. Sheila had been determined to explain something to me before she died. Now the one person who could clear up that puzzle was ignoring me.

  I whirled around, prepared to trek back down the path in failure. I had only spun halfway before a sight so startled me I nearly stumbled.

  There, not fifteen feet away, was the man in question. He leaned casually against a giant slab of sandstone, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his arms folded over his chest. He hadn’t made a sound. He still didn’t.

  My face flushed with heat as I realized he must have been watching me all along. Gearing up my best teacher’s voice, I started to reprimand his rudeness, but something in his expression stopped me. The mask of hostility he was wearing might look fierce, but it could not fool Meara O’Rourke. One penetrating glance into those curious eyes of his—bluish-gray one moment, sea-green the next—and I perceived again the same emotional wound I had sensed at the inn. A pain so deep my own gut reeled with its impact.

  His body language, however, was stoic. Both were so different from the carefree, laughing youth of the portrait, I began to wonder if it was indeed his picture I had seen. But as shafts of sunlight broke through the leaves and bounced over his tawny hair, telltale streaks of red confirmed the likeness.

  I reminded myself that the man had buried his father just days before, and had only within the last few minutes learned that half his inheritance was gone. It would behoove me to tread lightly.

  I smiled politely and stepped forward. "I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot," I began, granting myself a freebee on the apology. After all, it was for a good cause. "My name is Meara. Meara O’Rourke. I’m Sheila’s biological daughter, but I didn’t know her well."

  At my last words, he shifted his weight off the rock and stood up straight. "Didn’t?" he repeated. His deep voice, though not loud, seemed to echo among the trees.

  I nodded. "She died last night."

  Now his eyes studied mine. He took a step toward me, and I felt a sudden urge to step back. I wasn’t afraid of him, but there was something about him, something about his very presence, that gave me pause. It was probably an inherent bias, I told myself, based on my unfortunate experience with Derrick, my college sweetheart. A body builder and Cary Grant lookalike, Derrick had stolen my heart during freshman orientation and kept it in the palm of his hand right up until we had attended different graduate schools, at which point he had opted to dash it the ground and stomp on it. Whoever said that absence made the heart grow fonder, I realized later, should have exempted weak-willed men in their physical prime.

  I had been careful from that point on not to be fooled by handsome princes, and this man easily rated five alarms. Still, there was a ruggedness to him that was anything but aristocratic. He exuded a homespun, down-to-earth independence that, princely face or no, was sharply inconsistent with velvet and tights.

  Well-fitting jeans, on the other hand, did him justice. Not that I noticed that sort of thing. Ever since Derrick, I had been immune.

  I stepped back anyway.

  At my news, his eyes flickered with what I was certain was compassion, though he seemed determined not to express the sentiment. "I’m sorry," he said shortly, keeping his voice deadpan. "I hadn’t heard."

  My brow furrowed. His distant, brooding demeanor was clearly meant to be off-putting, but the act was wasted on me. I wasn’t sure what the man was really like, but I was quite certain that he was not being himself now.

  "Thank you," I answered warmly, trying be optimistic. It was only natural for him to have his guard up where my motives were concerned. But short of childish spite, why should he not be willing to answer a few simple questions?

  "I followed you here for a reason," I began, gauging his reaction carefully. "I was hoping you could clear something up for me. Sheila asked to see me after the accident, and I happened to be in her hospital room right before she died. She was trying to tell me something, and it seemed very important to her. But I couldn’t understand it, and she wasn’t able to finish."

  I took a breath. His face remained impassive. "What she said was ‘I was protecting you. Rosemary died. Stay—’ I couldn’t make out the rest. I was hoping maybe you would know what she meant by that."<
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  I had no idea what sort of response to expect from him, but what I got surprised me. His eyes widened, and his muscles tensed. Worse yet, he stared at me as if I had struck him. When he spoke, his voice was hard and brittle, as if he were expending a great deal of effort to control it. "I never met this Sheila," he answered, "and I have no idea why my father married her. But I do know that she had no business even mentioning my mother’s name, and neither do you."

  He turned his back on me. "Now I’d appreciate it if you would get off my mountain," he ordered over his shoulder. "If you need a lawyer, get one. But don’t be following me around."

  The words were harsh—they were meant to be. The fact that he was already heading farther up the trail was a clear sign of my dismissal.

  But I would not be dismissed so easily. "I realize the subject is upsetting," I explained patiently. "But this is important. Sheila was trying to send me some sort of a message. I think she was trying to warn me about something."

  He stopped, exhaled gruffly, and turned around. "I have no idea what the woman was talking about," he retorted, "and I don’t care. Goodbye."

  He presented his broad back once more, then commenced climbing.

  My spirits plummeted. His ignorance seemed sincere.

  Sheila’s words still badgered my brain. Rosemary died. Of course she had died—everyone knew that. Why tell me? Was Sheila attempting to justify her marriage? I was protecting your interests as well as my own...his wife was gone, he was lonely, what was the harm?

  My feet felt cold. Partly because my socks were soaked through, and partly because I sensed that I had stepped into a situation much more complicated than it appeared—and perhaps more unsavory.

  I stared after the retreating form that moved nimbly up the hill away from me. The man was reeling with both pain and resentment, and understandably so. He had lost both of his parents within a year, and now he believed that Sheila—and by extension, I—were stealing something that rightfully belonged to him and his sister.