Ingrid Weaver - Big-city Bachelor

She was an honest-to-goodness heiress.

Well, as much of an heiress as Packenham Junction had ever produced. It was still difficult to believe, but the lawyers assured her there’d been no mistake. Her Uncle Roland Hamill, the black sheep of the family, the man whose name hadn’t been spoken above a whisper in all her growing years, had left his entire estate to the niece he had never met.

Poor Uncle Roland. She’d been saddened to learn of his death, but it was a distant sadness, not the heart-wrenching grief she’d felt when her parents had died. She knew almost nothing about him. There hadn’t been any photographs of him in the family album, although there had been some boyhood pictures of her father that had obviously had sections torn off. What had driven him away from his home? Why had her father hated him so much?

And what on earth was she going to do with all the money?

Well, not all that much money. His lawyers had already handled the sale of Uncle Roland’s condominium and his furniture, but most of the proceeds had gone toward paying his debts.

And that was a shame. Lizzie’s stepsister, Jolene, was pregnant again, and with the sporadic nature of Tim’s work, they could use some money. Zack, her youngest stepbrother, was due to start college next fall and Benjamin, the oldest, had confessed that business at the cheese factory had been steadily declining. Despite their circumstances, though, her adoptive siblings, true to the stubborn nature of the entire Pedley clan, had been adamant about not taking any of her inheritance.

“It’s yours, Lizzie,” Jolene had said on the drive to the airport this morning. As usual, the task of family spokesperson had fallen to her. “For once in your life, you have something that’s just for you.”

“But I couldn’t possibly—”

“Yes, you can. Your uncle wanted you to have it.”

“I feel weird about it, though. I mean, why should he pass everything on to me when we didn’t even know each other?”

“Well, who else was there? He never married, never had children of his own, right?”

“Right.”

“So why are you still so hesitant? It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

“I know, but it’s all been so sudden.”

“It’s just like a fairy tale, Auntie Liz,” Marylou said breathlessly, leaning forward to grasp the top of Lizzie’s seat. She blew a pink bubble and popped it noisily against the roof of her mouth. “The good princess, struggling to make ends meet, is suddenly transformed by the wave of a magic wand and is whisked away to an enchanted kingdom.”

“I’m going to New York, not Never-Never-Land,” Lizzie said, shaking her head at the irrepressibly whimsical seven-year-old. “And working at the day care center isn’t exactly sweeping up cinders.”

“But Mom’s your stepsister,” Marylou continued, her eyes sparkling as she expanded the fantasy.

“Mmm. That’s true. Do you think we could call her evil, though?”

“She makes everyone eat broccoli.”

“That’s true, too.” She glanced at Jolene. “You evil thing, you.”

“I knew all those bedtime stories you read my kids would warp their minds,” Jolene muttered under her breath as she fought to steer the old station wagon around a bend in the road. “But getting back to our topic, we were talking about your inheritance.”

Lizzie sighed. “I still don’t know what I’ll do with it if I don’t share it with the rest of you.”

“We’ll survive just fine. It’s you we’re concerned about,” Jolene said. “After all the years you’ve devoted to taking care of other people, it’s about time you had a chance to focus on yourself.”

“Maybe you could go shopping,” Marylou said helpfully. “There’s this really cool green dress with sparkles on it that’s in the window of McBride’s.”

Lizzie smiled wryly. “I know the one. Thanks for the suggestion, but I’m not sure how well sequins would stand up to a roomful of three-year-olds with finger paints.”

“There won’t be any three-year-olds or finger paints where you’re going,” Jolene said. “And I think it would be a great idea to do some shopping while you’re away.”

“This is a business trip, remember?”

“Sure, but it’s your business you’re going to visit.”

“I don’t think that part has quite sunk in yet, either. What on earth am I going to do with fifty percent of Whitmore and Hamill?”

“Run the company, of course.”

At Jolene’s deadpan comment, Lizzie burst into laughter. “Oh, now that’s almost as good as working at the day care in sequins,” she said when she caught her breath. “Me? A business tycoon?”

Jolene didn’t join in her laughter. “Why not? You’re smart enough to do whatever you put your mind to.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but—”

“You know it’s true. You started up your own business already, didn’t you?”

“That’s different. The day care is just organized babysitting.”

“It’s a business,” Jolene insisted. “And who has been helping Ben with his books for the past six years?”

“I always helped him with his math homework. It’s just a hobby.”

“Hah. You managed to run Dad’s farm when you were only nineteen. Why, if you hadn’t turned down that scholarship so you could stay and take care of us—”

“That’s ancient history, Jolene. The family needed me, and I don’t have any regrets. I’m perfectly happy just as I am.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Are you?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. Automatically. Because she already knew from experience how useless regrets could be. One of the most painful phrases ever spoken was if only. So she didn’t speak it.

“Do you really own a company, Auntie Liz?”

“Well, part of it.”

“Hey, cool.”

“I’ll bring you some of their stationery for a souvenir, okay?”

As the engines droned on and the miles slipped past beneath her, Lizzie thought about her promise to her niece. She didn’t know much about the advertising business, but she was pretty sure that owning half the company involved more than lending her name to the letterhead. If all that was expected of her was her name, Mr. Whitmore wouldn’t have arranged this trip in the first place, would he?

That lawyer, Jeremy Ebbet, had been so kind over the phone, expressing his sympathy over the loss of her uncle and offering to help her sort out all those bothersome legal technicalities of inheriting the partnership, as he’d put it. He’d said that Mr. Whitmore had personally asked him to invite her to visit their office, insisting the entire staff was eager to meet Roland’s niece. It must be true, since Mr. Whitmore was paying for her plane ticket and even her hotel room.

And as if that weren’t enough, yesterday an extravagant bouquet of flowers had been delivered to the house on Myrtle Street, compliments of that nice Mr. Whitmore.

Relaxing back into her seat, Lizzie speculated about the owner of the other name on the Whitmore and Hamill letterhead. Uncle Roland would have turned fifty this fall, so his partner was probably around the same age. Not for the first time, she tried to imagine a face to go with the name, but the image that popped into her head was a cross between a white-bearded fairy godmother and Santa Claus in a three-piece suit.

He’d sent her flowers. Flowers. That was another first. She wasn’t the kind of woman to whom men sent flowers. A flower pot, maybe. Once while she’d still been seeing Bobby, he’d shown up at her doorstep with a foot-high cedar tree, its roots dripping clods of fresh earth on her welcome mat. She’d smiled and thanked him, of course. It had been a sensible gift, since she’d been looking for something to plant beside the fence in the side yard. But still, there was something so wonderfully impractical about flowers. And sequins.