Fiona Hood-Stewart - Savannah Secrets

“How absurd,” Meredith exclaimed, disgusted by such hypocrisy and wondering what sort of woman would have let society and a strong-willed mother force her to give up a child if she’d wanted to keep it.

“Absurd maybe, but let’s face it, that’s the way it was. Young society ladies who found themselves in a fix went abroad, had an abortion somewhere discreet or gave the child up for adoption. They spent the year away and then returned home with no one the wiser.” Tracy raised an elegantly etched brow and reached for the coffee mug.

“Carrying the child for nine months, giving birth to it at this Swiss convent,” Meredith said, pointing to a file, “and then simply leaving it behind so she could head back home and party seems so cruel, so unfeeling.”

Tracy shrugged. “I doubt Rowena gave Isabel much choice. If it makes you feel any better, Uncle Fairfax did say that Isabel was different when she returned, much more subdued. Nobody talked about it. But obviously,” she added, gesturing to the paperwork lying on the desk between them, “there was a child. As for the father’s identity, well, presumably Isabel took that secret with her to the grave. And now Rowena—for whatever weird reason—has named the child her heir.”

“But doesn’t it all seem too simple? I mean, think about it, Trace.” Meredith tapped her fingers on the serviceable teak desk, then leaned back and swung in the sagging office chair, crumpling her suit jacket. “Rowena had a complex personality. We know she liked to control things. She didn’t leave anything to chance. So why fork over a fortune to a total stranger? And then there are the Carstairs relations to consider, not to mention Dallas. I can’t believe Rowena left her at nineteen without a dime when she knows all the problems the poor kid is going through with that property of hers up in Beaufort. The bank’s about to foreclose.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad. Is there nothing we can do?” Tracy asked anxiously, horrified by the thought of Dallas Thornton, whom she’d known since she was a kid, being thrown out of Providence, the beautiful stud farm that for years had been in her family.

“I don’t know yet.” Meredith sat straighter. “I’ll take all this home tonight and dig my teeth into it once the boys are in bed.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, Lord, it’s almost five. Mick’s ball game is this afternoon.” When she dragged her fingers through her hair and took off her glasses she suddenly looked much younger and more vulnerable and very pretty. She stared at her partner. “You realize what’s going to happen, right?”

“Yep. Pretty much. It seems a given that Rowena’s relatives will contest the will.”

“And guess who they’ll hire—if they haven’t already?”

The two women’s eyes locked. “Ross.”

“Right. You know I loved Ro dearly, but I wish she hadn’t left me with such a mess.” She groaned, “Even if it does make for a dramatic parting gesture. She never liked all her greedy Carstairs relatives, said they reminded her of buzzards at the roadside, waiting ravenously for the morsels her eventual death would bring.”

“Looks like she’s had the last word. We’ll miss her, you know,” Tracy said as she got up to leave.

“Yeah, we will. See you tomorrow,” Meredith said, a soft smile touching her lips as the door closed behind Tracy.

As she gathered the files she’d sort through later that evening, Meredith recalled that stormy afternoon twelve years earlier when she’d first met Rowena Carstairs. She had been a summer intern at Rollins, Hunter & Mills and Rowena had been holding court in the firm’s walnut-paneled lobby, dressed in a flowing purple caftan and a remarkable jeweled pink turban. Her legendary toy poodles—always dyed to match Rowena’s headdress of the day—were yapping hysterically at her heels and gnawing on the knotted fringe of the floor’s antique Oriental carpet.

The poodles, Meredith recalled, were noted for their ill humor. Neither of the junior partners hovering anxiously beside one of the firm’s most prestigious clients had dared to censure the dogs, which by this time were happily chewing their way through a delicately carved chair leg.

Raised to respect the value of things, and too new to the firm to know whom she was messing with, Meredith marched right up to Rowena’s dogs and told them firmly to heel. To everyone’s astonishment the dogs stopped their destructive activity and settled obediently at Meredith’s feet, giving her patent pumps a cautiously friendly lick.

And to everyone’s equally stunned amazement, Rowena had burst out laughing and grasped Meredith’s hand. “About time someone had the guts to stand up to these little pests,” she barked. “Beastly little dogs, aren’t they? Touched in the head, I think.”

“Must be all that hair dye,” Meredith noted wryly.

After an audible gasp, one of the junior partners, clearly bent on damage control, stepped forward and, muttering apologies, grabbed Meredith by the arm, intent on propelling her back to the copy room. But Rowena stayed his hand. “You know, I bet you’re right. That dye probably makes ’em antsy,” she said, addressing Meredith, her keen bright eyes narrowing. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that? What’s your name, gal? It’s good to see that someone around this mausoleum has some spunk.”

Before she’d left the firm that summer, Ross Rollins had told her there’d be a position waiting for her as soon as she finished law school. Surprised, she’d thanked him profusely, but he told her to save her thanks for Rowena Carstairs. “Claimed you’re the only one with any sense around here, and threatened to take her business to another law firm unless we hired you. As you’ve probably gathered,” he’d added dryly, “she’s one of our biggest clients.”

Without a doubt, Rowena Carstairs had been one of Savannah’s most flamboyant and original characters. She’d also been a true friend. It was no exaggeration to say that without Rowena’s patronage, Meredith would never have been able to start her own small independent practice. So no matter how mysterious and convoluted the will—or how many of her own questions went unanswered—she must do her best to see that Rowena’s wishes were fulfilled.

Meredith shoved the documents in her briefcase and, grabbing her coat, moved toward the door. She’d think about all this later tonight, once homework was done and the boys were fast asleep.

Opening the door of her office, she smiled at Ali, her faithful secretary who’d taken a substantial pay cut to follow her on her path of independence. That was loyalty, Meredith realized. “Have to get to the game but I’ll be in early tomorrow. I’m taking the Carstairs files with me, Ali.”

“Don’t worry, Meredith, I’ll be here awhile. Tracy’s up to her eyeballs in the Martin v. Fairbairn case so we’ll be busy. I just put on a new pot of coffee.” Ali’s slim figure and good posture made her seem always ready for action.

“I don’t know how you guys survive. You know, I read somewhere that women can get depressed from too much caffeine. You and Trace should seriously consider cutting down on—”

“You have precisely ten minutes to get to the game and traffic’s bad,” Ali said, dismissing her. “So long. See you in the morning.” She waved her thin fingers and grinned before heading into the tiny kitchen.

Stepping out onto the street, Meredith glanced back fondly at the small redbrick house she’d leased for the office. It wasn’t pretentious, but it served its purpose. During the past most difficult months of her life, she and Tracy had built up a growing practice by accepting lower fees than most firms of their caliber. Some simply didn’t want to pay the horrendously costly fees of the better-known firms. Other, more humble clients had heard through the grapevine that Meredith Hunter had left a junior partnership at Rollins, Hunter & Mills to begin her own practice because she’d become disenchanted with the way her former firm did business. This, and the fact that she always had time to spare for a lost or ailing cause, was beginning to pay off.