Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart

stairs and down the corridor.

      “It’s our best room,” Moira announced proudly. “We had it redecorated last year,” she added, unlocking the door and showing Meredith inside.

      “Lovely,” Meredith said weakly, staring at the boldly patterned purple curtains and matching bedcover, the plush orange armchair and Formica closet.

      “Yes, well, Jim and I decided to go the whole hog and do it right,” Moira replied complacently. “Now, if you get yersel’ sorted out, dearie, I’ll be getting yer high tea ready for ye.”

      “Thank you. Uh, what’s high tea?” she asked, curious.

      “Oh, that would be somewhere between tea and supper.”

      “Ah. That would be wonderful,” Meredith responded, laying her briefcase down on the table, trying not to blink at the color scheme. As the landlady closed the door, she sank into the orange chair and let out a sigh. At least the central heating worked. It was almost too hot. Well, she reasoned, if all went according to plan, she wouldn’t be here long.

      After phoning her parents to tell them she’d arrived safely and a quick word with the kids, Meredith slipped into the bathroom, glad to see that Moira and Jim’s improvements had included functional plumbing. The shower worked fine and she relaxed under the hot-water jet.

      She must, Meredith reflected as she dried herself, try to reach her quarry before nightfall. Who knows, with a bit of luck he might even receive her this evening. Not that she held much hope of that, Meredith conceded, brushing her hair back. After all, if the man hadn’t had the courtesy to answer her mail, it was doubtful he’d be willing to see her outside of business hours. Still, it was worth giving him a call before going down to what Moira had described as “high tea.”

      She checked her notes for the number, then dialed and waited, listening impatiently to the double-burr ring and drumming her foot on the colorful carpet. After several rings a female voice answered.

      “No, I’m afraid Mr. Gallagher isn’t available,” the woman responded to her inquiry.

      “Could you leave him a message?” Meredith asked.

      “Aye, I could,” the dour voice on the other end replied.

      “Tell him that Meredith Hunter called. I’m in Strathcairn. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

      Silence followed.

      “Did you hear me?”

      “Aye, a heard ye. But a doubt it’ll do much good. He’s been in a terrible mood the past few days.”

      “Oh. Well, could you try, anyway?” Meredith insisted, hope plummeting as she tried to shake the nasty feeling that her trip might well prove to be a waste of time. Surely he would have to see her now that she’d made the flight from so far away?

      With a shrug Meredith donned a warm sweater and made her way downstairs, hungrily following the scent of freshly baked scones that led her directly from the lobby through an adjoining door into the pub. Right now she was ready for anything they were prepared to offer. And as she followed Moira’s waving arm to a table in the corner, the noisy, welcoming atmosphere of the pub made her forget that tomorrow morning she must hunt the lion in his lair.

      For now, she’d content herself by indulging in what was certainly the best meal she’d had in a while.

      “A lady called, sir.” Mrs. Duffy stood in the doorway wrapped in her heavy blue coat.

      “What lady?” Grant dragged his eyes away from the computer screen, annoyed at the interruption. The deal was still in jeopardy. He did not need a disturbance.

      “An American lady, sir. A Miss Meredith Hunter. She’s at the Strathcairn Arms,” Mrs. Duffy added, pursing her lips, as though staying at the hotel implied bad news. “And,” she added, “she wants to see you as soon as possible.”

      “Damn her,” Grant muttered, swiveling his office chair and facing Mrs. Duffy. She looked almost triumphant standing there in her old head scarf, coat and gum boots, rather like the prophet Jeremiah on a bad day, he reflected gloomily. Mrs. Duffy had little sense of humor and fewer words. He’d noted that her general outlook on life was negative. On the rare days when the sun had dared peek from beyond the heavy expanse of cloud hovering overhead, she’d assured him it would undoubtedly rain later in the day.

      “Thanks, Mrs. Duffy, that’s fine. I’ll deal with it.” He smiled with an effort.

      “Very well. Good night, sir. I left a pot of Scotch broth on the stove for ye.”

      “Thanks. Great. Good night.” Grant nodded automatically, then swiveled back toward the computer screen. What the hell did this American lawyer think she was doing pursuing him when he’d already made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Rowena Carstairs or her goddamn estate? When he talked to her it would be in his own good time and on his terms. Not at her behest.

      For a few seconds Grant tried to recapture the possible solution to the standoff he’d been working on before he was interrupted, but it was no good. He rose crossly and, glancing at his watch, decided it was time to pour himself a whisky.

      Meredith Hunter.

      She was like a dog after a bone, refusing to let go. Well, he was damned if he was going to make her task any easier. Why should he? Didn’t she represent the people who’d cast him out of their lives?

      He’d thought quite a bit about his life during the past few days, and not by choice. An irritating series of memories flashed when he least expected them, taking him down distant paths he’d no intention of traveling again. Now as he poured the amber liquid into the crystal tumbler, the questions he’d ignored for years resurfaced. Why had the Gallaghers bothered to adopt him? That had been puzzling him for as long as he was old enough to analyze.

      Telling himself for the umpteenth time that it didn’t matter, Grant took a long sip. Cold logic told him there were probably a million valid reasons for what had taken place in his life. He of all people should know that. Weren’t there a million valid reasons why he’d closed down the factory in Illinois last year? It simply wasn’t productive. The fact that fifty or so families had ended up jobless was irrelevant. What mattered was the outcome. Life moved on. Results had to be achieved.

      Maybe Rowena and her daughter had thought the same way about him. He was an inconvenience that needed to be eliminated for the show to go on. Despite this logical reasoning, he found it surprisingly hurtful.

      All at once he wondered what those Illinois families were doing today. They were probably fine, he justified, draining his glass. After all, they’d received appropriate compensation and the job market was improving. The latest economical statistics for the third quarter had shown that the recession was on the mend.

      After pouring himself another whisky, Grant threw himself into the armchair by the fire—his favorite spot in the castle—hating himself for allowing any sentimentality to surface. It was all this Meredith Hunter’s fault, he reflected bitterly.

      If she hadn’t stirred up the dust like this, his life would have continued on the even keel he’d set, rather like a tightrope walker who’s finally found his balance but must look straight ahead in order to reach the end of the rope. Now, thanks to her interference, he’d realized just how brittle his well-constructed world was. Why, he’d even called his adoptive mother Gina Gallagher at her luxurious old people’s home in Surrey, thinking he’d finally ask her the question that had been on his lips for as long as he could remember.

      But when it came to the crunch he hadn’t asked, merely murmured the same old platitudes, then hung up none the wiser.

      He passed a hand through his thick black hair, always a tad too long at the collar, and took another gulp of whisky. Of course, he hadn’t asked his mother why she had adopted him. Gina probably didn’t even know. Just as she didn’t really know why she’d married the other two husbands that had followed his adoptive father. And he couldn’t ask Raymond Gallagher,