Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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.

      Getting into her old Jeep Cherokee, Meredith prepared to go into Mom mode. It wasn’t easy juggling home and the office, especially now that Tom was gone.

      She swallowed and gunned the engine, reminding herself that her ten- and eight-year-old sons, Mick and Zack, were her priority. This was no time for tears. The kids needed her. And she needed them.

      It was all they had left.

      After she’d read the boys a good-night story, turned off the lights and walked down the staircase of the lovely antebellum home she and Tom had dreamed of, saved for, then bought, depression set in. During the day Meredith had so much to do that she barely allowed herself time to think. Work at the office was all-consuming and the kids’ schedule was packed with extracurricular activities that had her running from Little League practices to soccer games. She always had dinner to prepare and homework to finish, and although she’d never thought she’d enjoy math, she’d found herself delving into the intricacies of multiplication and long division with zeal, dreading the moment when it would be time to say “bedtime,” and she’d find herself wandering around the house alone with only her memories for company.

      Turning on the TV in the den, she glanced absently at the time. Nine-thirty. It was still too early to sleep. Maybe she should call her mother. But then she remembered it was bridge night and Clarice and John Rowland would be out. It was too late to call Elm in Ireland and everyone else was busy, watching TV with their husbands, discussing the day’s activities. They didn’t need to listen to her whining on the phone, or worse, weeping.

      She flopped onto the aged moss-green sofa next to Macbeth, the family’s golden Lab. Actually he’d been Tom’s. Swallowing the knot in her throat again, Meredith stroked the dog between its ears, determined to keep her emotions under control. Faithful old Mac was getting really ancient now. She simply couldn’t bear it if he went, too.

      Meredith flipped the channels on the remote, unable to concentrate on any of the programs. She’d always followed current affairs and both local and international politics, but now she didn’t care what was happening in the Middle East or in Washington, or even here in Savannah. All she now knew was the loneliness of the empty space on the couch next to her.

      For the thousandth time since learning of the freak boating accident off the coast of Georgia the year before, Meredith railed at the injustice of his death. Why him? Why them? With so many unhappy people about, why did such tragedy have to befall her Tom?

      She took a deep breath and willed herself to stop this railing at fate that served no purpose.

      After several more minutes she switched off the television impatiently and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea. Maybe she should go over Rowena’s will again and compile some notes for her conference call tomorrow with the New York detective agency so she’d be sure to gather all the information she could on James G. Gallagher, presumptive heir.

      Taking a sip of the hot brew, she sat at the old pine table she and Tom had picked up by chance at a yard sale. However hard she tried, it was impossible not to feel his presence everywhere, to make believe that if she closed her eyes then opened them she’d find that it was all a bad dream, that Tom was right here, calling to her from the top of the stairs for something he’d forgotten.

      A slim, sad, yet determined figure in her ancient sweats and Tom’s old sweatshirt, she opened her briefcase and donned her glasses. Handling Rowena’s bequests would help fill some of the emptiness.

      An hour later, she closed the file and stretched. Then, after thoroughly checking all the doors and windows and switching off the downstairs lights, she made her way up to check on the kids. She scooped up a fallen duvet, and tucked Zack’s dangling leg back under the covers. Then she entered her bedroom and undressed, catching a glimpse of herself in the long cheval mirror that had belonged to her grandmother.

      Looking thin and tired, her eyes stared dully back at her. Her skin needed a treatment and her hair looked terrible. She dragged her fingers through it and grimaced, realizing she must make time to go to the salon. She had to appear presentable at the office and for the kids, even if she really didn’t give a damn.

      Pulling on a pair of Tom’s old pajamas, Meredith got into bed and huddled under the covers. Maybe she’d try to read awhile. She flipped through the Savannah News, but after ten minutes she gave up and, turning off the bedside lamp, sank wearily into the pillows. And then, despite every effort not to, she did what she did every night and gave way to the unshed tears that had haunted her all day.

      A few minutes later she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

      Thank God she was too tired to dream.

      So Rowena Carstairs was finally dead.

      On the one hand, the news filled him with relief. On the other, her passing encapsulated the passage of time, a reminder of just how many years had gone by since that long-ago night when…

      Better not remember that.

      The problem was, he’d never known if Rowena knew or had guessed what had happened. Had Isabel kept quiet all those years? Rowena had never asked him about it. Not in so many words.