little use getting upset,” Meredith countered in the vain hope that the meeting would not deteriorate further. She glanced at the other relations, who had remained silent. Ward was picking at a thread on the sleeve of his old tweed jacket. He had no real understanding of what was going on around him, but from time to time he pretended to listen. “I see no reason why Gallagher or I should refuse any reasonable requests.”
“You don’t understand,” Joanna threw back bitterly. “She’s humiliating us before this bastard, making us, her legitimate heirs, beg. It’s disgraceful.”
“I think you’re becoming unnecessarily dramatic,” Meredith answered quietly. “Soon we’ll have more information on Gallagher and get a better idea of where matters stand. But for now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient.”
It took Meredith another twenty minutes to calm Joanna down and bring the meeting to a close, but finally she was seated in her Jeep heading home, returning the calls she’d been unable to take during the afternoon and looking forward to another lonely evening.
That night, after the kids were in bed, Meredith sipped a mug of hot chocolate and tucked her slippered feet under the old cashmere throw, thankful the day was behind her. It was always hard to be the bearer of bad tidings. In a way she sympathized with the Carstairs relatives. After all, Rowena had always implied they’d share her estate once she was gone. But what surprised her most, what she couldn’t fathom, was why Dallas had been so summarily cut out of the will. She and her grandmother hadn’t seen eye to eye, but surely that didn’t merit abandoning her?
Meredith leaned into the cushions and cupped the mug thoughtfully. She’d arranged for a phone conference with Dallas for the following morning, and was dreading telling her the news. Dallas had gotten a rotten deal all round. The property in Beaufort where Doug Thornton had raised thoroughbreds and where Dallas had spent the better part of her youth was mortgaged to the hilt. Presumably the only reason the bank hadn’t foreclosed was because they knew of Dallas’s expectations. Now that those were dashed, what would the girl’s options be?
Taking a sip of piping hot chocolate, Meredith pondered whether Dallas could contest.
Analyzing the case from a legal standpoint, she realized probably not. The will was tight as a drum. Although it was her duty to see that the wishes expressed in the will were carried out, her sense of justice revolted. Somebody, she realized, pulling the file toward her, had to help Dallas. The girl couldn’t be allowed to flounder out there on her own.
Should she appeal to Gallagher? No, a man with his track record would hardly have an ounce of compassion. And he certainly wouldn’t feel any sense of loyalty to a family he hadn’t even known existed. To him, Rowena’s estate would be nothing but another windfall that some crazy old lady had seen fit to bequeath him.
And all at once she wondered if Rowena had known Gallagher, if they’d met. Somehow she didn’t think so. Surely if Rowena had been aware of who Gallagher really was, she wouldn’t have structured things as she had. On the other hand, Rowena was too smart to have made such a decision without a great deal of thought.
After flipping through several paragraphs of the long, detailed document, Meredith decided to go to bed. Tomorrow she would take steps to contact Grant Gallagher, and she would find some way to help Dallas.
Her determination to go to bat for Dallas increased as she remembered all the times over the past few years that she’d tried to ease the strained relationship between grandmother and granddaughter, and how Dallas had come to confide in her. She felt she couldn’t betray that trust, couldn’t let Dallas down, even though the girl refused to admit that she needed help.
By the time she turned out the lights, she’d sketched out the beginnings of a game plan. The first step was getting through to Gallagher.
Dabbing another lotion-bathed cotton pad over her cheeks, Joanna peered at her reflection and sighed. She must calm her frenzied mind. She must think straight. Act. But how? Of course she would be in touch with Ross Rollins to see what could be done from a legal standpoint, but surely there must be something else she could do to sway things her way?
Rising from the dressing table and heading toward her lace-canopied bed, Joanna took off her peach-colored silk dressing gown and feathered mules, then climbed wearily into bed.
What a day. She’d woken up so happy, so certain that finally she’d hit the jackpot.
And now this.
She slumped against the pillows and wondered if she should visit her fortune-teller to see what she had to say. Oh, what the hell. That was just another expense. And God knows she had enough of those with a drawer full of bills sitting in her desk waiting to be taken care of.
But remembering the fortune-teller made her sit up straighter, brow creased as another thought crossed her mind. What was the name of that famous voodoo priestess Rowena had frequented? Miss Mabella. That was it. But now she also recalled that Miss Mabella was not easily available. There were times when she disappeared to the bayou, wouldn’t speak English, would only communicate in Gullah with her close entourage.
She shivered, pulled the coverlet up to her chin, both encouraged yet scared that she’d remembered the woman’s name. She knew it was dangerous to dabble. But still, Joanna wondered whether she was worth investing in. After several moments’ reflection, she decided in favor. After all, things couldn’t get much worse. She must use some kind of intervention if she wasn’t going to be screwed. And from all she’d heard, Miss Mabella had a trick or two up her sleeve.
The question was how to contact her? Perhaps she would ask Josie, her cleaning lady, tomorrow. Josie had an aunt who lived in what she believed was the same neighborhood as Miss Mabella. Maybe she could make contact for her.
With a sigh Joanna turned off the light. Grant Gallagher, indeed. Fuck him. She was damned if she’d allow anybody, much less some illegitimate son of Isabel’s—whom she’d never liked, anyway—to take what should be hers.
No siree!
Despite her laudable resolve of having a quiet morning, Meredith found it impossible to relax. Tweaking her hair back and donning her glasses, she rummaged for the Carstairs file. Sitting at her highly polished mahogany desk, an heirloom from her great-grandmother Rowland, Meredith admitted ruefully that relaxing was not her forte. Plus the task ahead of her was no light challenge. Setting the thick manila folder next to her laptop, she got online, determined to find as much information as she could about the man she already considered her adversary. All her legal training taught her never to get emotional about a case. Ross would have told her it was none of her business, that technically the man was her client now, and that her only agenda should be to defend his interests.
But how could she when so much was at stake for Dallas?
Typing his name into Google, Meredith learned it was distressingly easy to acquire information on Grant Gallagher—the man was probably a publicity hound. There were newspaper headings, articles and pictures of him at nightclubs with beautiful blondes hanging on to his arm. The fact that he appeared to be outrageously handsome only made her glare more coldly at his wolfish smile. No doubt his behavior in the bedroom matched his ruthless actions in the boardroom.
Logging off, she pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, realizing that even if the man willingly lived his life in the public eye, there were details in this folder that were intensely private. Details that he wouldn’t want to share; information about himself that even he didn’t know. Despite her contempt for him, she felt as if she were committing a violation. Rowena’s detectives had been nothing if not thorough,
