building and let herself out, locking the door behind her.
By the time she reached her car, Nick Whiting was waiting there for her. She glared at him. “I thought we’d already established that I can manage my own bags.”
“You can, but you don’t have to.” He leaned against the car, blocking her entry, seeming immovable.
Allison wasn’t going to stand here all night arguing. She shoved past him unceremoniously, pulled out her suitcase and laptop bag, and clung to the handle when he attempted to take the suitcase from her.
“I can manage,” she repeated.
He raised one eyebrow, a trick she found annoying. “Come on, give me a break. It would reflect badly on my parents if I didn’t help you.”
“No one will know,” she snapped.
The grin transformed his face. “You’re not used to small towns, are you? Somebody always knows.” Before she could react, he seized the bag from her hand and strode off toward the bed-and-breakfast.
Allison had to hurry to keep up with his long, lithe stride, and she scolded herself for noticing how he walked or anything else about him. Hadn’t she just learned a painful lesson about the chasm between looks and character in a man?
When they reached the door, Whiting put the bag down and pressed the doorbell before she could reach it.
Allison fixed a smile on her face. “Thank you. You’re actually right about one thing. I don’t know anything about small towns, and I don’t intend to find out. I plan to sell Blackburn House as soon as possible.”
Thoughts of financial security, maybe starting her own business, flickered through her mind.
Nick Whiting seemed to withdraw, even though he didn’t move. “Sell? I don’t think that’s what Evelyn would have wanted.”
She was startled to hear his familiar reference to the grandmother who was little more than a name to her, and annoyed that he presumed to speak for the woman.
“Since I never knew Evelyn Standish, you can hardly expect her wishes to be important to me.”
Allison turned away, trying to ignore his frowning disapproval, and marched into the bed-and-breakfast when the door opened. But even though she didn’t look, she could sense him standing there, frowning after her.
SHE SHOULD HAVE known there would be strings attached, Allison told herself the next morning as she stared across the polished mahogany desk at Jonas Litwhiler, her grandmother’s attorney. She knew perfectly well that no one gave you something for nothing. So why was she feeling oddly hurt at this reinforcement of her preconceptions about her grandmother?
Litwhiler, perhaps made uncomfortable by her silence, cleared his throat. “You understand, Ms....er...Ms. Standish? The bequest from Mrs. Standish is conditional on certain requirements being fulfilled.”
“I understand.” She leaned back, trying to demonstrate an unconcern she didn’t feel. “I’m waiting to hear what those requirements are.”
“Yes, I see.” Litwhiler fiddled with the delicate china cup and saucer that sat on a small, doily-covered tray at the side of his desk. Coffee, by the smell of it. As if reminded, he gestured toward the cup. “Would you care for coffee? It won’t take a moment.”
“No. Thank you.” Let’s just get on with it.
Jonas Litwhiler was the image of an old-fashioned small-town attorney—white hair, white shirt, conservative tie, dark suit. The only surprise to his appearance was the white carnation in his lapel. Even his offices were a masterpiece of dark paneling and Oriental carpets, located in another of the Victorian houses in which Laurel Ridge seemed to specialize. He looked as if he’d strayed into the contemporary scene from a 1930s black-and-white movie.
“According to the trust set up by Mrs. Standish, the ownership of Blackburn House passes to you completely if you run it successfully on your own for a period of one year.”
So many questions crowded Allison’s mind that she didn’t know which one to spit out first. “Can I sell it?”
An expression of profound disapproval settled on the attorney’s face. “Not until you’ve completed the year satisfactorily.”
It was all very well for him to be disapproving. He hadn’t had his entire life turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours. “And who decides if I’ve been successful? You, I suppose?” If he was acting for the other heirs as well, that struck her as a conflict of interest.
“No.” The answer was short, and he looked as if he’d just sucked on something sour. “If Mrs. Standish’s accountants declare that Blackburn House has been run at a profit for one year, the matter has been decided.”
She suspected his reaction meant that he’d been offended to have that decision taken out of his hands. Still, it seemed to indicate that Evelyn Standish had tried to be fair, according to her definition of fairness.
“And if I fail or choose not to accept the challenge?”
“Ownership passes to Brenda Standish Conner, your father’s cousin,” he said promptly.
She nodded, vaguely aware he’d mentioned the cousin in their telephone conversation. Apparently she and her daughter had lived with Mrs. Standish. They’d probably expected to scoop the lot. Well, they might still do so.
“Didn’t it occur to Mrs. Standish that I’d have a career and a life elsewhere?” Even as she asked the question, Allison realized it wasn’t true in the sense that it had been the previous day, though she did still have an apartment and friends in Philadelphia. And nothing could reconcile her to uprooting her life to a place like Laurel Ridge.
“I don’t believe Mrs. Standish was concerned about your career. In any event, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Mrs. Standish’s reasons for her actions.”
Something about his acid tone suggested to Allison that her grandmother hadn’t seen fit to ask his advice.
Allison took a steadying breath, trying to compose her thoughts. She’d come into this meeting unprepared, it seemed to her. She eyed the attorney, wondering how much of the truth he’d care to share.
“Is it actually legal to attach such conditions to a bequest?”
His grip tightened on the pen he held, and he put it down precisely on the desk blotter. “You can contest the will if you like, of course. It will be expensive, and in my opinion, you will lose.”
Allison wasn’t sure she’d like to take his word for that. Maybe she should consult another attorney. But it would take time, and meanwhile she’d be stuck in Laurel Ridge. Maybe she’d been right in her first assessment, and this was just a final insult on the part of the grandmother who’d ignored her existence. Evelyn Standish didn’t fit anyone’s idea of the doting grandmother.
“Didn’t you say there was a partnership in a quilt shop in the bequest?” That was the shop she’d seen
