at her blond curls. “I’m afraid not,” she bellowed back as loudly as the lawyer had. “I’m running late, and, as you can see, I seem to have lost control here. Why don’t you call me later, around five.”
The lawyer frowned. “Ms. Lowell, this really is important, urgent even. We need to talk.”
Olivia turned around when she heard a sound reminiscent of a waterfall. Sasha was peeing on the hall carpet runner. Damn. She noted the look of disgust on the lawyer’s face.
“Some other time. This situation is really urgent. Good-bye, Mr.”—she looked down at the card in her hand—“Mr. O’Brien.” She shut the door in the man’s face and raced to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels.
Thirty minutes later she was still searching for Sasha’s glasses and Santa Claus hat. My father would have this under control, too. Damn.
At three o’clock Sasha and all her gear were gone. Cecil’s handler still hadn’t picked him up. Anna Logan, the owner of Logan’s Bakery, arrived with a basket of new kittens. She wanted pictures to put up on the bakery bulletin board in the hope that some of her customers would adopt them.
It was ten after five when Anna and the kittens pulled out of Olivia’s driveway. Cecil’s handler still hadn’t arrived to pick him up, which probably meant he’d forgotten about him. Just the way Alice’s owners had forgotten to pick her up three years ago. That had been Alice’s lucky day. Olivia loved Alice the way mothers love their children.
At five-thirty the doorbell and the phone pealed at the same time. Ignoring the doorbell, Olivia answered the phone while Alice and Cecil raced to the front door and barked. Cecil’s handler was on the phone, asking if Olivia could possibly keep Cecil overnight, and he would be picked up in the morning by “someone.”
“Well, sure, for fifty dollars an hour, Mr. Bannerman. I don’t operate a dog-sitting service. This is a photography studio.” She was told the fee would be no problem. After all, Cecil was the richest dog in the United States. She hung up the phone wondering what she was going to prepare for dinner as she made her way to the front door. She opened it. Prentice O’Brien.
“What is it, Mr. O’Brien? It’s the end of the day, I’m tired, and if no one is suing me, I can’t imagine what you want to talk to me about. Make it quick.”
“Can I at least come in, Ms. Lowell? It’s rather cold out here, and it is snowing.”
It was snowing. How had she missed that? Maybe she’d build a fire later, snuggle with the dogs, and think about Clarence De Witt’s marriage proposal. Then again, maybe she wouldn’t think about Clarence De Witt’s marriage proposal. She didn’t want to be Mrs. Clarence De Witt. She didn’t want to be Mrs. Anybody. She liked her life just the way it was, thank you very much. “All right. This better be good and quick. Come in. Just so you know, Mr. O’Brien, I hate lawyers.”
“Until you need us,” O’Brien quipped. “Nice house,” he said, looking around as Olivia led him to the great room that ran the entire length of the house.
“Thank you. My dad did all the work, even this addition and the entire studio. He can do anything,” she said proudly. “This used to just be a two-bedroom ranch house, but Dad added two bathrooms, a third bedroom, and this great room. He remodeled the kitchen, too. He built the playhouse in the back for me when I was little.”
“Your father sounds like an extraordinary man, Ms. Lowell.”
“Oh, he is. He raised me when my mother died. If she’d lived, I can’t imagine her doing a better job. Now, tell me why you’re here and what I can do for you.”
The attorney removed his overcoat and laid it on the side of the sofa. He looked puzzled. “Did I hear you right just now? Did you say your mother died?”
“Yes, the day I was born. Thirty-four years ago. That’s her picture on the mantel. It’s the only one we have. Her name was Allison. Why are you here, Mr. O’Brien? Does this visit have something to do with my dad?”
“Not directly.”
While O’Brien walked over to the fireplace and studied the picture on the mantel, she eyed the briefcase on the sturdy pine coffee table. It looked old and well used, with scuff marks and gouges in the cowhide. She wondered how many lawsuits it represented. She waited, her gaze taking in the familiar room, while the lawyer, who had returned to stand by the coffee table, riffled through his case for whatever it was he was going to show her.
She loved this room, she really did. One wall was her own personal rogue’s gallery, as her father called it. Every inch of space on the wall was covered with pictures of her from the day she was born. The massive stone fireplace, with a hearth so wide and deep she could have positioned a sofa on it, took up another wall. Her father had allowed her to carry the irregular fieldstones in from outside, making the building of it a joint effort. In the winter they made roaring fires, popped corn, and toasted marshmallows. They even grilled weenies on sticks on occasion. The green plants and fica trees were her contribution. She trimmed and watered them weekly. All were lush and green, thanks to the three skylights that graced the ceiling.
She’d had sleepovers in this very room when she was young. She wondered where all those old friends were these days.
Olivia was jolted from her thoughts when the lawyer cleared his throat. “What I have here in my hand is the last will and testament of your mother, whom you probably know as Allison Matthews Lowell, although she changed her name to Adrian Ames soon after divorcing your father. I can read it to you, or you can read it yourself.”
Olivia threw her hands in the air. “See? See? I knew this was a mistake. You have the wrong person. My mother died when I was born. I guess there’s some other Olivia Lowell out there. I’m sorry you wasted your time, Mr. O’ Brien.”
The attorney cleared his throat again. “I didn’t waste my time, Ms. Lowell. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but your mother did not die thirty-four years ago. She died two weeks ago and left her entire estate to you. And whoever that is in the picture on the mantel, it’s not Adrian Ames.”
Olivia’s heart thundered in her chest. She reached out to grasp the arm of the chair she was sitting on, only to see Cecil perched there. She picked him up and brought him close to her chest. She was so light-headed she couldn’t think. “No! No! Don’t tell me that. My father…my father…would never…he wouldn’t lie…This must be some kind of cruel joke, and I don’t appreciate it. No, you’re wrong.”
Prentice O’Brien inched the will in its sky-blue cover across the coffee table. It glared up at Olivia like an obscene blue eye. She made no move to reach for it. She struggled with her voice. “I think you should leave now, Mr. O’Brien.”
“Ms. Lowell, I’m sorry about this, but my firm represented your mother for many, many years. This is not a mistake. Once you know the story behind all this, I’m sure you’ll understand it is not some cruel hoax. I understand your being upset, so I’m going to leave. I suggest you contact your father and talk with him. After you’ve done that, please feel free to call me.”
Olivia watched in a daze as the attorney stood up and put on his overcoat. Faster than a lightning bolt, both dogs chased him to the door. Olivia heard the little pinging sound made by the alarm system when the door opened and closed.
She burst into tears.
If what the attorney said
