Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (6 page)

Preston looked ready to explode. “So she wanted Maggie to watch over us?”

“Certainly this sounds a little farfetched, but the idea is actually quite sound. Elizabeth was quite clear about how and where her liquid assets should be spent. Ms. Kean, as fiduciary, would essentially be acting as a safeguard for your grandmother’s wishes.”

“But Maggie hasn’t handled more than a thousand dollars a month in her whole life,” Preston objected. “What does she know about ten million dollars?”

My thoughts exactly. What
did
I know?

“Ms. Kean does not need to know anything about money. The ten million dollars is not hers. She is acting primarily as a caregiver. Should you need a sum of money, submit the figure to Ms. Kean along with an explanation of how you propose to utilize the money. If the purpose is in line with Elizabeth’s guidelines, then Ms. Kean is free to release the sum to you. Ms. Kean herself will receive a small painting from Elizabeth.” Hawthorne gestured behind him before continuing to address the two increasingly irate grandchildren.  “She will also receive a monthly fee that will cease once the entire ten million dollars has been distributed.

“And what the hell are the guidelines?”

“Simply stated, the money is to be spent on educational needs, charities, or establishing a reputable business.”  Giving that a moment to sink in, Mr. Hawthorne stood.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a moment to speak with Ms. Kean. Alone. I’m sure you’ll both want to meet again soon to go over the will in further detail, but I believe there has been more than enough emotion spilled for one day.” He leveled his gaze at Preston and Cassie, daring one of them to disagree.

Preston grabbed Cassie’s arm and dragged her out of the room. Villari pushed himself out of his chair and loomed over me trying hard, I suspected, to intimidate the hell out of me. But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his little ploy worked. I jumped up and stood toe to toe with him.

He didn’t budge. “Ms. Kean,” he said, his voice laced with a light threat, “we’ll be talking sooner than I expected.” He sent Hawthorne a brief nod and left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Ms. Kean, please sit down.”

I simply stared at Hawthorne. My head felt muddled, like it was stuffed with cotton.

“Please.”

Reaching behind me, I grasped the arms of the chair and lowered myself into the leather seat. Hawthorne sat down in the now empty chair next to me.

“Ms. Kean, I know this comes as a great shock to you... as it has to everybody involved,” he added, a vague look of disgust clouding his face as he glanced toward the door through which Cassie and Preston had recently departed. “But, I assure you, it is exactly what Elizabeth wanted.”

“How can that be? They’re right. I know nothing about money,” I said, gathering steam, “certainly not in that quantity. I can’t even balance my own checkbook and now I’m supposedly overseeing a pile of money so large I can’t even imagine it.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I hate to disappoint you, and Elizabeth, but I don’t want anything to do with her money.”

“Yes, that’s exactly how Elizabeth said you would respond,” Hawthorne said softly.

I grabbed his forearm. “You’ve got to get me out of this thing! What was she thinking?  I barely make enough money to pay my mortgage every month; how am I supposed to handle millions of dollars?” I glared at Hawthorne. “And even worse, I’ll never get rid of that slime ball and his whiny little sister now. Elizabeth must have been crazy when she came up with this idea.”

“Not crazy at all, Ms. Kean. A little off the beaten path maybe, but never crazy. She wanted you in this position very badly.”

“Weren’t you supposed to advise her or something? Surely you can see that this will never work.”

“Truth be told, I did advise against it, quite vehemently at first. But, as usual, she didn’t listen to me. And now I believe she may have been right.”

“But I don’t want to do this!” I stated emphatically, precariously close to yelling.

“That is certainly your decision to make.  No one can force you to assume this responsibility.  However, I would like to ask you to reserve judgment until after you have read Elizabeth’s letter.” With that, Hawthorne retrieved a white envelope from his folder and handed it to me. He stood, placed the file back in his briefcase, and snapped the locks shut.

“Give yourself a couple of days, Ms. Kean,” he said quietly. “I’m sure Elizabeth would appreciate that. Call my office when you’ve made a decision.”

Hawthorne strode from the room, his bearing proud and regal, as quiet and understated as old money. I looked down and ran my fingers along the edges of the thick, heavy envelope that now lay in my lap.

Chapter Four

Dear Maggie,

If you are reading this letter, then I am most assuredly no longer part of this world. Isn’t that the way most letters from the deceased begin? I imagine my will has you thrashing about in confusion and you are ready to toss this letter out the window, along with both Boyer grandchildren. No doubt Preston and Cassandra have been horribly unpleasant, and I shudder to think of how they reacted to the changes in my will, and to you. If there is any truth to these words, please accept my apologies for them. Unfortunately, it is impossible to deny that my grandchildren are terribly spoiled and I have only myself to blame.

After my beloved son, my only child, and his wife were killed, I took their children into my home, intending to raise them as my own. My husband, however, was very unhappy with the situation. Cranford could not bear to be around either child, for they were a constant reminder of the son he had lost. He was eager to ship them off to boarding school as soon as possible.  I could not let this happen. How could I send two lonely children off to a strange place just days after being orphaned? For the first time in our marriage, I stood up to my husband and refused to follow his wishes. He was furious. I won’t describe the scene that followed; suffice it to say that the little respect we still had for each other died that day. Any love that might have grown between us ceased to exist.

It was a loveless marriage, Maggie, arranged by my father to secure a higher social position and enough money so that I would never want for anything. But I did want. I ached with want. My son was my only joy. And when he died, I lost the one person I could love freely, as only a mother can love. But the day our grandchildren came to live with us, my husband turned away and hardly spoke to them, or me, until the day he died, almost ten years later. To make up for their grandfather’s coldness, and to assuage my own grief, I gave my grandchildren everything they asked for; anything they wanted was theirs. I gave them everything but my heart.  I never played with them, tucked them into bed at night, or even disciplined them. Lost in my own mourning, I failed to see that they were lost, too. Then one day I woke up and saw two spoiled children who had no real friends and no real family. I tried to make up for my neglect, but by then it was too late. By that time they were stubborn, angry, rebellious teenagers, and quite honestly, I was too old to handle the problems of adolescents. I couldn’t just kiss and soothe them away.

Things were better when Cranford died. I realize how awful that sounds, but the truth is not always pretty. Some of the coldness left the house and the two children and I developed a somewhat uneasy relationship that still continues today. But I am still very worried about them.

Preston is a failure in business. He was a mediocre student and never applied himself to any job, even the ones I secured for him. I believe that was one of my biggest mistakes. I gave him the job. He never had to go out in the world and struggle to make a name for himself, to find his own place.

And his sister, politely stated, is too willing, eager even, to give herself to any man that finds her attractive. Sadly, much of Cassandra’s attraction depends on my money and I don’t want to see it fall into some man’s greedy hands. Money makes a cold bedfellow.

So I come to you, Maggie, the light of my life. You are the daughter I never had. None of this should be a surprise to you, not if you look deep inside yourself.  I remember coming to visit and watching you through your window. You were in your studio, hunched over a square chunk of clay, wearing a long shapeless blouse, your hair pulled back into a ponytail. My heart lurched a little. You reminded me so much of the dream I gave up when I married Cranford.

Knowing you brought art back into my life. I started painting again. The picture behind my desk is for you. No doubt it is very flawed, but it is my thanks to you for bringing back a world I had abandoned years ago.

Keep sculpting, Maggie. You are very talented. Use the trustee fee to buy your supplies, take lessons if you feel you need to. When you’re ready for a show, call Mark Gossert at the Outlook. He’s waiting for your call. Don’t let anyone keep you from developing your gift.

Finally, I am asking you to watch over a large portion of my money, Maggie.  It is my last chance to help Preston and Cassandra.  They need to sweat, to work hard for something they love. Actually, they both need a good swift kick in the behind. It won’t be easy, I know. They’ll fight you every step of the way. That’s why I put you in the will. I need someone strong, someone who is not afraid, and someone who refuses to give up.

Elizabeth

Tears splashed on the linen pages and smeared the writing. I folded the letter, rested my head against the back of the chair and closed my eyes. She was right. I had known how she felt about me, but I was too afraid to acknowledge those feelings. After my mother died, that part of my heart shut down. At least, that’s what I told myself.  Elizabeth Boyer instinctively understood this, letting me accept what I could without pushing. She just meandered her way into my life, slipping past my defenses without setting off any alarms. All she did was complain, boss me around, make a nuisance of herself, and drive me crazy. She wore on my nerves and slid into my heart at the same time.

I tucked the letter back into its envelope and grabbed my purse off the floor. The room was quiet and hushed as I stood and approached her desk, wanting to touch something of hers, to bring back what had taken me too long to discover.  I ran my fingers over the smooth wood as I moved towards the plush burgundy chair edged in brass buttons.   Pausing, I nudged the chair tentatively, then with more force, until it swiveled around and around in circles.

Something inside propelled me to sit down.  The deep rich leather embraced me like a favorite flannel shirt. Suddenly I could feel her. I could smell the light floral scent she always wore. Elizabeth was here.  In this room. With me. People would think I was crazy, but I didn’t care. If I reached out, I could touch her. She was next to me and behind me and in front of me. Just like she was in real life. I sank into the chair and let her spirit engulf me.

The sun spilled through the front windows and splashed over the walls. I smiled at Elizabeth’s neat and orderly desk, the mahogany polished to a rich auburn. Except for the small brass lamp, a gold pen-and-pencil, and a leather-bound appointment book resting on top of the blotter, her desk was bare. A place for everything and everything in its place. I could hear her voice whispering the old adage, just as she had a million times while standing in my studio, shaking her head at the piles of clutter threatening to overwhelm her.

I sat up and pushed the chair away from the desk, glancing once more around the room. Elizabeth was everywhere. Tears threatened again and I had to leave, to get away from here, from this place that had once housed a grand lady who had not been in my life long enough.

The moment the heavy front door clicked behind me, I flew down the driveway, thankful for my oldest tennis shoes. Once outside, I turned my face to the sun and breathed in great gulps of fresh, pine-scented air. I had somehow managed to avoid running into Preston and Cassie on my way out, probably because they were huddled in some smoky backroom plotting an intricate strategy to mow me down. At this point, I didn’t much care.  All I wanted was to get away.

I hopped into the Jeep and drove it to the street, completed a tight U-turn, and pulled into my own driveway. My keys were already in my hand when I reached the front door and heard the phone ringing inside. Shoving the key into the lock, I pushed the door open and ran for the phone. I managed to grab the receiver on the fourth ring, a second before the voicemail turned on and repeated my rambling commentary on how I might or might not be home and it really wasn’t any of your business whether I was or not, and if, by the sound of the beep you hadn’t thrown down the phone in disgust, would you please leave a message?

“Hello? Maggie, is that you?” Lisa asked, concern lacing her voice. “You sound asthmatic with all that wheezing.”

“That’s how I breathe after running.”

“Running? I thought you were going to a funeral.”