Loe raamatut: «The Best Gift»
A.J. glanced at the tall man who was looking at her with resignation.
Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, possibly balding, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.
She’d been dead wrong about the physical description. Blake was tall, with dark brown hair and intense cobalt-blue eyes. His crisp oxford shirt, beige slacks and well-polished leather shoes bordered on being preppy. His attire also showed off his athletic build.
A.J. could only imagine how she appeared, standing there dripping rainwater on the hardwood floor of the bookstore, her hair no doubt plastered to her head. She could read enough from the look in his eyes. So much for first impressions.
“I’m looking for Blake Sullivan.”
Blake waited a moment, as if trying to decide what to do. Finally he approached her. “You’ve found him.”
She extended her hand. “I’m A. J. Williams. Your new partner.”
IRENE HANNON
is an award-winning author who has been a writer for as long as she can remember. She “officially” launched her career at the age of ten, when she was one of the winners in a “complete-the-story” contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. More recently, Irene won the coveted RITA® Award for her 2002 Love Inspired Never Say Goodbye. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in Missouri.
The Best Gift
Irene Hannon
MILLS & BOON
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The Lord is near. Have no anxiety, but in every
prayer and supplication with thanksgiving
let your petitions be made known to God.
—Philippians 4:5–6
To my darling niece, Maureen Elizabeth,
who came early to claim our hearts with her
sunny smile. We love you, snowflake!
Dear Reader,
As I write this letter, I am in the midst of making plans for my parents’ fiftieth anniversary party, and legacies are on my mind.
The dictionary defines legacy as a gift by will, especially of money or personal property. But a legacy doesn’t have to consist of material things. Nor does it have to follow someone’s departure from this earthly life. In fact, the best legacies aren’t. They are living things, given daily, so that the lucky recipients find themselves richly blessed with the things that matter most. The things money can’t buy.
My parents have given me such a legacy. I will be forever indebted to them for magical Christmas mornings, memorable family vacations and special moments of infinite sweetness. I am grateful to them for teaching me that it’s better to give than to receive. For making home a word to be revered and honored. And for providing a shining illustration of what marriage is all about. Their legacy to me includes the gifts of acceptance. Laughter. Encouragement. Respect. Family. And, most especially, absolute love that is unconditional. Unlimited. Forever. That is a legacy beyond price.
In this first book of my new series for Love Inspired, SISTERS & BRIDES, Aunt Jo offers A.J. and Blake a legacy. But it is up to them to recognize it—and to have the courage to claim it. Because love doesn’t always come in the form we expect. And it often requires a leap of faith. But with God’s grace, with trust in His abiding presence, we can learn to overcome our fears and find our own happy endings.
Just like my mom and dad did.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
Prologue
Morgan Williams glanced impatiently at her watch, then gave an exasperated sigh. “I wish he’d hurry. I have a plane to catch.”
A.J. turned from the window, which framed a row of flame-red maples against a brilliant St. Louis late-October sky. “Chill out, Morgan,” she said wryly. “The advertising world can live without you for a few more hours.”
Morgan gave her younger sister an annoyed look as she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. “Trust me, A.J. The business arena is nothing like your nonprofit world. Hours do matter to us. So do minutes.”
“More’s the pity,” A.J. responded, turning back to admire the view again. “Life is too short to be so stressed about things as fleeting as ad campaigns.”
Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but Clare beat her to it. “Don’t you think we should put our philosophical differences aside today, out of respect for Aunt Jo?” she interjected gently.
Morgan and A.J. turned in unison toward their older sister, and A.J. grinned.
“Ever the peacemaker, Clare,” she said, her voice tinged with affection.
Clare smiled. “Somebody had to keep the two of you from doing each other bodily harm when we were growing up. And since I was the only one who didn’t inherit Mom’s McCauley-red hair—and the temper that went with it—I suppose the job had to fall to me.”
A.J. joined Morgan on the couch. “Okay. In honor of Aunt Jo, I declare a truce. How about it, Morgan?”
Morgan hesitated, then tucked her cell phone in her purse. “Truce,” she agreed with a grin. “Besides, much as I hate to admit that my kid sister is sometimes right, I am occasionally guilty of taking my job too seriously.”
“Occasionally?” A.J. rolled her eyes.
“Enough, you two,” Clare admonished with a smile.
A.J. laughed. “Okay, okay. You must whip those kids into shape whenever you substitute teach. In a nice way, of course. Their regular teacher is probably astounded at their good behavior when she gets back.”
Clare’s smile faded, and she looked down to fiddle with the strap on her purse. “I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn. It’s been so many years since I taught…it’s harder some days than others.”
A.J. and Morgan exchanged a look. “Hang in there, Clare,” Morgan encouraged. “We’re here for you.”
“It does get easier. Not overnight. But bit by bit. Trust me,” A.J. added, her own voice suddenly a bit uneven.
Clare blinked rapidly several times before she looked up. “Sorry. I usually have my emotions better under control. I guess Aunt Jo’s memorial service today just brought back…a lot of memories.”
Her voice caught on the last word, and A.J. and Morgan simultaneously reached for their sister’s hands. Clare gazed down and took a deep breath. “A circle of love,” she said softly.
“The three musketeers,” A.J. added, using one of their childhood nicknames as she grasped Morgan’s hand to complete the circle.
Morgan squeezed both hands. “One for all, all for one.”
Suddenly the door to the inner-office opened, and the sisters dropped their hands as they all turned toward attorney Seth Mitchell.
For a long moment the distinguished, gray-haired man standing in the doorway studied Jo Warren’s three great-nieces, taking full advantage of the opportunity to examine them up close rather than from a distance, as he had at the service this morning. He was pleased to note that none flinched at his unhurried perusal.
A.J. was tall and lean, with long, naturally curly strawberry blond hair, too unruly to be tamed even by strategically placed combs. She seemed perfectly comfortable in her somewhat eclectic attire—a calf-length skirt and a long tunic top, cinched at the waist with an unusual metal belt—and looked at him with genuine curiosity, as if the current situation was immensely interesting to her.
Morgan, who wore her dark, copper-colored hair in a sleek, shoulder-length style, was dressed in chic business attire that spelled “big city” and “success.” She gave him a somewhat bored, impatient “let’s-get-on-with-this-because-I-have-better-things-to-do” look.
Clare, the shortest of the three, wore her honey-gold hair in an elegant chignon that complemented her designer suit and Gucci purse. She had hope in her eyes when she looked at him—as well as a deep and lingering sadness.
Yes, they were just as Jo had described them, Seth concluded. A.J., the free spirit who took an interest in everything around her and was grounded in the here and now…perhaps too much so. Morgan, the somewhat jaded high-powered executive who might need some help straightening out her priorities. And Clare, whose double tragedy had left her in need of both emotional and financial help. Now, more than ever, Jo’s legacy made sense to Seth.
He moved forward. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Seth Mitchell. I recognize you from Jo’s description—A.J., Morgan, Clare,” he said, correctly identifying the sisters as he extended his hand to each in turn. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your great-aunt. She was a wonderful lady.”
They murmured polite responses, and he motioned toward his office. “If you’re ready, we can proceed with the reading of the will.”
He didn’t speak again until they were all seated, at which point he picked up a hefty document. “I’ll give each of you a copy of your great-aunt’s will to take with you, so I don’t think there’s any reason to go through this whole document now. A lot of it is legalese, and there are some charitable bequests that you can review at your leisure. I thought we could restrict the formal reading to the section that affects each of you directly, if that’s agreeable.”
“Absolutely,” Morgan replied. “Besides, my plane for Boston leaves in less than three hours. I know Clare needs to get back to Kansas City, and A.J. has a long drive to Chicago.”
Seth looked at the other two sisters. When they nodded their assent, he flipped through the document to a marked page and began to read.
“Insofar as I have no living relatives other than my three great-nieces—the daughters of my sole nephew, Jonathan Williams, now deceased—I bequeath the bulk of my estate to them, in the following manner and with the following stipulations and conditions.
“To Abigail Jeanette Williams, I bequeath half ownership of my bookstore in St. Louis, Turning Leaves, with the stipulation that she retain ownership for a minimum of six months and work full-time in the store during this period. The remaining half ownership I bequeath to the present manager, Blake Sullivan, with the same stipulation.
“To Morgan Williams, I bequeath half ownership of Serenity Point, my cottage in Seaside, Maine, providing that she retains her ownership for a six-month period following my death and that she spends a total of four weeks in residence at the cottage. During this time she is also to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd Camp and attend board meetings as an advisory member. The remaining half ownership of the cottage I bequeath to Grant Kincaid of Seaside, Maine.
“To Clare Randall, I bequeath my remaining financial assets, except for those designated to be given to the charities specified in this document, with the stipulation that she serve as nanny for Nicole Wright, daughter of Dr. Adam Wright of Hope Creek, North Carolina, for a period of six months, at no charge to Dr. Wright.
“Should the stipulations and conditions for the aforementioned bequests not be fulfilled, the specified assets will be disposed of according to directions given to my attorney, Seth Mitchell. He will also designate the date on which the clock will begin ticking on the six-month period specified in my will. “
Seth lowered the document to his desk and looked at the women across from him. A.J. still looked interested. Morgan looked aggravated. Clare looked uncertain.
“There you have it, ladies. I can provide more details on your bequests to each of you individually, but are there any general questions that I can answer?”
“Well, I might as well write mine off right now,” Morgan said in disgust. “There’s no way I can be away from the office for four days, let alone four weeks. And what is Good Shepherd Camp?”
“Who is this Dr. Wright?” Clare asked with a frown. “And what makes Aunt Jo think he would want me as a nanny?”
“When can I start?” A.J. asked.
“Let me take your questions and comments one at a time,” Seth said. “Morgan, you have the right to turn down the bequest, of course. But I would advise you to get some legal and financial counsel first. Jo bought that property years ago, when Seaside was just a quiet, backwater village. The area is now a bustling tourist mecca. So her property has increased significantly in value. As for how to meet your aunt’s residence stipulation—I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that. Good Shepherd is a summer camp in Maine for children from troubled homes. Your aunt has been involved with the organization for many years.
“Clare, Dr. Wright is an old friend of Jo’s from St. Louis. I believe she met him through her church, and even when he moved to North Carolina, they remained close friends. He’s a widower with an eleven-year-old daughter who apparently needs guidance and closer supervision. As to why Jo thought Dr. Wright would be interested in having you as a nanny, I can’t say.
“A.J., I’d ask you to give me a couple of weeks to tie up some legalities before you contact Mr. Sullivan. I’ll let you know when it’s appropriate to call.”
He paused and glanced at his desk calendar. “Let’s officially start the clock for the six-month period on December 1. That will give you about a month to make plans. Now, are there any more general questions?”
The three women looked at him, looked at each other, then silently shook their heads.
“Very well.” He handed them each a manila envelope. “But do feel free to call if any come up as you review the will more thoroughly.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting, and extended his hand to each sister in turn. “Again, my condolences on the death of your great-aunt. Jo had a positive impact on countless lives and will be missed by many people. I know she loved each of you very much, and that she wanted you to succeed in claiming your bequests.
“Good luck, ladies.”
Chapter One
It wasn’t fair.
Blake Sullivan stared at the letter from Seth Mitchell. How could Jo do this to him? Okay, so maybe she’d never actually promised to leave the entire business to him, but she had certainly implied as much. After all, they’d been friends for twenty-one years. And he’d walked away from a successful career in investment banking three years ago to rescue Turning Leaves, when Jo’s waning energy began to affect the business and her ongoing generosity had finally depleted her financial cushion. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d stayed to turn the sleepy, neighborhood bookshop into a thriving enterprise. Without him, the business would have been bankrupt by now.
And what was his reward for three years of diligent labor on her behalf? She’d left half the business to her flighty, do-gooder great-niece who probably didn’t know the difference between a balance sheet and a balance beam.
Blake felt his blood pressure edge up and forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. Getting worked up about the situation wasn’t going to change it, he reminded himself. Maybe if he and Jo had had more time to discuss it, things would have turned out differently. But the fast-acting cancer that had struck so suddenly and taken her so quickly had left them little time for business discussions. By the time she’d told anyone about her illness, it was far too late to discuss any succession plans.
Blake fingered the letter from her attorney, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He could just walk away, of course. Let the business disintegrate in the hands of Jo’s inexperienced and probably disinterested heir. But he’d poured too much of himself into the bookshop, cared too much about it to let it die.
Which left him only one option.
And that did not make him happy.
Blake watched the caller ID disappear as the line went dead. Jo’s niece again. He couldn’t avoid her forever, but he needed more time to think things through. Especially since he’d received Jo’s brief, enigmatic letter, which had arrived a couple of days after Seth Mitchell’s.
He lifted it from the kitchen counter as he waited for the microwave to reheat the cannelloni from his favorite restaurant on The Hill—a splurge that would wreak havoc with his well-disciplined diet, especially with the Thanksgiving Day triathlon looming on the horizon. But he’d needed a pick-me-up after the news from Seth.
Blake scanned the single sheet of paper once more.
Dear Blake, I know you will be disappointed by my bequest. Please understand that I fully appreciate all you have done these past three years to make Turning Leaves successful, and that my gratitude goes deeper than I can say. I have valued our friendship and our partnership, and one of my great joys has been to watch you grow into a fine man.
At the same time, I feel a special obligation to my nieces. A.J. needs an anchor in her life, and I am hopeful that Turning Leaves will provide that for her. She has been drifting these past few years, for reasons that even she may not fully comprehend, but which you may eventually come to understand. I would consider it a final favor for an old friend if you would help her learn the business we both love. With great affection, Jo.
The beeper went off on the microwave, and Blake retrieved the cannelloni. He didn’t understand some of Jo’s comments, but he did understand the part about the final favor. And as rational thought had prevailed over the past couple of days, he’d come to acknowledge that as much as he’d done for Jo these past three years, it was he who was deeply in her debt.
As he poured a soft drink, he thought back to the summer when he was thirteen. It was a couple of years after Jo’s husband died, and she had just opened her shop. Pure chance brought them together. Or fate. Or maybe Providence, if one were religiously inclined. But whatever it was, it had changed his life.
Blake’s parents had decided to spend the summer in St. Louis, for reasons Blake couldn’t recall. They were always going somewhere on a whim, for a rally or to hang out with friends or simply for a change of scene. Jo had hired his father to do some carpentry and odd jobs at the shop. Blake hadn’t known anyone in St. Louis, and after thirteen years he’d learned that it didn’t pay to try to make friends in a new town, because in a few weeks or a few months his vagabond parents would be on the road again. So he’d simply tagged along with his father to Jo’s. And those had been some of his happiest days.
Jo had taken him under her wing, giving him odd jobs to do and regaling him with stories of her world travels and the exotic places she and her husband had visited. She’d discussed politics with him, and philosophy, as if he were an adult, which did wonders for his shaky thirteen-year-old self-esteem. He owed his love of learning and books to Jo. And so much more. Something about him must have made an impact on her as well, because she’d stayed in touch with him when his family moved on at the end of the summer. He still had her letters tucked in a shoe box in his closet. During his teenage years, she was the one stable person in his unsettled, unpredictable world, and he clung to her voraciously, sharing with her his fears and his hopes. She’d always encouraged him, and when it came time for college, she’d come through for him again, providing a significant amount of the funding for his education.
So even though he’d rescued Turning Leaves, his efforts were small repayment for all she’d been to him. Friend. Confidante. Supporter. Benefactor. And now she had one last request. Help her great-niece learn the business.
How could he say no?
“Blake, A. J. Williams is on the phone for you.”
Blake frowned and transferred his gaze from the computer screen to the flickering phone light.
“Bad time? Should I get a number?”
Slowly, Blake shook his head and looked over at his assistant manager. There was no sense avoiding the inevitable. “No. I’ll take it, Nancy. Thanks.”
She hesitated at the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
Blake heard the trepidation in her voice, and nodded. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
As a divorced mother with two part-time jobs, Nancy worked hard to provide for herself and her ten-year-old daughter. She’d been unsettled ever since Jo’s death, clearly unsure about the future of Turning Leaves. Blake had tried to be reassuring, but he couldn’t offer much encouragement since he felt the same way.
Blake looked back at the flashing light. Too bad he hadn’t hung around long enough after Jo’s memorial service to meet her nieces—and get a few insights about his new partner. He took a deep breath, picked up the receiver and punched the flashing button.
“Blake Sullivan.”
“Mr. Sullivan, this is A. J. Williams, Jo Warren’s great-niece. I believe you’ve heard from Seth Mitchell about my aunt’s bequest of Turning Leaves?”
The voice was a bit breathless, but bright and friendly. His was cautious and curt. “Yes.”
There was a hesitation, as if she expected him to say more. When he didn’t, she continued. “Well, I’m getting ready to make travel plans to St. Louis and wanted to talk with you about the timing of my arrival.”
Deep inside Blake had harbored a dim hope that A.J. would pass on her inheritance. From the little he’d heard about her through the years, a bookshop didn’t seem like the kind of thing she’d be interested in. Now that hope flickered and died. “There’s no rush from my end.”
His less-than-friendly reply was met with a moment of silence. Okay, maybe his comment wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. But it was the truth.
“Well, according to Seth Mitchell, the clock starts ticking on December 1. But I see no reason to wait until then. I can wrap things up here pretty quickly.”
Now it was his turn to hesitate. But only briefly, because he wanted an answer to his next question. “May I ask you something, Ms. Williams?”
“Yes.” Her reply was immediate, but cautious.
“How much interest do you have in Turning Leaves?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is this a lark for you, or do you have a serious interest in the business?”
There was a moment of silence. “Maybe a little of both,” she finally said. “I’m ready for a change, and the business sounds interesting. I don’t really have any long-term plans.”
“Then let me make you a proposition. I happen to care about Turning Leaves. And I do have long-term plans, which revolve around this business. So my proposal is this—I’ll work with you for six months so you can claim your inheritance. At that point, you give me the option to buy your half of the business at a mutually agreeable price. That lets us keep Jo’s legacy alive, and frees you to pursue your next…lark.”
On the other end of the line, A.J. felt the stirrings of her Irish temper. This man was treating her like some irresponsible airhead who flitted from one distraction to another. She hardly considered her years in Afghanistan, nor the past two working in Good Samaritan, Inc. headquarters, a “lark.” Nor the rigorous years of training that went into earning her M.B.A. She didn’t like his inference one bit. In fact, she didn’t think she liked Blake Sullivan. But she didn’t have to, she reminded herself. She just had to work with him for six months. And she’d had plenty of experience working under difficult conditions with difficult people. Maybe Mr. Sullivan would even discover that she wasn’t quite as capricious and flighty as he seemed to think. Starting right now. Because she wasn’t about to make any promises for anything six months down the road. That was a lifetime. And a lot of things could happen between now and then.
When she spoke again, her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Sullivan. I’ll agree to consider your proposal when the time comes. But I can’t make any promises. I might decide to stay on at Turning Leaves. However, if I do decide to sell, I would certainly give you first consideration.”
Blake frowned at the unexpected response. Her tone had cooled considerably, and he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t exactly been friendly. And he couldn’t argue with her counterproposal. He would have offered the same thing. So it appeared he was stuck with Jo’s niece for the next six months. Unless he just walked away. But he couldn’t do that. Not after pouring himself into the business for the past three years. Yet could he stand by and watch it potentially falter in the hands of an inexperienced and seemingly strong-willed partner? For once in his life he wished he was a praying man, because he sure could use some guidance.
While Blake considered her counteroffer, A.J. did pray. Because she needed the bookshop. And she needed Blake, with his years of experience, to help her run it. Though she loved her work at Good Samaritan, the spartan pay in a high cost of living city like Chicago made it more and more difficult for her to keep up with daily expenses. She had known for several months that she’d have to make a change. The options were simple: Stay in Chicago and find a better-paying job, or move on to something—and someplace—entirely new. After praying, she’d been leaning toward the latter option. So when Jo’s legacy had fallen in her lap, she had seen it almost as divine intervention, a reaffirmation of her decision to pack up and move on. And even if she decided to sell after six months, the legacy would give her a financial cushion to fund whatever direction her life took.
“All right, Ms. Williams. I’ll accept your terms. If you could put them in a letter to me, I’d appreciate it.”
“You have my word.”
“In the business world, it’s better to have things in writing.”
He could hear anger nipping at the edges of her voice when she spoke. “Fine. I’ll put something in the mail today. Would you like it notarized as well?”
He ignored the touch of sarcasm in her tone. “That won’t be necessary. When are you planning to come down?”
“I have to close up my apartment and give notice at my job. In a couple of weeks, probably. I’ll call ahead to let you know my plans. And feel free to call me in the interim if you need anything.”
“I think we’ll be just fine.”
Without you.
The words were unspoken. But the implication came through loud and clear.
Three hours.
A.J. was three hours late.
Blake glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time and shook his head in exasperation.
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Nancy said as she passed by with a stack of books to restock a display. “It’s such a nasty day out…maybe the weather delayed her.”
As if to reinforce her comment, a crash of thunder shook the building.
Blake wasn’t buying it. “For three hours? Hardly likely. She probably forgot what time she said she was going to arrive.”
Nancy looked at him curiously as she arranged the books. “Boy, you sure formed a strong impression of her from a couple of phone conversations. It’s not like you to make snap judgments.”
He shrugged stiffly. “Well, let’s hope I’m wrong. Look, why don’t you head home? I doubt we’ll have many customers on a night like this, and I can close up. Besides, didn’t you say Eileen wasn’t feeling well? I’m sure you’d rather be home with her than holed up here with a grouchy bookseller.”
Nancy smiled. “Well, if you’re sure, I’ll take you up on your offer. She just has a scratchy throat, but after that bout with strep last year I’m extra cautious. Mrs. Cook takes good care of her when I’m gone, but I’d feel better if I could check on her myself.”
“Go. And be careful. It’s a downpour.”
Forty-five minutes later, as he worked on payroll in the back office, he heard the front door open. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to eight. It was either a last-minute customer or his tardy new partner. And he had a feeling he knew which it was. His lips settled into a grim line as he quickly logged off the computer and headed out front.
Blake had no idea what to expect when he stepped into the main room, but the dripping mess that greeted him wasn’t it.
A woman stood just inside the entrance as a puddle rapidly formed at her feet on the gleaming hardwood floor. Her wet, strawberry blond hair straggled out of a lopsided topknot, and damp ringlets were stuck to her forehead. He couldn’t quite decide what she was wearing—some sort of long-sleeved, hip-length tunic over what might once have been wide-legged trousers. Right now, the whole outfit was plastered to her willowy frame like a second, wrinkled skin.
She doesn’t even know enough to come in out of the rain. The thought came to Blake unbidden, and he shook his head.
The slight movement caught A.J.’s eye, and she glanced over at the tall man who was looking at her with a mixture of disgust and resignation. Was this Blake Sullivan? If so, he sure didn’t match the image she’d created in her mind. She’d envisioned a bookish type, fiftyish, probably wearing glasses, possibly balding, maybe a little round-shouldered, sporting a paunch. A fussy, precise and stern curmudgeon.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
