“Mr. Ridley.” He glanced aside at the visitor’s chair and straightened his thin shoulders. “You’re a hard man to reach.” Thornton plowed on before Holt had the chance to ask him what the hell he was doing in California after sending interminable official correspondence that Holt ignored. “Since I’m certain your assistant gave you my card, I’ll get straight to the point. Your lack of response these past five months has forced me to come to you directly. Your great-aunt’s estate cannot sit unclaimed forever.”
Holt wondered how Thornton wound up a partner in a Long Island law firm. He was certain he detected a hint of a cultured British accent, but even without it, Thornton’s obsequious phrasing gave away his homeland, as did his carefully neutral expression. Holt was having none of it. “As far as I’m concerned, it can. You’ve made a long trip for nothing.”
The man had to be exasperated, but his face remained calm, his demeanor unruffled.
“On the contrary, Mr. Ridley. I’ve brought your great-aunt’s last will and testament, along with papers for you to sign. I hope we can conclude our business amicably, sir, because I also have with me a summons from the district court of Suffolk County, New York that I have been authorized and directed to serve should we fail in our discussion.”
Holt frowned. “On what grounds?”
Thornton’s expression didn’t change. “Abandonment of historic property. The house known as Hampton Dales is on the register of historical places in the county. I understand from your great-aunt that the contents, family heirlooms and such, are even more valuable than the house and property overlooking the Sound.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Which are quite valuable themselves. She left it all to you, sir.”
“I don’t want it.” He had made his own money. He didn’t need hers. His great-aunt had treated his mother so badly, that even after she escaped the old woman’s abuse, his mother remained certain the estate must also be infected with the curse on the family she claimed was passed through her uncle’s line. Holt had never taken seriously the idea of a family curse, much less that it could infest a structure they inhabited. But he had enough of his own bad memories about that place to keep him on a therapist’s couch for the rest of his life.
“Nonetheless,” Thornton said, “the will is binding on you.”
Holt heard a trace of irritation creep into Thornton’s voice, which suited him. He had heard quite enough, and often enough, from Thornton and his law firm partners to harbor more than a hint of irritation of his own. He’d begun to fear they would never quit but use some nefarious automation to keep sending letter after letter and make phone call after phone call. Irritation in Thornton’s tone told Holt there were people behind this and people could be manipulated. “Then I’ll sell it.” And good riddance.
“You may do that, sir, after ninety day’s residency.”
“What?” The. Hell? The sudden urge to sit down swamped Holt, weakening his knees. He fought it.
“Your great-aunt stipulates in her will that you occupy the property for three months before selling it, interrupted only by necessary and reasonable— short— periods which I must approve. She anticipated your antipathy and took measures to ensure you did not reject her bequest without due consideration.”
Holt’s hands balled into fists. He flexed them open at his sides and forced himself to leave them there. He refused to cross his arms protectively over his chest. He would not betray how his memories unsettled him to this…this— he took a breath. Person. His great-aunt’s solicitor, he told himself, was only doing his job. Holt didn’t have to like it, but he would not get his way by further antagonizing the man. What had seemed a game, stymying a law firm a moment ago, had taken a sudden and very inconvenient turn.
“That’s impossible. My home and my business are here. I cannot spend months on the opposite coast, no matter what my great-aunt’s will demands.”
Thornton set his battered briefcase on the visitor chair, opened it, then pulled out three folded documents covered in craft paper. “Her last will and testament and transfer document for your signature as heir,” he said, ignoring Holt’s objections and placing it on his desk. “A copy of tax assessments, surveys, blueprints of the house, and a preliminary inventory of its contents— with no valuation applied to said inventory,” he continued as he added a thicker bundle beside the first. “Per your great-aunt’s instructions, I have retained an expert in British antiques and antiquities to do a thorough assessment and valuation of the contents. Said expert has arrived and is being cared for by the estate’s staff, a Mr. Farrell and Mrs. Smith.” The last bundle he retained. “This is the summons with which I hesitate to burden you.” He gestured at the documents he’d placed on the desk. “Dealing with those would be simpler.”
Like anyone, Holt hated his wishes being ignored, but he held onto his shredding temper. The man had come a long way to give him something valuable, even if it held no value for Holt. “You can take them all with you when you leave,” he said as politely as he could manage.
Perversely, Thornton laid the summons on Holts’ desk, alongside the other packets. “I regret the necessity,” he said quietly, then straightened and spoke up. “Mr. Holt Ridley, you are hereby served and required by Suffolk County to appear in court to determine the disposition of your great-aunt’s bequest.”
Cold fury shot ice down Holt’s spine. He gestured toward the door, a clear invitation to vacate his office. “My lawyers will see about that,” he responded in as even a tone as he could manage.
Once Thornton closed his now-empty brief case, nodded and left, Holt dropped into his plush leather swivel chair and leaned back. He glared at the pile of documents on his desk, the summons on top. His great-aunt had caught him neatly in the sticky strands of her web. After the way she’d treated his mother, he couldn’t imagine why she was giving him the estate, and it was too late to ask her. Guilt, perhaps? Or was he her only living relative? He’d been too irritated at the intrusion and the reason for Thornton’s visit to think to ask. But his lawyers could find out easily enough.
If he didn’t sort this out, he was headed for weeks of legal proceedings about his aunt’s estate. After dealing with Helen Conroe and her lawyers for the last six months, the idea made his belly ache. He’d recently learned an expensive lesson when Helen tried to seduce him into a partnership with her. It didn’t take long before he realized she wanted Ridley Communications’ proprietary algorithms more than him. When he ended their relationship, he never imagined she’d sink to industrial theft, but she wasted no time infiltrating his company. When her man got caught leaving with Ridley company secrets, Holt had the employee arrested and took Helen to court.
Holt knew Helen would keep coming after his company. She’d made it personal. He wasn’t ready to sell. He’d turned down friendly offers in the past. Still, a white knight with deep pockets could help him fight off any attempt at a hostile takeover.
He eyed the documents that Thornton left.
Perhaps he’d been too hasty in tossing the lawyer out of his office. Thornton had mentioned cash reserves and investments, available only when Holt took possession of his great-aunt’s estate. The amount of those funds had not been specified, but even so, selling the English antiques from the old place seemed a sure-fire way to raise a lot of capital. The house and property were worth millions according to Mr. Thornton and to Holt’s mother before she died, but adding the contents could be worth enough to improve his cash flow and attract a trustworthy — and temporary— investor. He hoped they were right about the value of the estate.
The documents were precisely where Thornton had placed them on the visitor side of Holt’s desk. He regarded them as one might regard a toxic spill, with reluctance to approach or touch them. Yet, he couldn’t let his antipathy for his mother’s relative override his good business sense. Those documents led to a resource only he could use, even if it meant spending three months across the country on Long Island. It might be worth it.
Holt hadn’t thought to ask, and Thornton hadn’t mentioned what happened to the estate in the event Holt answered the summons and outright refused the bequest. Well, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to refuse it. He was going to use it.
He picked up the phone on his desk and told his assistant to book a flight.
* * *
Holt knew better than to take the commercial redeye to JFK. That overnight flight always put him in a bad mood, but his jet was in for maintenance scheduled long before the need for this trip came up. Tired and hungry after finding nothing decent to eat in his arrival terminal, he stared out the window on the short hop out to Islip, wondering how long it would take to hook up with a ride-share driver. Instead, a well-dressed older man in the arrivals lounge held a sign with his name on it.
“I’m Farrell, your great-aunt Amelia’s assistant. Luggage, sir?”
Holt glanced at his briefcase. He’d put the lawyer’s paperwork there, so he’d hang onto it. He handed over his go-bag, something he took whenever he traveled. One never knew when a flight, even his private plane, would be delayed or canceled by weather or mechanical failure. “I plan to catch a return flight as soon as possible. Let’s go.” The ride out to Hampton Dales would give him time to get his equilibrium back. He squinted in the morning sunshine as Farrell led him to a black limo and indicated a thermos full of hot coffee.
