Driftwood Lane (Nantucket #4)
Denise Hunter
One
Meridith Ward surveyed the mess cluttering Delmonico’s kitchen and shuddered. The staff scurried in quick, jerky movements, but then, it was lunch hour, and a hundred St. Louis business people had to get fed and back to their jobs.
The owner, Angelo Bellini, burst through the swinging door, nearly slamming into Meridith’s back. “Please . . . we were not expecting you,” he said over the din of clattering pans and voices shouting orders.
“That’s kind of the point, Mr. Bellini.” Meridith opened her notebook and continued the inspection.
The owner discreetly removed raw chicken breasts from the sink, setting them in a nearby skillet. He did not wash his hands.
Meridith made another note on the list of infringements.
“Meridith . . .” His accent caressed her name. He flashed his dimple.
She shot him a look.
“Ms. Ward,” he continued, “we have had an unusually difficult morning. My cook, he called in sick, my prep boy did not even show up, and I have our host cutting vegetables.” He gestured wildly. “He does not even know what he is doing. Such a day!”
Meridith strolled through the kitchen, still writing. The cook staff wove around her as though their moves had been choreographed. Despite the disorder, the savory smells of garlic and roasted chicken filled the air.
“I cannot even tell you!” Mr. Bellini continued. “Please, we can do this another day. I would be happy to show you around myself tomorrow.”
Meridith’s phone vibrated in her pocket. “Excuse me,” she shouted over the whir of a machine roaring to life.
She retreated to a quieter corner of the kitchen and opened her phone, so eager to escape Mr. Bellini she didn’t check the caller ID. “Meridith Ward.”
A moment’s silence made her wonder if she’d missed the reply.
“Hello? This is Meridith.”
“Meridith Ward?” A male voice, unfamiliar.
“Yes, may I help you?”
“Do you know T. J. Ward? Terrance James Ward of Nantucket?”
It was a name she hadn’t heard spoken in years. A name she tried not to think about, usually with success. The name sucked the moisture from her mouth, set her heart racing, stole the reply from her tongue.
“Hello?”
It was just a phone call. She cleared her throat. “Yes, you have the right Meridith. How may I help you?”
“My name is Edward Thomas. I need a moment of your time, but it sounds like I’ve caught you in the middle of something.”
Her excuse to avoid this altogether. She could hang up and never accept another call from Edward Thomas. But problems didn’t resolve when you ignored them; they got worse. She scanned the kitchen. Case in point.
She drew a shaky breath and pulled herself to her full five-foot-three inches. “Now is fine, Mr. Thomas. Go ahead.”
“I’m an attorney on the island of Nantucket. First of all—and I’m so sorry to relay this over the phone—we’ve been trying to locate you for two weeks. I’m afraid that your—that T. J. Ward and his wife, Eva, were involved in a boating accident. They didn’t, that is . . . I’m afraid neither survived, Meridith.”
Her racing heart skipped a beat, like the wheels of a tire hitting a speed bump, then continued on its frantic way. They were gone? Both of them, just like that?
She waited for the numbness to dissipate and the wave of pain to wash over her. But it didn’t come.
She should feel something. Something other than this cold void. Was there something wrong with her? Maybe she needed time to process. Two weeks ago, he’d said. The funerals were over by now. It was all over, and there was nothing for her to do.
“Meridith?”
She watched Mr. Bellini continuing his belated cleanup. She remembered her relief at the call and realized now that she’d chosen the worse of two evils.
“Thank you for notifying me, Mr. Thomas. I appreciate your taking the time to locate me, but I really must return to work.”
“Wait, Meridith, I–I’m afraid there’s more. I handled T. J. and Eva’s legal matters.”
Of course, there was the matter of his estate. This was a lot to digest.
“I’m sure you’re aware that T. J. and Eva ran a bed-and-breakfast— I’m not certain how long it’s been since you’ve seen them.”
“Quite awhile.” Years, actually.
Mr. Bellini was yelling at the prep guy, making imaginary chops with the side of his hand.
“I surmised as much. Nonetheless, T. J. and Eva were very clear in their provisions, should the unthinkable happen. They wanted Summer Place to go to you. Furthermore, they’ve named you as guardian of the children.”
Summer Place . . . the children?
An inappropriate bubble of laughter caught in her throat.
“I know this must come as a shock. I’m not unaware that—”
“There must be some mistake.” Her hand worked its way to her throat. The children? Three of them. How old were they now?
What did it matter? This was a mistake. A clerical error.
“I spoke with T. J. and Eva myself. The will was drawn up several years ago, but I’ve spoken with them regularly since then. We were friends as well.”