The Other People: A Novel(69)

“What about Miriam? She’s worked for Charlotte for years. This should really be her inheritance.”

“Miss Warton has been provided for in the will.”

“She should have the house. I want to give her the house.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that.”

“But the house is mine to do with as I wish.”

“To a point.” The solicitor picked up the will and slipped his glasses back on. Gabe got the impression he got a real kick out of doing that.

“?‘Seashells shall not be sold or given as a gift by the beneficiary to any other person/s. Doing so will render the will null and void and the estate will revert to the executor.

“?‘Exceptions are permissible only in the following circumstances: i/ The death of the beneficiary. In this event, Seashells shall pass to his next of kin. ii/ Incapacitation by serious illness or any other circumstances that mean the beneficiary is unable to adequately fulfill the duties of the will. In this event Seashells shall pass to his next of kin. iii/ If the beneficiary has no next of kin/his next of kin are dead or incapacitated by serious illness or any other circumstances that mean they are unable to adequately fulfill the duties of the will, then the house and estate will pass into a trust fund administered by a legally appointed trustee.’?”

She had him. Even in death, Charlotte Harris was not about to let him off the hook. The house was beautiful, worth millions, and yet Gabe would have happily seen the whole damn pile go crashing off the cliffs on to the rocks below.

She knew that. She knew the greatest gift she could have given him would be to never see the place again. Its echoing rooms, its sterile smell. It wasn’t a home. It wasn’t even a hospital. It was a morgue. Just no one was willing to admit that their patient was dead. It was only the physical shell that was left. Isabella existed. She didn’t live.

And he had caused it. He had put her here. That was why he couldn’t say no to the will; why he wouldn’t refuse or contest it. He could never leave Isabella. Never desert her. She was his responsibility. Charlotte knew that, too.

But there was something else. Something that Charlotte didn’t know. Jenny was pregnant. Three months. One day, Isabella would die. It was a miracle an infection hadn’t taken her by this point. One day, he and Jenny would no longer be around. Whatever his feelings about the house, it would be a wonderful inheritance for their child. Could he really refuse that?

He had bowed his head.

“All right. But I have one condition. All day-to-day care is looked after by Miriam. She immediately gets a 50 percent pay raise and the house is hers to live in as long as she wants, completely free. I will pay all the maintenance and bills, but I won’t live there.”

Mr. Barrage had almost shrugged. Not quite. Solicitors didn’t shrug. Just like they didn’t laugh at jokes, have dress-down days or chew gum.

“As you wish, Mr. Forman. I just need you to sign here, and here.”

Mr. Barrage held out a pen. Gabe had hesitated. Then he took the pen and scribbled a signature.

Never had a man become a millionaire with such a heavy heart.



* * *



—

“YOU LOOK TERRIBLE,” Jenny had said when he arrived home later. She handed him a large glass of wine. “What’s up?”

He had looked at her. At her clear green eyes, wavy blonde hair, her slightly rounded belly beneath the loose T-shirt. Their baby. The thought still took his breath away.

He should tell her. He had to tell her. He couldn’t keep something this big from his wife.

But telling her one part meant telling her everything. And he knew his wife. Once she had finished calling him a dickhead and a liar and a fucking idiot, she would want to see the house. She would insist. And once she set eyes upon Seashells, that would be it. She would want to live there. Finally, the house of her dreams.

He could see her eyes lighting up. Could almost hear her enthusing about which room would be the nursery and which the playroom, where they would put the trampoline and play area—and an infinity pool would really take advantage of the sunsets. Oh God, and maybe there was enough land on the other side of the house to turn into a paddock, for a pony?

The rest would follow. It would be better to move Isabella to a separate facility, in the grounds. This was a home, not a hospital. And Miriam could find somewhere else to live, couldn’t she? They could help her. After all, Charlotte had left the house to him. Didn’t he want the best for their family? Jenny wasn’t heartless, but she was practical, pragmatic and, ultimately, the burden of guilt was not hers.

He couldn’t let that happen. So he kept the document stuffed in his pocket. Another secret. Heavy as a brick. And, like bricks, secrets eventually drag us down and drown us.

He took the wine and smiled at Jenny. “Nothing. Just work.”





Lights glowed dimly from the south wing of Seashells. Gabe eschewed the main entrance and led their small group around to the opposite side of the house. The children stared up with wide eyes.

“This is all yours?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s like Wayne Manor,” he breathed out in awe.

“Or Ariel’s castle,” Gracie added.

“You don’t have a front-door key?” Katie asked.

“I don’t want to disturb Miriam—she’s the head nurse—if she’s in the main house, and the south wing is where Charlotte’s daughter is…” Gabe hesitated. He didn’t want to say “kept,” but what could he say? “Maintained”? “Looked after”? “…where she sleeps,” he finished. “We’ll go through the family kitchen.”