The Legacy, Caroline Bond [popular books to read txt] 📗

strong jaw and intelligent eyes. His voice, though breathless, was deep, his accent hard to pin down.

‘Thank you for agreeing to our meeting today. I appreciate you fitting me in at such short notice. But, as you can see, getting my will sorted is something of a priority.’

Struggling to think of an appropriate response, Rachel pulled her notepad towards her and uncapped her pen. ‘I’m listening.’

Which is what she’d done as Jonathan coolly and calmly laid out the plans for his estate after his demise. He was concise, reflective and, above all, rational. Rachel heard him out without interrupting – the same as she would any client – making a record of his wishes as he spoke. When he’d finished, she read back through her notes, buying time. Then she fulfilled her legal responsibilities by highlighting the difficulties inherent in his proposal and pointing out the potential consequences, intended and otherwise, of his approach. He listened politely – but respectfully, and very firmly, refused to change a thing or elaborate on his decisions.

By the end of their half-hour together, Rachel was in no doubt as to Jonathan’s mental capacity, despite his very evident physical frailties. There was nothing left for her to do but fulfil his instructions.

That had been five months ago.

Now Jonathan was dead.

And within the hour his family would be arriving to hear his last will and testament.

Chapter 2

MEGAN PULLED the front door closed behind her, carefully. She didn’t want Chloe to hear her leaving; she needed a little time to compose herself before the meeting at the solicitor’s. It still felt wrong living in The View with Jonathan’s youngest daughter. When Chloe had moved back home, just before Christmas – after Jonathan’s symptoms had taken yet another turn for the worse – it had been positioned as a temporary arrangement. One designed to support Jonathan, help Megan and give Chloe some time to sort herself out – again. And although she couldn’t deny that Jonathan had liked having his daughter around, Megan had not. For her, Chloe’s presence had proved more of a strain than a help. Living under the same roof had certainly not brought the two of them any closer together. And now, in the wake of Jonathan’s death, their very personal sorrow was only making that tension worse.

Hence Megan’s need for half an hour on her own.

She walked up the driveway, glad to have escaped the claustrophobic confines of the house. The wind was a welcome shock. Cold, unforgiving. It roused Megan. When she reached the top of the drive she stopped and looked back.

The View. An almost-grand, late-Victorian villa, built – according to Jonathan – by one of the town’s mayors for his son and family, in the days when nepotism was flaunted, and respected. The View epitomised solid, small-town wealth and ambition. It was a lovely house, with big rooms, high ceilings and ornate cornices. But it was the view out, as much as the space inside, that made the house special. From its vantage point, perched on the edge of the South Cliff, the views out across the bay were glorious. Megan had given up her life in Darlington, her friends, her job and her independence, to come and live with Jonathan in this large, looming house on the edge of a cliff, in a small seaside town, at the end of the line.

Five years.

So much happiness.

So much pain.

Had it been the right decision?

She was no longer sure.

The realisation that Jonathan was gone for ever thumped into her all over again, like a fist hitting a bruise, but she made herself keep moving. She turned onto Belvedere Avenue, leaving the house behind. Even buckled with grief, she knew that the sight and sound of the sea would be good for her soul. And her soul was sorely in need of something to soothe it.

When she reached The Esplanade she sat down on the first empty bench and looked out across the bay.

Jonathan was the first man to ever truly love Megan. He had made her feel simultaneously vulnerable and powerful; utterly confused and, at the same time, sure. She had known as soon as she met him, at a teachers’ conference in a faceless business centre in Newcastle, that there was something between them and that, if she pursued it, it would lead somewhere exciting, but scary. He was, of course, totally wrong for her. A married man. Much older than her. A respected professional colleague. He was exactly what she did not want – and yet she had.

And he had wanted her.

That had been both the problem and the joy.

An attraction that led to a flirtation. Texts and emails that blossomed into deep, interesting conversations. A craving that led to sex. Sex that deepened and strengthened their connection. The emergence of a deep and abiding affection – which turned into love.

Megan took three deep, lung-filling breaths, trying to draw some of the calmness of the view inside herself. As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t stay where she was, clinging on to her memories of Jonathan. The clock was ticking. She had an appointment to keep.

The trouble was, she knew she was walking towards, not away from, more upset.

Jonathan’s children, en masse. Her ‘stepchildren’ – in theory, but not in practice.

There were many reasons why Megan had never fulfilled the role of stepmother, not least because they already had a living, breathing and presumably loving mother. It had also been made painfully clear – by all three of them, in their own very different ways – that the last thing they wanted was the woman who had wrecked their parents’ marriage ‘playing Mum’.

Chloe, Noah and Liv.

Youngest to eldest.

Twenty-six, thirty-four, thirty-seven.

A Performing Arts graduate turned shop assistant. A travel rep turned hotel inspector. A star student turned A&E consultant.

‘Underdog’ to ‘top dog’.

Shambles to success.

Jonathan’s children.

There were so many different hierarchies at play. So much intertwined sibling history that she hadn’t been around to witness or shape.