Inheritance of Love
by
Mary Ellen Simpson
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Inheritance of Love by Mary Ellen Simpson |
Chapter One – The Newcomers
Leila Brannion gazed intently at her image in the mirror of the walnut dresser; what she saw pleased her. Her dark full-bodied hair parted on the right side and fluffed up to frame her fine-featured face, emphasized her turquoise eyes. Her pert nose, delicately molded, led to her rosy, sensuous lips, then to her firm, slightly square jaw. Large circular earrings showed off her dainty earlobes. Her facial appearance satisfied her, but she had not decided what to wear that would be appropriate for the business she had to attend to.
On the large bed behind her, lay three outfits that she had chosen—a royal blue shift of crepe-like material with a loose-fitting bodice that draped her upper torso, leaving the shape of her bosom to the imagination; another, a light figured organdy dress which clung provocatively to her upper body accentuating her firm, generous breast, and then it flowed into an ample skirt that rippled as she walked; the third, a simple dark blue tailored suit of a fine wool blend. Each, she knew, would be appropriate, but she wanted to wear the one that was most suitable. After all, she thought, you do not wear any old thing to the reading of the will of your favorite grandfather.
She rose from the bench before the dress and scrutinized the three outfits. The reading of the will was scheduled at the lawyers’ offices in downtown Cork, in the old part of the Irish city on the south coast of Ireland. The law firm of Flaherty, Flaherty, and O’Brien was old, distinguished, and well known in the city. They looked after her grandfather’s affair for as long as she could remember. They attended to the details of maintaining the large townhouse in south Cork that had been her home since her birth. They paid Mrs. McCarthy’s salary, the woman who had been her guardian and confidante since her parents were killed in car accident when she was but six years old.
The pain of the memory still affected her even after these many years. The recollection of the events of that long-ago tragedy was vague, and she was not sure of the details of what had happened, but the sorrow was just as intense today as it was then. The image of her parents’ faces faded to a blur that she occasionally sharpened by studying the large photograph on the night table beside her bed. The out-of-date photograph did little to make them real.
Mrs. McCarthy, the kind, sturdy, stout matron who was the only mother she knew since then, tried to be a mother to her, but something was always missing. She loved Mrs. McCarthy and appreciated all that she did to help Leila as she grew up, but she was not the same as a real mother. Many nights, in her adolescence, she cried herself to sleep because she was lonely—lonely for the companionship and love that only a mother provided. Mrs. McCarthy tried, but she was not a mother with whom to share the secrets of growing up. That intimacy was not there.
Grandfather Brannion was seldom around. He was too busy managing his diverse business ventures in various parts of the world. He did make an effort to be in Ireland for Christmas, and most of the time, he made it, bringing many expensive and exotic gifts that delighted and pleased her. However, he was not an affectionate man; he seldom took her in his arms and kissed her. When he arrived, he hugged her vigorously for a few moments, and then he never showed any more affection until he left again. She knew that he loved her, but she desired the warmth and affection that her father bestowed on her. She remembered how he took her on his lap, read to her or sang soft lullabies, and held her with his warm arms about her as he stroked her soft, dark hair.
Tears came to her eyes, blurring her vision as she stared at the clothes on the bed before her. She shook her head, brushed the moisture from her eyes, and brusquely picked up the dark blue suit. It fit her mood, and it was appropriate for the occasion.
The pink silk blouse that she chose had a button-loop closure, a stand-up collar, a pleat at each side of the covered placket closure, and long loose sleeves with tight cuffs at the wrist. The suit was simple but sophisticated. The jacket was edge-to-edge with neatly pleated shoulders, with a pink lace handkerchief in the breast pocket. The straight skirt emphasized her slim hips and showed off her trim ankles to advantage. After she slipped into a pair of dark blue open-toed sling back sandals with a fluted design and three-inch heels, she whirled before the full-length mirror beside the large walk-in closet. She smiled in satisfaction.
At that moment, a soft knock on the polished oak door was followed by the low dulcet voice of Mrs. McCarthy. “Are you ready, dear? It’s almost time to leave, you know.”
Leila hesitated a moment, took another quick look in the dresser mirror, and answered, “I’m almost ready, Mum.”
When Mrs. McCarthy arrived many years ago, she started to call her “Ma’am,” but as time passed it became “Mum.” Now, she could not remember when she had not called her by that name.
“All right, dear. But don’t be too long. The taxi should be here at any moment.”
“I’ll be right down, Mum. I have a few things to do.”
She listened for the tap of “Mum’s” slippers as she proceeded down the hall to the wide stair to the lower floor.
Instantly, she a wave of panic filled her breast. What if her grandfather’s will took this away from her—the house which had always been her home, “Mum” who was her only mother, the somber lower rooms which she seldom entered because the were too dark and forbidding, and the homey kitchen that was Mrs. McCarthy domain? She smelled the mouth-watering aroma of Mum’s homebaked bread, buns, cakes, and cookies. She recalled the exotic smells that emanated from it when her grandfather was home and entertaining—the savory sauces, the steaming vegetable dishes, the stimulating meat recipes, but most of all, the surprising and exciting desserts. She loved the kitchen at those times. What would she do, if for some reason, she would lose all this? What if grandfather’s prosperity was only an illusion that disappeared with his death?
The shock of that possibility left her breathless—and anxious. She stopped. The uncertainty of her future dismayed her. She had no reason to believe that her settled and secure life would not go on as before.
Next month she would be twenty-two years old. She was attractive enough; the young men of her acquaintance were attentive although none excited her. She was not in love, but she did enjoy the company of a few of them; however, not one stood out in her mind. The past spring, she finished her degree in commerce at the nearby college—University College, a constituent college of the University of Dublin. Her four years of study were pleasant and satisfying, and one day she intended to put her education to use in her own business. What that business would be, she was not sure yet.
In her spare time, she worked in Mr. Phelan’s florist shop, doing all the jobs that needed doing in a small business, even keeping the books as her knowledge and experience increased. Maybe she would start her own florist shop or buy Mr. Phelan’s since he indicated several times that he wanted to retire and spend more time growing the flowers that he loved.
“The taxi’s here, Leila.”
Mrs. McCarthy’s shout shook her from her reverie, and she quickly passed a comb through her hair, brushed her lips with lipstick, and inspected once again her made-up eyes, particularly her eyelashes for she seldom wore mascara. She straightened her jacket and ran her hands down the length of her skirt from her hips and along her thighs. She flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the breast of her jacket and gave her dark hair a flip. She took one more careful look in the mirror; then she walked out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
As she descended the stairs, Mrs. McCarthy scolded, “Child, you mustn’t keep the cabby waiting. It’s costing good money!”
Leila smiled. Mum was a frugal woman who could make a shilling go a long way. She hated to see anything wasted.
“Mum, there’s no need to rush. We have lots of time. The reading is not until eleven o’clock, and it’s only a short drive to the office.”
Leila was like her grandfather; she did not like to rush. She preferred to take her time and remain calm and unruffled. She was irritated whenever she caught herself being flustered and nervous. Her grandfather never got excited or agitated; he took life in stride, and she admired that.
“Dear, you are like your granddad. Got rest his soul.” Mum crossed herself.
“Thank you, Mum. That pleases me when you say I’m like Grandpa.”
Mrs. McCarthy snorted. “I hope you’re not like him in every way.”
Leila looked up, startled. In all the years, she never heard her guardian say a disparaging word about her grandfather. Now her tone of displeasure disturbed Leila. What did she mean by that remark? Leila frowned and said, “Mum, what do you mean by that?”
“Child, your grandfather wasn’t always the saint that you think he is. Don’t be shocked by anything you might hear today.”
“But, Mum, is there something that you should tell me about Grandpa?”
The white-haired woman shook her head. “I don’t know. I hope not.”
For a moment, Leila stared at her companion in disbelief. “You do know something that I don’t, Mum. I wish you would tell me.”
“Child, if I know something, it might never be important, and it would only hurt you if you knew.”
Annoyance crept into Leila’s voice. “Mum, you make it sound secretive and nasty.”
“My dear, everyone does something secretive and nasty in one’s life, particularly if one has lived a long and full life…like your grandfather. I’m sorry that I said what I did, child. I’ve stirred your curiosity, and I did not mean to do that. It slipped out. I’m sorry.”
She said it with finality, but Leila’s determined nature was not so easily curbed. “Mum, you must tell me what you meant about Grandpa. I must know.”
Mrs. McCarthy fell silent as she peered at her image in the mirror that hung in the foyer next to the large closet for outdoor wear. She adjusted the out-of-fashion velvet turbanlike hat with a veil and several bunches of small flowers that adorned the crown.
Leila’s eyes gleamed. “I must know, Mum. Now!”
“Child, your grandfather was a man—a strong, healthy, virile man. He never remarried after your grandmother died. There were rumors about his lady friends. That’s all I meant, my dear.”
“But, Mum, I know about those rumors. There is more.”
Mrs. McCarthy looked at Leila sharply. “There is nothing more!”
Leila felt shut out. She knew in her heart that there was something more she should know about her grandfather. She felt there was much more that she should know about her grandfather and his affairs. As it was, she knew very little, almost nothing.
Anger welled up within her at the frustration at being thwarted in her effort to learn what Mrs. McCarthy knew about him. As she grew up, his infrequent visits added little to her knowledge of him. To her, he always was a pleasant old man, kind and gentle, although he was not very affectionate. Now, many unanswered questions sprang to her mind.
Where was he when he was away for long periods of time? What was he doing? Where did he get all his money? He seemed affluent enough, with never a shortage of money. She was always well cared for. The old brick house was always well maintained—any repairs needed were done immediately. A generous allowance for operating the house was available, and money was available whenever she needed it. Mrs. McCarthy saw to it that she had the best clothes, the best of everything. Her music teacher and her dance instructor were the best procurable. Any time she wanted something—within reason, of course—it was provided.
Now, Mrs. McCarthy implied that something about her grandfather was not perfect. Her image of the old man who came to visit her bringing gifts, fun, and pleasure was spoiled.
She stared at Mrs. McCarthy, realizing the old lady had made up her mind, and there would be no further discussion of her grandfather.
A gray mist hung over the city as the taxi whisked them through the southern residential district heading north across the south branch of the River Lee to the old commercial part of the city. Both women were silent, engrossed in their thoughts, as the taxi left the quiet residential area and proceeded into the bustle of the main thoroughfares.
Leila turned to her companion and asked, “Mum, what will you do if are no longer able to live in the old house?”
Mrs. McCarthy screwed up her face in thought. “Well, child, you are now able to take care of yourself. You have your education, and it shouldn’t be hard for you to find a job. For me? H’m I’ve been thinking about that lately, my child.”
“What will you do, Mum?”
“Well, dear, I’m getting up in years, and I don’t think I would be able to find a situation like I’ve enjoyed with your grandfather. My child, you’ve been a joy to live with. If I’d had a daughter, I would have her be like, my dear.”
“Thank you, Mum. You have been like mother to me, and I love you. If grandfather has not provided for you, I will. I’ll look after you, Mum.”
“Dear, you needn’t worry about me. I’ve saved for my old age. Your grandfather provided for all my wants in the he old house, and he was generous with his allowances. I’ve plenty put away for my old age, child.”
“But where would you stay?”
“Oh, I’ve thought of that too. I have a sister in Dublin who wants me to live with her. She has a small house just outside of Dublin town—comfortable and cozy—with room for two, old ladies, very nicely. I think I would take her up and live with her.”
“Oh, Mum, I didn’t know that you had family. You have never mentioned her, and you have never gone to visit.”
“I didn’t get on with her husband, so I kept away until he went. He died last year. Poor man. A lingering disease, very painful.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mum.” A long pause ensued. “But I hope that there is no need for such a change.”
Leila glanced out the window of the cab and noticed that they had crossed one of the many bridges on the south branch and now were proceeding slowly as they approached the busy center of town. She realized that they were on St. Patrick Street, heading east. The newer modern buildings flashed by as they continued into the older part of the town.
Leila mused; Grandpa’s lawyers must be one of the oldest firms in the area. No doubt, their offices would be located in one of the old musty buildings in the east end of the island that was the heart of the city of Cork.
Grandpa was an enigma. He seemed to have an unlimited source of wealth, but its origin was a mystery. She didn’t know where it came from, and Mrs. McCarthy seemed as ignorant as she was. She only hoped that her life would not be too disrupted by the disclosures of the will. She trusted that her grandfather had left her the old house that had been her home. If she had to leave the old house, she was sure it would be the most difficult happening in her life. She loved her bedroom with its large, shiny brass bed, its old scuffed and worn Persian rug that was so warm on chilly mornings, the antique stuffed armchair that she loved to curl up in, by the large bay window that faced south to the hills and the ocean beyond, the armoires and the large dresser with its huge mirror from which she could view most of the room when she sat at it, the large walk-in closet with space for all her clothes and much more, and the full-length mirror of to the right in which she admired herself as she dressed.
The kitchen was another of her favorite rooms. The other rooms, she seldom made us of or even visited—they were reserved for her grandfather when he visited. She never went into the study with its huge desk at one end and the large fireplace at the other end that was only lit when he was in residence. It also housed trophies of all sorts—stuffed animals that he hunted, cups and medals, crests and shields that he won for the many sporting activities in which he participated. Leila had not bothered to read the engravings on them; she was not sure why he had received them. The library, which was adjacent to the study, she used frequently, but she was never comfortable there. Its eerie atmosphere left her uneasy if not a bit frightened. When she needed a book, she got it and left quickly.
The remainder of the rooms, she avoided, except, of course, Mum’s room. When she had a problem, she always crept to the carved door, tapped timidly, and waited hesitantly for Mum’s quiet voice. “Who is it?”
“Me.”
“Come in, my dear.”
She entered and crawled upon the bed to share her problems, her triumphs, her joys, her defeats, and her failures. Mum always understood and was patient with her. If, now, they separated, she would be heartbroken.
She looked across the seat to Mum. Her face was relaxed and composed; she was not worried. Here serenity raised Leila’s spirit, and she dismissed with a shrug her apprehensions and misgivings. She was making a problem when none existed.
At that moment, the taxi turned right off St. Patrick Street onto Maylor Street. It proceeded east half a block and then pulled into an open space before a large modern glass building.
Mum paid the driver; they had arrived.
Ahead of them, another taxi halted, and Leila noticed two people alight from it. A slim, well dressed woman of a about sixty years, accompanied by a brown-haired, tanned, medium height man about twenty-five years old helped her from the cab. Leila glanced casually at them, as they proceeded ahead of Mum and her. In the foyer before the elevators, the man stared at Leila who turned away. He waited for the older woman to enter the elevator and held the door as Leila and Mrs. McCarthy entered. He punched the button to the fifth floor just as Leila reached for it. She looked up and smiled her thank you, as he smiled broadly showing the whitest teeth that she has seen in a man for a long time. She moved to the back of the cubicle as he surveyed her openly. His look of approval irritated her, so she ignored him by turning to Mrs. McCarthy and asking, “Are we on time, Mum?”
Mum glanced at her large old-fashion gold wrist watch, and answered, “My dear, we are early. We’ll have to wait ten minutes. Our appointment isn’t until eleven.”
The young man’s eyebrows raised quizzically as Leila studied the older woman. Her clothes were expensive, and she was well groomed, with more make-up than necessary Leila thought—a bit overdone. Her mascara was thick and a turquoise color—she even had sparkles in it. Her lips were heavily roughed and her fingernails were a matching bright red. Leila noticed that her toes where the same crimson color, showing clearly through her light lime-colored hose. She was wearing a satiny, jade checked dress with a scoop neck and three-quarter length dolman sleeves. A mink stole was casually draped over her shoulders. She was hatless revealing her silvery hair, giving her a striking appearance. Leila could not help but admire her beauty.
The modern elevator whisked them noiselessly up, and a ding signaled their arrival at the fifth floor. Leila expected her the lawyers’ offices to be in one of the old building that lined the streets to the east, so she was surprised at the modernity and sleekness of the building which they were in. The brash young man gallantly held the elevator door as the three women exited. The woman accompanying him waited for him.
To Leila’s surprise, the two followed them through the frosted glass door with the gold lettering that proclaimed, “Flaherty, Flaherty, and O’Brien, Attorneys at Law.”
As Leila approached the trim, young receptionist seated a modern glass-topped desk, she perceived that the smooth-face male was behind her.
“I’m Leila Brannion. I have an appointment with Mr. Caley Flaherty.”
The blonde receptionist smiled her professional, artificial smile. “Mr. Flaherty is expecting you and Mr. McCorkle. If you will have a seat, he will be ready to see you in a few moments.”
The receptionist smiled again as she indicated several large, heavily-padded leather chairs that were grouped around a huge glass-topped coffee table upon which were strewn several of the latest magazines.
It was obvious that the young woman assumed that Leila knew the man that she had called Mr. McCorkle. A feeling of malaise seized Leila. Who was this Mr. McCorkle? What was he doing here? Why was the lawyer expecting him as well as her? Why did the receptionist appear to know him? Who was his companion, the older sophisticated lady? She was confused and uneasy. She was sure that her face mirrored the surprise and shock that she was experiencing.
For several moments, she stood unmoving and watched mechanically as Mrs. McCarthy and the other woman took seats across from each other.
A deep male voice jolted her. “Miss Brannion, I’m Allan McCorkle. It seems we’re here for the same meeting.”
Her breath caught. Her heartbeat quickened. Apprehension gripped her. Why was he here? How was he involved in her grandfather’s will? She had never heard of him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Leila Brannion,” she blustered.
At that moment, a tall, slender man in a grey striped suit came toward them from the inner offices. His steel blue eyes peered at them through steel-framed glasses, and he moved with a litheness and strength that surprised her. As he approached, he held out his arms in welcome. “I see that we are all here. Please come with me.”
He turned quickly and proceeded to his left down a short hallway into a large, airy, and brightly-lighted office. He stopped inside the doorway and ushered them in. Four massive padded armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle before a large glass-topped desk.
Leila entered slowly, stopped momentarily, and surveyed the room with a sweeping look. The office was opulent and modern; it was large and expensively furnished, not the kind of office that she expected of her grandfather’s lawyers. She was surprised at the youthfulness of the lawyer—he couldn’t be more than thirty-five years old, and she expected someone about her grandfather’s age, at least seventy. Today is certainly my day for surprises. I wonder if there are more in store.
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