2
The burning red sun slid behind the trees of Washington Square Park that were framed by the office window of Michael O’Halloran. He had called the day after the memorial service to set the appointment for today.
I’d spent the last two days knocking around the apartment and New York. There had been no further evidence of an intruder and my nerves were more settled. The store was officially closed until tomorrow, but I would probably reopen to tie up loose ends, at least for awhile. I had no idea where to start or end.
The hum of O’Halloran as he droned the traditional opening passage intruded on my musings.
I, Aine Harkins, being of sound mind…
I had grown close to Great-aunt Aine. She had been there when it had all come crashing down. Still, I couldn’t understand the fuss over an estate that included a run-down building, Aunt Aine’s upstairs apartment and its furnishings, and the dusty contents of the Singing Stone Gift Shoppe. But it was a long way from the cottage in Drumennis outside Armagh where she’d been born and so had been important to her.
There was family lore of a marriage and a son but she never spoke of them. I guess failed relationships ran in the family. I had been left to believe I was the only heir. But today, I sat beside a tall, blond man who, for all I knew, might be a long lost relative. But I’m five foot three, black-haired and without his amazing slashes of cheekbones. If we were related, he swam at a different end of the gene pool. I thought I heard O’Halloran mention my name.
…That my great-niece, Nora Brooke, shall manage the Singing Stone for the remaining period of three-year term of the loan from Mr. Tristan Maartin or until such earlier time as said business relationship may be concluded. Upon meeting one of these conditions, Nora Brooke shall be appointed Trustee of the Armagh Trust. If for any reason, neither condition is met, Mr. O’Halloran shall take such action as specified in the codicil to this will.
I guess the man next to me must be Tristan Maartin. From the corner of my eye, I could see him pluck one of his blonde hairs from the sleeve of his soft gray Italian silk suit. He looked mildly amused. What interest could he have in Aunt Aine’s shop? On the other hand, if he bought me out, I could get back to my life. My better angel smacked me upside the head. The Singing Stone had been Aunt Aine’s life. I owed it to her to honor her wishes.
“Are there any questions about the terms of Aine’s estate? Ms. Brooke? Mr. Maartin?” O’Halloran leaned forward in his black leather chair, his intertwined fingers rested on top of the document.
Tristan Maartin nodded. “The terms seem abundantly clear, Mr. O’Halloran.”
God, he sounded like we were having tea with the Queen or one of those Brits my father liked to entertain at the house we used to have on Long Beach Island.
I stood up and began to pace. At my old job they swore I wore a path in the carpet. I wonder if they had replaced that, too.
“Don’t get me wrong. She was a dear, sweet lady and coming to New York to help her was just what I needed at the time. But, I never saw this as a long-term thing. And what is this about a trust? Why did she borrow money if there was a trust? Are we even sure she’s dead? They never recovered….” I stopped short realizing I was one step from a rant.
O’Halloran flipped open the file to what looked from a distance like the accident report. I doubted he needed to read it at this point.
“The Irish Garda completed their investigation of the sinking of the ferry and concluded that there were no survivors. As it regards the Trust, Ms Brooke, the terms prohibit me from disclosing details. You will have to make your decision without that information. However, I will say that your aunt did not think $100,000 for building repairs was a Trust expense.” He leaned back in his chaird. “Of course, the choice to accept the terms of the will is entirely yours. I only suggest that you give it proper consideration.”
