Gillian's Do-Over (16 page)

Relieved that Bianca had
n’t turned down her offer, Gillian blew out a little breath. “Then I’ll plan the dinner. You won’t have to worry about a thing. If you and Quinn want it at a favorite restaurant, just let me know and I’ll take it from there.” Silence followed. Gillian grabbed her teacup and took a quick sip. “About your parents … If you could give me your mom’s phone number, her email, I’d like to touch base with her. Let her know she’s welcome to stay with me. Or at a hotel if she’d prefer. But not necessarily the same hotel as your father.”
Why isn’t she answering me?
“Perhaps your mother or dad would like to stay at Quinn’s hotel.”

“
We already figured my dad would stay there. I haven’t quite decided about my mother.”

Certainly not on the same floor as
your father.
But Quinn would have already figured out how to keep the potential antagonists separated. “You do that, dear. And whatever else you’d like me to take care of. I’m at your service. Whatever you want,” she repeated, hoping Bianca would accept her offer in the spirit it was being made.

“I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

Lawyer Bianca is back again.
“Then I’ll wait for your instructions. If you’ll email me your list of invitees, I’ll get started on those envelopes as soon as you bring me the invitations.”

“Probably next week.”

“Wonderful.”

Gillian reached for her trilling phone.

“
Ms. Griffiths, this is Ursula, from Mr. Gordon’s office.”

Gillian’s stomach clenched and pushed up against her lungs.
“Yes, Ursula.”
The trust.
She’d forgotten all about it in the excitement of the upcoming wedding.

“Mr. Gordon would like to meet with you this afternoon if you are available.”

Gillian glanced at the grandfather clock, bonging the hour. One o’clock. “Uh. When would he like me to come to his office?”

“Actually, he would prefer to meet you at your home, if possible.
Excuse me a minute.”

Gillian’s pulse climbed as she waited.

“Ms. Griffiths. I’m sorry about that interruption. If you prefer another place, perhaps at the library, the branch nearest your home, on Oakland Street?”

“My home is okay.” But w
hy did he want to meet her here? “Is there a problem that I can’t come to his office? I’m happy to do that.”

“Uh. Well, it’s a bit noisy here right now. He felt the disruption … he’d prefer to meet elsewhere, if you don’t mind.”

Because of his wife? Is he trying to avoid another interruption?
“My home is fine. When would he like to come over?”

“Would two o’clock be al
l right? Or is that too soon?”

“
I’ll be here.”

Gillian scampered upstairs. A meeting with the attorney would require better clothes than her garden jeans with a hole on one side and her paint-splattered shirt. She flung her clothes on a nearby chair and pulled
on a silk blouse whose color reminded her of ripe peaches and a favorite skirt. She slipped her feet into a pair of low heels, ran a comb through her hair, and brushed a quick swipe of gloss over her lips.

She raced back downstairs and checked the living room.
Picked up.
The dining room.
Fine.
The family room.
Fluff those pillows and open the blinds.
The kitchen. She ran a damp cloth over the counters and turned on the coffeepot.
Or would he prefer tea?
She couldn’t remember. For good measure, she filled the electric teakettle and turned it on. She opened the buffet in the dining room, pulled out a pair of her grandmother’s china cups with matching saucers and placed them on the counter.

She ran a nervous hand through her hair, then patted her coif, hoping she hadn’t ruined what her comb had managed to arrange
earlier.
There. I’m ready.
But the steady thud of her pulse told her she didn’t feel ready. What she felt was something else entirely. Anticipation, maybe? She picked at the scab from one of the bramble wounds on her arm just below her elbow.
Stop that!
She glanced at the clock. Five minutes to two. No time to go back upstairs to get a Band-Aid if her wound started to bleed. The doorbell rang its four-toned announcement. Matt Gordon. Had he walked or driven over?

Just as she
passed the dining room, the teakettle began singing and the coffeepot pushed out fragrant little bubbles of flavor. She turned off the teakettle and the stove burner and forced herself to walk sedately to the front door.

One of Matt’s hands was poised as if to ring the doorbell again, his other hand clutching his briefcase.

“Come in, Mr. Gordon. Matt.” An outdoorsy scent clung to the summer-weight fabric of his suit jacket.

Matt
followed her into the kitchen.

“Would you prefer coffee or tea? I
have both.” She shrugged in the direction of the stove.

“Coffee would be fine.” He seemed nervous, too, the way he was running one hand through his hair. But why w
as
he
nervous?

Gillian filled one of the cups. “Shall we sit at the dining room table or here in the kitchen?”

“I think the dining room table would be better. I need room to show you my draft.”

She nodded, filled her cup
with tea and his with coffee. She carried both to the dining room table and sat down, grasping her teacup firmly, determined not to let him know that her nerves were doing a number on her. He pulled several documents from his briefcase before setting it on the floor next to his chair.

“You can see here that I have specified a trustee other than your son, the executor of your estate, to manage the trust.”

“Is that normal?”

“Yes, and if there were elements
you didn’t want your son to control, it would be better managed via the trust. However, if you prefer that he be named manager, we can do so.”

“Let me think about that. It’s not that I
can’t depend on him to do what I want.”
But what if Quinn isn’t happy about what I want to do?
Maybe choosing someone other than him as manager of the trust was a good idea.

“Of course not.
Which brings up another question. Your will states that you want your son to have power of attorney once you are sixty-five. Is there some reason you selected that age?”

“I figured I’d still be fit to manage my own affairs until then. Hopefully, long after, but
I wanted him to be involved if I couldn’t decide things for myself.”

“I see. You know that such power of attorney would cease on your death?”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. Then, what good is it?”

Matt smiled. “It would be helpful
in the event you weren’t of sound mind to make decisions on your own behalf while you’re living.” His smile declined. “Such as if you were in a coma, or in any condition that made you unable to take care of yourself. Your son’s power of attorney would enable him to tell the doctors what you prefer, and handle your financial affairs, make sure the bills are paid, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“You should have a conversation with him so he knows your preferences regarding such things as DNR orders— ‘Do not resuscitate’— and the like. Have the two of you talked about that?”

“I tried about a year ago. He looked appalled
when I mentioned it and said it was way too soon for me to worry about such things.”

Matt took a sip of his coffee. “You’re never too young or too healthy for
such a conversation. Talk to him. Even if he’s not comfortable. Lots of children aren’t. This is important, if only for your peace of mind.” He sat quietly for a moment, as if listening to the soft tick-tock of the grandfather clock. “What is your preference if you were in an accident and you were comatose? Would you want all lifesaving efforts to be continued?” He paused again. “Or not?” His fingers turned white as he gripped his teacup.

His wife. That’s who he’s thinking
about
.
“
I’ll
talk to him again. But do I need to do that right away? His wedding is in less than a month and I don’t think his mind is on anything other than that right now.”

Matt chuckled. “Point taken. When you feel he’ll listen
, talk to him. Then let me know
.”
He shuffled the papers and placed the draft of the trust in front of her. “I’llleave this version with you to look over. The legal language is such that it might put you to sleep, so don’t read it at night.” The corners of his mouth curved upward. “I want you to make any comments you wish about the different elements. Ask any questions they generate. Jot down any changes you feel we should include or items you want to add or delete. Once you are clear that it reflects your desires, your preferences, bring it by the office and leave it with Ursula.”

In spite of her wishing it weren’t so,
Matt’s wedding ring shone in the light above the dining room table, mocking Gillian, reminding her he was not available. Not like Mo, who was a friend whom she could not imagine as a lover. Matt’s image kept invading her dreams. No matter where her gaze landed in his presence, certain girl parts kept reminding her how very much they liked what she saw.
Face it, girl, you want him. No ifs, ands, or buts. His butt, too—so nice.

Gillian brushed a hand against her cheek, hoping the warmth she felt wasn’t obvious to the man sitting next to
her. She glanced sidelong at him.

Matt
was so businesslike. It was past time for her to do the same. What was he saying?

“
… for now, just concentrate on that happy event. I’m sure you’ll be busy as the mother of the groom. When you’re ready, I’ll fine-tune the trust document and incorporate certain details into your will. In the meantime, try not to lose sleep over all this.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He chuckled softly. “It’s my job.”

She allowed herself to smile. “And you’re very good at it
.”

He gave her hand, so small under his palm, a quick pat. Then he stood up, placed his papers in his briefcase, and ambled toward the front door.

She was about to turn the handle when the doorbell sounded. She opened it and fell back a step when she saw her former boss.

“You’re home.”

“Nick.” Shocked into silence, she stared. Nick looked more disreputable than the last time she’d seen him.

“Were you the one who
sicced that computer gal on me, who called the state?”

“What? You mean Shelley?”

“You need to stop interfering, Gillian. Just ’cause I fired you.” He lunged forward and grabbed her arm, as if to emphasize his words.

She pulled her arm out of Nick’s grasp and
half-turned in Matt’s direction. “Matt, this is Nicholas Talmadge, my former boss. Nick, Matt Gordon, my lawyer.”

“Well,
isn’t that convenient.” Nick took a step into the house. “Did you call the cops on me? Is that why he’s here?” One finger jabbed in Matt’s direction.

“What do you mean? I haven’t talked with anyone.”

“Correction. You talked to that computer kid.”

“Shelley
Kramer. She came to me—”

“Excuse me, Gillian,” Matt interrupted. “Threats are n
ever appropriate, Mr. Talmadge. I suggest you stop making them.” He pulled a business card out of his jacket pocket and held it toward Nick. “If you have a concern that involves Ms. Griffiths, have your attorney get in touch with me.”

Nick
snatched the card and stomped out of the house.

“That was interesting,”
Gillian muttered, after catching her breath, her galloping pulse still pounding in her ears.

“Has he t
hreatened you before?” Matt asked.

“
Once, months ago, right after he fired me. I haven’t seen him since—or any of the other people I worked with, either.”

“If he comes back, let me know right away.”

She waved one hand dismissively. “I don’t think he’ll do anything. He’s always been big on bluster. Not so much with follow-through.”

Matt’s right eyebrow rose. “
Never assume that a man who talks tough won’t back up his words with actions. Especially if he feels he’s backed into a corner. If he thinks he can get away with it. I suspect he’s running scared, now that the D.A. has taken action.”

Gillian
couldn’t take her eyes off Matt. “Nick always threatens. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just blowing off steam.” She wanted to think that, but her heart thumped in her chest at the thought that Matt might be right, that Nick was more dangerous than she gave him credit for. When she saw how Matt’s jaw muscle clenched, she added, “
If
he comes back, I’ll call you.”

“Promise?” This time, he seemed
friendlier, his voice quieter. That hint of a smile again.
So handsome. Too handsome.