Reluctant Consent

Copyright
 
2012
by
Blushing Books® and Saoirse Roghan

All rights reserved.
 
No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
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permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Blushing Books,

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Trail
#233

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Patent and Trademark Office.

Saoirse Roghan

Giving Way

eBook
ISBN: 978-1-60968-675-8

Cover Design: by ABCD Graphics

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Chapter One

A
desperate woman will resort to desperate measures.

Denise
Marrow lost both parents when she was 21, three months shy of graduation, three
months and twelve days after breaking up with her fiancé, three months and
eighteen days after totaling her car, and three months and nineteen days after
losing her job.
 
She had -
-
 
just
to make
things even more overwhelming -- been appointed guardian of her three younger
brothers.
 
She would have been
happy to
have had
a nervous breakdown but there wasn’t
any time, and honestly, it wasn’t really her style.

Standing
in her mother’s art studio, Denise watched funeral guests straggle to their
cars under the overcast sky.
 
The
threatened rain was holding off, allowing the guests time to do what they’d
really come for – a chance to let their eyes roam over the property while
speculating about what it all meant.
 
 
Over the years very few
people had been allowed through the gates so they were happily making up for
lost time.
 
Since Denise lived
inside the gates (did she) she knew there was plenty of fodder for gossip.
 
The place was rundown and ill kept -- and
that was being extremely generous.

A
shout broke through the funereal quiet and floated up through the open windows.
William appeared out of nowhere chortling madly and tore off across the gravel at
full speed toward the barns.
 
The
other two boys followed in his wake.
 

Denise
smiled.
 
The boys had been solemn
and silent for days now. It was time they broke loose.
   
She was quite sure somewhere
in the house Mr. Tullamore, and Mr. Lawrence
,
 
dear
friends of her father co
executor’s of her parents estate, would be shaking their heads with serious
misgiving while Mr. Millicent, guardian of the will, cast his eyes heavenwards
and prayed for patience.
  
She
doubted any of them understood, at that precise moment, the need for adolescent
boys to kick free. Denise drained the liquid in the glass she held in one hand
and turned for the door.
 
Time to
go down and face the music.

She
descended the elaborately carved and curving staircase as slowly as possible
giving them a few moments to adjust themselves, or at least lower their voices,
in case they might not want to offend her.
 

Fat
chance.

Her
mother’s sisters fluttered between the front sitting room and the hall, anxious
to keep their eyes on the action. The
husbands
paced about as well and everyone twittered away --in the old fashioned,
bird brained
sense of the word having nothing to do with the
internet or smart phones. They were assuring each other that dear Dorothy had
indeed left ‘things’ poorly and speculating on who best to put things
right.
 
Not one of them wasted any
time suggesting Denise’s father, Henry, would have encouraged Dorothy in any
significant way to make common sense plans for the future in the event of their
death.

Mr.
Millicent, the lawyer, waited grimly in the doorway to her father’s
‘library’.
    

“Those
boys!” Aunt Caroline boomed out as Denise’s foot hit the floor from the last
step.
 
“Are carousing. Outside. Do
call them in.”

“Don’t!”
 
Mr. Millicent barked the word out.
 
Up to this point he’d appeared too gravely
depressed and morose to manage an effective bark.

“At
least not in my behalf. I will speak with Ms. Denise privately, along with the
executors.”

All
heads turned towards him.
 
Eyebrows
rose. Mouths opened.

“As
per the terms of the will.” Mr. Millicent cut off further protest. “
 
He seized Denise’s upper arm in a firm
grasp and propelled her into the library setting her loose abruptly enough to
send her rocketing into the room and banging into the foosball table while he
braced himself against the door in case any of the aunts rebelled.

 
Denise boosted herself onto the foosball
table.
 
In addition to foosball, a
full size basketball hoop hung from the balcony of the upper level.
 
Several targets were lined up outside
beyond the French doors, easily accessible for some indoor/outdoor shooting
practice.
 
A
golf
putting
device perched in front of the French doors.
 
And there was a
ping
pong
table, a pool table, a 72 inch TV, a miniature bowling arena, and several
antique pinball machines.

No
books anywhere though there was a staggered file stand -- used to store
wrestling magazines -- perched on the end of the pool table.
 
 
Not one sign indicating anything of an office/work nature
occurred in the room.
 
Denise let
her legs swing slightly, and leaned back, bracing herself with her palms.
 
She may have had a wee bit more to
drink than was wise.

 
Tullamore and Lawrence came in a moment
later.
 
They had little faith in
Millicent’s ability to withstand a barrage from Dorothy’s sisters and immediately
propelled a wheeled cart containing free weights into place in front of the
double doors, stamping down the brakes before beginning to pace.
 
Mr. Millicent looked around the room,
sheer distaste written on his features.
 

Setting
his briefcase down on the pool table he shrugged out of his coat, deftly turned
it outside in, and laid it reverently across the felt of the table before
snapping open the case.
 

“I
have rarely been involved in such a poorly planned estate.”
 
He peered at Denise from over his
fashionable horn rimmed glasses.
 

“Only
the staggering fees mitigated my natural hesitation to be involved in such a
proceeding.”

Denise
stared in disbelief. Her pseudo-uncles shot her a sympathetic glance and stood
shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped behind their backs.
 
Lawrence rocked slightly on his heels.

“I
will read the damn thing -- of course.” Millicent stalked along the perimeter
of the pool table.
 
“But it boils
down quite simply.
 
Denise and her
brothers inherit everything, with all held in trust for various periods of time
until conditions are met -- graduation from college etc.
 
You two are the executors and will receive
significant salaries based on Denise and the boys achieving goals set forth.”

Denise
and her co-executors stared at each other, some relief on their faces.
    
Nothing seemed too
horrible under the circumstance so far, with the exception of how to break the
news to the expectant buzzards squawking outside the door of the library.
 
Denise eyed the French doors.
 
She could leave that way and hide in
one of the barns.

“There
is one significant qualifier,” Millicent intoned. Denise felt the hair on the
back of her neck prickle.
 
She met
her uncles’ eyes.
 
 
They both looked nervous.

“Denise
must marry the fiancé.”

Denise,
in the act of polishing off a single malt scotch, snorted it thru her nose instead.
 
Tullamore and Lawrence, with little if
any understanding of the matter, didn’t judge this to be a problem –
people usually married their fiancés – and they returned to visions of
their salaries.

“Impossible!”
Denise was floored.
  
Never in
her wildest nightmares would her mother have done this to her, or to her
darling boys.

“Otherwise
the boys go to Lucille.”

 
“And all of the money goes to various
obscure charities with the exception of two million which will be held in trust
until the boys graduate with at least a B cumulative from a 4 year accredited
university.
 
No truck driving
school.”
 
He glared at Denise to
make sure she understood the irreversible nature of this stipulation.
“Benson-Mr. Lucille, I believe? Is executor under this scenario?”

 
Granted she had never expected her
parents to die at any point in the immediate and foreseeable future.
   

“Oh?”
 
Her uncles queried as one.
 
Lawrence stood straighter and Tullamore
slapped his chest with one pale, well-manicured hand.

“Makes
no difference to me.”
 
Millicent
tossed the document into his briefcase.
 
“Shall I read this to Lucille?”

“Wait!”
 
The uncles clutched each other.
 
They looked at Denise, panicked.
 
“What’s the problem?” said Tullamore.

“I
can’t marry him.”

“Sure
you can,” said Lawrence.