Chapter 2
‘Yes, I can see from your perspective how that would make sense. Yes, but – yes. All right. Look, can I call you back?’
Noah Hathaway shook his head as he ended the call and tried not to hurl his mobile against the wall of his office in frustration.
He was very fond of his brother, Marc, but there were limits.
And today, before a house viewing that would earn him the best commission he’d had all year if the sale went through, was not the ideal time to be muddying the waters with the inconvenient family stuff.
Inconvenient family stuff. Is that what Grandpa’s legacy amounts to these days?
Leaning back in his chair, Noah tried not to think about it in those terms. He’d adored his grandfather and tried to spend as much time with him as he could before the old man had died four months ago.
The journey from Noah’s place in Fulham to the sleepy Somerset hamlet of Lower Brambleton took just under three hours on a good day, and the roads had become as familiar to Noah as his morning commute in the later stages of his grandfather’s life.
Now Jack Hathaway lay at rest in the village churchyard, he hadn’t been back in a while, but, like any task he’d been avoiding, he knew he’d have to get around to it at some point.
Noah was the only one of his three brothers living in the UK and had been for some years.
Their father had died ten years ago, and their mother had remarried and emigrated to the United States.
She had little interest in the estate of the father of her dead husband, and so it had fallen to Noah, Joel and Marc to manage Jack’s affairs after he’d passed.
Marc, though well-meaning, had concerns of his own – an unwell wife and three small children, among other things, and so, apart from checking in from Toulouse where he now lived, much of the heavy lifting when it came to their grandfather had been done by Noah, whom Jack had made executor.
At the time, Noah had been surprised, but on reflection, it had made sense.
Joel, the youngest brother, lived and worked in Dubai and, like Marc, wasn’t in the UK enough to oversee things.
It was probably just as well; if Joel had been at the helm, things might have been sorted out more quickly, but Joel would have probably rubbed everyone up the wrong way.
The bluntness and killer instincts that made him a success in the cutthroat world of international finance didn’t exactly endear him to other people.
And, when Noah had thought about it, he’d realised that it’d been himself who’d spent the most time with Jack over the years.
Noah had been fine with Jack’s decision and, after raising their eyebrows initially, his brothers had, too.
They’d all get a share of the proceeds from the sale of the house, and they’d already divided up most of their grandfather’s possessions equitably.
For Noah, being executor had meant a certain amount of control over the situation.
It had allowed him to channel the grief he’d been feeling into something productive.
But the estate had been taking a lot of time to sort out, and his grandfather’s cottage was at the heart of this tangled ball.
Noah knew he’d been putting things off, but this last phone call had clarified that. It was time to actually do something.
The trouble was, he wasn’t sure what. And in the end, it wasn’t the cottage, or the will, or the contents of the house that had brought things to a head.
It was the bloody cat.
Four months on from Jack’s death, and Noah still hadn’t had the time to sort out Monty. The one sentient being who’d kept his grandfather from shuffling off this mortal coil for far longer than anyone could ever have expected.
Monty. Four kilograms of Bengal-tabby cross with a mind of his own.
Monty. The kitten who’d featured in well over half of Noah’s life.
Monty. The cat who, in his grandfather’s lighter moments, he’d joked would inherit everything.
Monty. Who was now incarcerated in the Purrfect Paws Cattery, awaiting a decision on his future, and had been for eight months.
Monty. Who had hated Noah on sight, eighteen years ago, and was unlikely to feel any differently now.
Noah sighed. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford the bills from Purrfect Paws – he earned a decent salary and was more than happy to keep forking out for the cat, if it meant that he didn’t have to think too much about where he was.
The problem was that Monty had gone into a bit of a decline since he’d been boarding, and if he didn’t make a decision soon about the cat’s future, Monty could end up costing him even more money.
He’d better get down there this weekend and work out what the options were, he thought, as he tried to focus on the million and one other things he had to do that day.
Clicking into his diary, he looked over the next few days.
As the owner of the estate agency, he was used to managing his own time, but he had a lot on at the moment.
He had several viewings booked for today, and even more calls to make to chivvy along some sales in progress, as well as more admin and paperwork to do tomorrow for another lucrative potential sale.
Travelling to the West Country hadn’t been on his list of priorities, but, he supposed, it would have to be now.
Hopefully, he could zoom down, check in on the cottage, work out what the heck to do with Monty and head back before anyone missed him.
It could all be done and dusted by the time he got back to his desk on Monday, or so he hoped.
As he clicked out of his diary, though, the rogue thought that handling the complications of his grandfather’s estate could be as tricky as handling Monty himself sprang to mind.
He hoped against hope that that wouldn’t be the case.