CHAPTER TWO
The neat, single-storyterrace in the inner Sydney suburb of Newtown was a good fit for Niall’s brother. Better than the sterile high-rise apartment Liam had been renting when he’d met his now wife. Niall texted his identical twin en route. After ringing the bell, he paced the front path. Testing his thoughts aloud was the only way past this sense of unreality.
“Come in.” Liam’s grin was wide. He looked and sounded like the man he was: content, confident, married to the woman he loved, and excited about their first child. “What’s up?”
“Marriage suits you.” Niall sucked in a breath and released it on a grateful sigh. Eighteen months ago, he and his brother hadn’t been on speaking terms because Liam had been keeping their dead father’s debts a secret. Their estrangement had left Niall half whole.
“You came here to tell me that?” Liam tugged him into the hall.
“You look happy. I like that you look happy.” Even if his brother’s happiness highlighted his own solitary state.
“Aren’t things happy in the man cave?”
“Workshop,” Niall muttered, although he’d spent enough time indoors in the last few months to develop bat-like characteristics. Like finding his way to bed in the early hours relying on echolocation rather than electric light.
“Kate’s out with Anna. They’re shopping for baby clothes, but won’t be long.” Liam pushed him into the kitchen. “Stay for dinner.”
“I haven’t seen Anna in ages.” Old friends, Niall and Anna had indirectly introduced their respective siblings, who’d then married each other. Niall had appeared in a successful billboard campaign with Kate when Liam had needed to be invisible. The resulting snafu had forced a welcome reckoning between the brothers. “I haven’t got time to stay.”
“You’re the one who dropped in.” His brother opened the fridge door. “Sit down for five minutes. You took a raincheck on dinner last week.”
“I’m too unsettled to sit.” Niall paced toward the window, his gaze caught by a tree blown almost horizontal by the wind. The capacity to bend but not break was one of the characteristics that drew him so powerfully to wood. Had drawn him to Cam. “Am I wilfully blind?”
“You’re focused, ambitious, and stubborn.” Liam snagged a jug of orange juice and set it on the table. “That’s mostly about your work. You’re also kind, loyal and relentlessly honourable. Who accused you of being wilfully blind?”
“Me.” Niall continued to stare through the window, as new guilt layered on old. You’d think he’d have learned from not asking Liam the right questions when their da died. “For accepting Cam McTavish’s generosity without digging beneath the surface.”
“For the love of Mary and Joseph, you can’t still be angsting about your agreement with Cam.”
“I can.” Niall swung back to face his brother and held up a hand. “A recap. He offered me the use of his premises for a year in exchange for restoring three pieces of furniture.” Cam had batted away Niall’s objections, calling in daily to sip endless cups of tea and “give Niall the benefit of his wisdom.”
“You offered to pay rent and worked punishing hours to finish intricate and bloody difficult restoration jobs in the timeframe McTavish demanded.” Liam defended him. “I thought he convinced you the profit on them would cover rent for a year.”
“He convinced me.” Relief had been Niall’s first reaction. “When I finished, Cam showed me the original purchase invoices for each piece and the final sales dockets.” Even a short period of financial security was a weight lifted. Niall had pitched his exhibition to one of the most prestigious Sydney galleries on the strength of it. Then been blown away to discover he’d won the slot over a bunch of other creatives.
“I’m guessing he didn’t tell his granddaughter about the agreement,” Liam said.
“Worse than that,” Niall growled. He’d never seen Lucy at the house with Cam. “She’s working,” Cam had said. “She loves the work, but making sure it continues to succeed is her way of honouring her gran and me.”
Lucy’s accusation of him taking advantage of Cam had flicked Niall on the raw. A tip of the whip blow, fast and lethal, landing where all his doubts resided. Paying his way in kind, if not in cash, was one of the few choices a poor man had for keeping his self-respect.
“What’s worse than keeping an agreement that materially affected her a secret?” Liam pointed to the jug of juice.
Niall nodded. “A will.” Until today, he’d hoped, despite the imbalance in their bank accounts, he and Cam had met as equals. “She says he’s left me a second year rent free in his will.”
Liam whistled.
“She wants to hang, draw, and quarter me.” Niall pictured Lucy at his kitchen table, stroking the damned wood, completely oblivious she was stroking a Quinn creation. Her delicate touch had made his artist’s soul yearn and his body ache. “She used the words fraud, taking advantage, theft, manipulating and whisht.”
“‘Whisht.’ That’s quite some insult.” Liam paused, the jug raised above a glass, to slant him a sideways look.
“I got the sense she was swallowing the obscenities she’d like to use. Very polite is our Ms. McTavish. On some levels.” And appealingly fierce.
“Being polite and suspicious isn’t enough to break a will. From what you’ve told me of Cam’s business, the initial rental agreement was neatly calculated not to break any tax laws, not to imply any ongoing obligations, and wouldn’t dent his wealth.” Liam filled both glasses. “McTavish was sound in mind, and I’m guessing he was scrupulous in ensuring his last wishes were water tight.”
“She suggested I took advantage of diminished responsibility at the end,” Niall said the ugly words, presenting this latest sign of his insensitivity to his brother.
“For the love of ...” Liam thrust the tumbler of juice into his hand. “Why didn’t you fight back?”
“How do you know I didn’t?” Niall took a seat and braced for the pep talk.
“Because she rattled you enough for you to break your holy rule of spending Sunday on your work for the exhibition. Tell me more about her?”
“She’s an orphan. Lived with Cam and his wife since childhood, absorbed antiques and preservation through her pores.” Niall met his brother’s astute gaze across the table. “She’s grieving. You know what that’s like. People who are grieving don’t always act in their own best interests. And sometimes they need a reason to get up in the morning.”
“If that’s a dig at me, my only regret for not telling you about Dad’s debts sooner was because it led to us being estranged for a while. Then I look at the design you sent Kate for a cradle, and I can’t regret your time in Ireland. Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“I love you too.” The words came easily. “Lucy sees McTavish’s as a sacred duty. Focusing on it is keeping her grounded while she mourns.” Niall closed his eyes, but the image of Lucy sitting in his kitchen refused to budge. “Hell, she dresses like every corporate board member in Sydney wrangling balance sheets into obedient subtractions and additions. You can’t distinguish one from the other, but you know they operate in some parallel world.”
“So, you wouldn’t be able to pick her in a police line-up?” Liam made the family joke about separating identical twins.
“She’d be the one staring back with a mixture of defiance and fear.” Niall hadn’t known until now he’d picked up her fear.
“You’re worried about her.”
“I get the sense she’s lost, maybe drowning in expectations she’s placed on herself. Cam wanted her to be happy.” Niall frowned, trying to work out why he was unsettled about a pampered young woman who wouldn’t thank him for asking if she was afraid.
“Apart from this bequest to you, is she the only beneficiary?”
“He told me she was all he had.” Imagining her alone worried Niall as well. Two young women, roughly Lucy’s age, had stayed close during the funeral. One had a man in tow. Lucy had seemed isolated even with their support. Most mourners were business colleagues, a few old friends—based on Lucy’s eulogy. She’d made her short speech count. Had held herself erect and listed all of Cam’s good qualities—like generosity.
So why the feck is she so convinced I’m a trickster?
“Did he tell her anything about you?”
“Not enough for her to give me the benefit of the doubt.”
A problem it would have been easy for Cam to fix.
Niall swallowed a mouthful of the fresh juice, its acid sitting uneasily on his empty stomach. “Keeping the extent of our relationship a secret from Lucy doesn’t make sense.”
Keeping me from meeting Lucy until after he died made even less.
“What makes you so sure he did?”
“She admitted as much today. Plus, a series of coincidences, which, in hindsight, don’t add up,” Niall confessed. He’d almost had a nasty accident with his lathe when he’d worked out Cam had conspired to keep them apart.
“Coincidences do happen.” His brother weighed the possibility with the scepticism of an experienced lawyer. “Maybe he had more important things to discuss with his granddaughter than a carpenter he was kind to.” Liam’s smile was sardonic. “Did you introduce yourself at the funeral?”
“It didn’t seem like the right time to bring myself to her attention.”
“That’s what funerals are for. Perfect strangers tell you they knew your brother or your uncle or your dad, and that they’re sorry for your loss.” Liam folded his arms across his chest.
“And you shake their hands politely and stop yourself from screaming that you’re sorry for your loss.” Niall’s father’s death had hit with the finality of an axe blade levelling a sapling.
“Rituals work for some people. It helped Mum to hear words of admiration from strangers as well as friends.” Liam scooped up the empty glasses and headed for the sink. “Did Lucy show you the will?” Liam wasn’t making a casual inquiry.
“I’m not even sure she’s seen it.”
“If you weren’t so focused on paying me back, you’d be free to tell her to piss off. You could stop making those frames for Leopold’s and concentrate on your own work. Kate and I are more than fine. The partnership’s made a huge difference to me, and Kate’s books are selling. I ... we can wait for the money.” His brother nudged Niall’s shoulder with his fist.
“You’ve carried me for years. You have a wife and babe on the way.” Niall’s sense of justice demanded he pay a share of their da’s debts.
“Tell me again why you make furniture?”
“Because I can’t not.” Niall stared at his hands. “Because I love the feel of the wood, the excitement of seeing a shape emerge, then the smile on the face of the buyer when I finish the piece.” Like Lucy’s smile.
Sinead had never touched his work, or to be honest, him, with such care.
“Then why bother with an exhibition?”
“You should know the answer to that better than most.”
“Because Quinns pay their way?” His brother cocked his head to one side.
Niall nodded.
“Listen up, you eejit. You were and can earn a living. The change is you’re paying someone else’s debts.”
“Da’s debts are our debts.”
“I agree. But I hope you also see this exhibition as showcasing your skill, because I do.” His brother smiled. “In three months everyone will want a Quinn. You won’t have time to make us a cradle.”
“Right,” Niall muttered. “A cradle by Quinn will be the must-have item at baby showers.”
Liam ignored his mini tantrum. “How does Lucy fit into this?”
“I’m not sure yet. We’re from different planets. She’s antiques royalty, and I’m an insistently modern designer.”
“Direct her to Quinn’s website. Unless she’s wilfully blind, she’ll see genius there and understand why Cam sponsored you.”
“Thanks.” His family’s faith in him had always kept Niall centred and determined.
He wasn’t sure why it wasn’t enough now. Maybe because it irritated the hell out of him, and offended his artistic sensibility, to make more in recent months through frames for other people’s artwork than his furniture. Or because Sinead’s last words had fed the ever-present doubt most creatives had.
Admit it, Quinn, some deep, barely acknowledged part of me craves the independent vindication from a successful exhibition.
He pushed to his feet. “You’ll help if I’m summoned to answer the legal equivalent of a ‘please explain’?”
“You don’t need to ask.” Liam rested his hand on Niall’s shoulder.
“Can I refuse a bequest?”
“You can,” Liam admitted. “You’d have no control over where it went.”
“I’m pretty sure it’ll go back to her.”
“Find out exactly what the will says first. And go back to the beginning of this. Cameron McTavish was of sound mind. He enjoyed your company and valued your work. It’s a large estate. Unless there’s some secret hidden in a closet we don’t know about, the bequest to you shouldn’t dent the McTavish wealth Lucy’s inheriting. Lucy’s ignorance of your relationship with Cam shouldn’t stop you from accepting what was freely offered.” Liam followed him to the door. “Did he give you a clue to why he did this?”
“He said Lucy would need a distraction.” Niall gave a half-laugh. Already Lucy’s well-being had started to matter. “I’d forgotten that.”
“You’re a hell of a distraction.”
* * *
Lucy glanced aroundthe office Henry Dawson had inherited from his father. Nineteen fifties wood-framed Albert Namatjira prints hung on the walls, bookcases overflowed with musty legal tomes, and a brand-new, fresh-off-the-assembly-line laptop held pride of place on the leather-tooled desk. A nice blending of experience and currency. She’d been here for an hour, plenty of time for him to walk her through her arguments and questions once.
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of his secretary. The young man handed them each cups of tea. “Ginger helps settle an upset stomach.” He placed the ginger biscuits within easy reach of Lucy. More than Lucy’s stomach was upset.
“Can I fight it?” Lucy had listened closely to Henry’s succinct explanation and come to her own conclusion.
“Why would you?” he asked gently, as if she needed gentle treatment.
“Grandpa was very frail at the end. Forgetful?” Not that forgetful.
In the weeks before his death, he’d told Lucy stories she’d never heard before of her mum as a little girl. Stories about his confusion about what made his daughter tick. How he’d loved her but not understood her; how even when he’d tried to meet her on her terms he’d never got the timing or the words right. Lucy had sensed he was apologising for leaving Lucy completely alone.
“Cameron was never easily led, if that’s what you’re suggesting. He knew exactly what he was doing.” Henry met her gaze levelly, a straight answer from a man her grandpa trusted.
“He didn’t tell me.” She shook her head.
“And he told you everything?”
“Not everything.” Lucy didn’t know about the frequency of his visits to Niall Quinn’s workshop. She looked at Namitjira’s Ghost Gum Glen Haven, a painting she’d studied on multiple visits over the years. The tree had always reminded her of her grandpa—weathered, yet noble. Niall had a similar look. Drat the man. “But he told me about every other sizable bequest.” Bequests she fretted how to honour without selling the workshop.
“You’re the executor. You have certain powers regarding the management of bequests.” He outlined a clause she’d examined closely.
“He intended I transfer the funds to his charities immediately.” Grandpa’s bequests sat on the non-negotiable side of the mental ledger Lucy had started.
“He also intended—not a whim––to use Niall Quinn’s skills to establish a lasting legacy through the creation of a foundation.” He pointed to the detailed outline of the proposal in her grandpa’s handwriting. “Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” She was ashamed of her immediate suspicion, could admit desperation, confusion and a little jealousy had played a part. It was unlike Grandpa not to talk about his interests or his discoveries. He’d enthused about the furniture restorer, then gone strangely quiet after the three restored pieces were delivered. Yesterday, she connected the furniture restorer to the frame maker. Overnight, an internet and social media search had told her more.
“If you don’t tell me the problem, I can’t help you, Lucy.”
She inhaled deeply and breathed out her recurring nightmare. “I emptied our savings accounts for Grandpa’s medical treatment and took out a personal loan. I planned to sell the workshop to pay the bequests and boost cash flow.”
Lucy had no emotional connection to the property, despite Grandpa hiding in his “shed” for hours during her high school years. Brown, unwanted furniture had repelled her, whereas she could lose herself in the timeless beauty of treasured objects in the quiet elegance of the shop. Breathing in the soothing scent of beeswax or Gran’s preferred shop flowers—spicy oriental lilies—kept chaos at bay.
The workshop was a paean to chaos. Broken furniture was a reminder of numerous late-night getaways from unpaid rentals, of being hustled downstairs and hiding in garages to escape the casual violence in her mother’s life.
Why didn’t I know chaos was the trigger for my unease in the workshop?
“You’re asset-rich, Lucy.” He spoke reason, when she’d buried reason along with her grandpa. “The house, the shop, its contents, plus the merchandise in storage.”
“My priority is the business and the staff who work there. Next are the cash bequests.” Why leave me this puzzle, Grandpa? “And Mr. Quinn is not a simple cash bequest.”
“You can still sell the workshop.” He leaned back in his chair, ready to listen.
“And lease it back with Quinn still in residence?” Selling a perfectly functional workshop when Grandpa’s will required a workshop hinted at a panic Lucy wrestled with daily. Fitting out alternative premises was both insane and another financial black hole.
“A new owner might be prepared to do a deal and take on the property with an existing tenant?”
“I could end up paying more rent to a new owner than the cost of absorbing it myself.” Lucy was thinking aloud. “Can I buy Quinn out?”
“The existing agreement runs for another four months. You can offer him money in lieu of occupancy, but your problems snowball from there. He’s also invested money in the property. Some might consider you have a moral obligation to cover the costs of his alternative accommodation for the four months and reimburse his outlays.”
“Grandpa would expect that.” He’d be appalled at the scenarios I’m considering.
“You’d have a sizeable bill before you implement the conditions in your grandfather’s will. That’s your real issue.” Henry’s smile carried the patience of a man who’d been dragging her back to this point for more than an hour. Lucy could feel the noose shortening. “But you’ve already thought about Cameron’s intentions. He wants to establish a foundation as his legacy.”
“What do you think of Niall Quinn?” Lucy asked, envying Henry her grandpa’s confidences about the carpenter, but needing his answer.
“A talented, impoverished cabinetmaker. Honest. I think Cameron saw some of his younger self in Quinn and decided to become his backer. I’d expect Quinn to be surprised and a bit embarrassed to learn of the contents of the will.”
An objective observer, like Henry, might say Niall had been blindsided by what Lucy had told him. She was reserving judgment. Although, Quinn had been present at Grandpa’s funeral but not forced his attentions on her. He’d given her food and drink despite her hostility, an act of service reminiscent of her gran.
And she hadn’t revealed the half of Cameron McTavish’s wishes to Niall Quinn.
Henry continued. “His honesty translates to a bit of stiff-necked pride. Niall Quinn doesn’t want charity. I had a lot to do with him over the first agreement. He wrestled with signing it.
“This is a more complicated gift. I’d guess he’d be reluctant to translate the gift to cash, even if that was possible. He’d be more concerned if any quixotic idea he may or may not have planted in Cameron’s head tipped you into financial stress.”
“He doesn’t need to know anything about my finances.” Lucy paused.
How much did Henry know about her childhood? Grandpa had dealt with Henry Senior until the old lawyer had retired six years ago.
“I hate being in debt.” Hate was an inadequate word to describe the visceral terror gripping Lucy.
“Tell me.”
“I’m not ready to sell the house.” She swallowed the sob caught at the back of her throat.
Ridiculous sentimentality, given her nomadic childhood. But the house held precious memories she couldn’t bear to surrender: Slipping into Grandpa’s library to inhale the comfort of much-loved books and the peat-scented whiskey he’d liked to sip while reading. Her gran had introduced her to perennials in her country garden, teaching Lucy the magic of living in one place long enough to bury her face in familiar blossoms year after year.
“You don’t need to sell the house, Lucy. You can make your assets work harder for you.” His advice made sense for someone who hadn’t constantly fled insecure housing as a child.
“Can I make Niall Quinn work for me?” Lucy sat up straighter as the idea took shape. “Because you’re right. Grandpa was offering patronage, and that’s a reciprocal arrangement. If Quinn’s as proud as you say, he’ll see the fairness in providing something in return for Grandpa’s generosity.”
“The current agreement says he’ll restore pieces on request. Cameron stopped requesting.” He emphasised her grandpa’s name.
“Do you know why?” She chose to ignore his hint.
“Cameron said he was a genius. Perhaps Cameron worked out he wanted to be more patron than employer.”
“But he never said?” Lucy had been her grandpa’s chief confidant after her gran’s death. He’d had ample time to explain Niall Quinn. Grandpa’s silence was permission of sorts for her suspicions.
“The will is making Cameron’s statement for him.” Henry wasn’t offering her any wriggle room. But lawyers could get lost in black and white, whereas she was drowning in greys. Testing the boundaries with the erstwhile restorer made sense. “Do you like Niall Quinn?” Henry asked.
“I barely know him.” But the image of him plonking a large sandwich on the table and effectively demanding Lucy eat rose in her mind’s eye. He’d been kind, and kindness was rarer than most people understood.