The Unexpected Gift

“Have you always lived here?”

Grant shrugged. “Maine is home. I always knew it was where I belonged.”

“But didn’t you ever aspire to more?” Morgan asked.

“I have my faith, my family and work I love. What more is there?”

Morgan didn’t know how to respond to that. Grant seemed like a man who had found his place in the world and was content with it. There was no restlessness, no grasping, no struggle to meet some definition of worldly success. He was a man at peace with himself. She envied him that.

Morgan suddenly shivered, and she knew it was time to go. But she didn’t want to. Here, in this man’s presence, she felt a sense of calm, of caring, that was a balm to her soul. And she didn’t want the moment to end.

IRENE HANNON

is an award-winning author who has been a writer for as long as she can remember. She “officially” launched her career at the age of ten, when she was one of the winners in a “complete-the-story” contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. More recently, Irene won the coveted RITA^® Award for her 2002 Love Inspired book Never Say Goodbye. Irene, who spent many years in an executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company, now devotes herself full-time to her writing career. In her “spare” time, she enjoys performing in community musical theater productions, singing in the church choir, gardening, cooking and spending time with family and friends. She and her husband, Tom—whom she describes as “my own romantic hero”—make their home in Missouri.

The Unexpected Gift

Irene Hannon

MILLS & BOON

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Though the mountains leave their place and the hills be shaken, My love shall never leave you.

—Isaiah 54:10

To the many special friends who have supported my writing career through the years—especially Caroline, Janice, Jo Ann and Lori—and to all of the readers who have taken the time to write me such wonderful, heartwarming letters. I read them all.

Thank you!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Prologue

Morgan Williams frowned as she read the e-mail message on her Blackberry. Great. Just great. Her newest client at the agency was requesting a meeting first thing tomorrow to discuss ideas for the next ad campaign. Unfortunately, Morgan didn’t have any. She’d been too busy with Aunt Jo’s funeral to give the campaign more than a passing thought. Which wasn’t good. And would not be looked upon kindly by her superiors. In her world, work came first. Period. To paraphrase the postal service motto, nothing—neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet…nor a funeral—should keep her from her appointed task. Not when she had her eye on a top spot in the firm.

Her frown deepened, and she typed in a reply, asking if the meeting could be delayed a day. Even then, she’d be scrambling for ideas. But she’d come through. She always did. That’s why she was on the fast track.

Morgan finished the e-mail and hit Send. As she leaned against the plush back of the settee in the attorney’s elegant waiting room, she glanced impatiently at her watch. “I wish he’d hurry. I have a plane to catch.”

A.J. turned from the window, which framed a row of flame-red maples against a brilliant St. Louis late-October sky. “Chill out, Morgan,” she advised. “The advertising world can live without you for a few more hours.”

Shooting her younger sister an annoyed look, Morgan rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. “Trust me, A.J. The business arena is nothing like your non-profit world. Hours do matter to us. So do minutes.”

“More’s the pity,” A.J. responded in a mild tone, turning back to admire the view again. “Life is too short to be so stressed about things as fleeting as ad campaigns.”

Morgan opened her mouth to respond, but Clare beat her to it. “Don’t you think we should put our philosophical differences aside today, in respect for Aunt Jo?” she interjected in a gentle, non-judgmental tone.

Morgan and A.J. turned in unison toward their older sister, and A.J. grinned.

“Ever the peacemaker, Clare,” she said, her voice tinged with affection.

“Somebody had to keep the two of you from doing each other bodily harm when we were growing up,” Clare said with a smile. “And since I was the only one who didn’t inherit mom’s McCauley-red hair—and the temper that went with it—I suppose the job had to fall to me.”

A.J. joined Morgan on the couch. “Okay. In honor of Aunt Jo, I declare a truce. How about it, Morgan?”

Hesitating only a second, Morgan ditched her cell phone in her purse. “Truce,” she agreed with a grin. “Besides, much as I hate to admit that my kid sister is sometimes right, I am occasionally guilty of taking my job too seriously.”

“Occasionally?” A.J. rolled her eyes.

“Enough, you two,” Clare admonished with a smile.

“Okay, okay,” A.J. said with a laugh. “I bet you whip those kids into shape whenever you substitute-teach. In a nice way, of course. Their regular teacher is probably astounded at their good behavior when she gets back.”

Her smile fading, Clare looked down to fiddle with the strap on her purse. “I do my best. But I still have a lot to learn. It’s been so many years since I taught…it’s harder some days than others.”

A.J. and Morgan exchanged a look. “Hang in there, Clare,” Morgan said. “We’re here for you.”

“It does get easier. Not overnight. But bit by bit. Trust me,” A.J. added, her own voice a bit uneven.

As Clare reached over to squeeze A.J.’s hand, Morgan looked from one sister to the other. Both had known their share of trauma. More than their share, in fact. Yet they’d carried on, with courage and strength. She admired them for that, more than words could say. And she was also glad they were family. Because even though they had their differences, one thing remained steady. They always stood together, like the Three Musketeers—one for all and all for one. It gave Morgan a sense of comfort to know that her sisters loved her just as she was, and that she could count on them if she ever needed their support or help.

But she hadn’t done much in recent years to earn their love, she acknowledged. She kept in touch, but her contact with them was sporadic at best. A call here or there, a card on special occasions. Which wasn’t enough. Family was important, after all. And with Mom and Dad gone they were all she had now. On occasions like this when they were all together, Morgan was reminded that she should make more of an effort to keep their bond strong. And each time, she left with good intentions of staying in closer contact. But the demands of her career always undermined her resolution.

The door to the inner office opened, interrupting her thoughts, and the sisters turned their heads in unison toward Seth Mitchell.

For a long moment the distinguished, gray-haired attorney standing in the doorway studied Jo Warren’s three great-nieces with a look Morgan recognized at once. She’d seen it often enough in the business world. He was sizing them up. And Seth Mitchell was good at it. He didn’t reveal a single emotion as he took in A.J.’s long, unruly strawberry-blond hair, eclectic attire and interested expression. When he looked at her, Morgan was sure he noticed the sleek, shoulder-length style of her copper-colored hair, her chic business attire and her impatient expression. As for Clare—no doubt she fared the best, Morgan concluded. Her honey-gold hair, which was swept back into an elegant chignon, complemented her designer suit and Gucci purse. But did he also notice the deep, lingering sadness in her older sister’s eyes?

She didn’t have time to wonder, because he moved toward them. “Good morning, ladies. I’m Seth Mitchell. I recognize you from Jo’s description—A.J., Morgan, Clare,” he said, identifying the sisters in turn as he extended his hand to each. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your aunt. She was a great lady.”

They murmured polite responses, and he motioned toward his office. “If you’re ready, we can proceed with the reading of the will.”

He didn’t speak again until they were all seated, at which point he picked up a hefty document. “I’ll give each of you a copy of your great-aunt’s will to take with you, so I don’t think there’s any reason to go through this whole document now. A lot of it is legalese, and there are some charitable bequests that you can review at your leisure. I thought we could restrict the formal reading to the section that affects each of you directly, if that’s agreeable.”

“Absolutely,” Morgan replied. “My plane for Boston leaves in less than three hours. I know Clare needs to get back to Kansas City, and A.J. has a long drive to Chicago.”

Seth looked at the other two sisters. When they nodded their assent, he flipped through the document to a marked page and began to read.

“‘Insofar as I have no living relatives other than my three great-nieces—the daughters of my sole nephew, Jonathan Williams, now deceased—I bequeath the bulk of my estate to them, in the following manner and with the following stipulations and conditions.

“‘To Abigail Jeanette Williams, I bequeath half ownership of my bookstore in St. Louis, Turning Leaves, with the stipulation that she retain ownership for a minimum of six months and work full-time in the store during this period. The remaining half ownership I bequeath to the present manager, Blake Sullivan, with the same stipulation.

“To Morgan Williams, I bequeath half ownership of Serenity Point, my cottage in Seaside, Maine, providing that she retains her ownership for a six-month period following my death and that she spends a total of four weeks in residence at the cottage. During this time she is also to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd Camp and attend board meetings as an advisory member. The remaining half ownership of the cottage I bequeath to Grant Kincaid of Seaside, Maine.

“To Clare Randall, I bequeath my remaining financial assets, except for those designated to be given to the charities specified in this document, with the stipulation that she serve as nanny for Nicole Wright, daughter of Dr. Adam Wright of Hope Creek, North Carolina, for a period of six months, at no charge to Dr. Wright.

“Should the stipulations and conditions for the aforementioned bequests not be fulfilled, the specified assets will be disposed of according to directions given to my attorney, Seth Mitchell. He will also designate the date on which the clock will begin ticking on the six-month period specified in my will.’” Seth lowered the document to his desk. “There you have it, ladies. I can provide more details on your bequests to each of you individually, but are there any general questions that I can answer?”

“Well, I might as well write mine off right now,” Morgan said in disgust. “There’s no way I can be away from the office for four days, let alone four weeks. And what is Good Shepherd Camp?”

“Who is this Dr. Wright?” Clare asked. “And what makes Aunt Jo think he would want me as a nanny?”

“When can I start?” A.J. asked.

“Let me take your questions and comments one at a time,” Seth said. “Morgan, you have the right to turn down the bequest, of course. But I would advise you to get some legal and financial counsel first. Jo bought that property years ago, when Seaside was just a quiet, backwater village. The area is now a bustling tourist mecca. So her property has increased significantly in value. As for how to meet your aunt’s residence stipulation—I’m afraid I can’t advise you on that. Good Shepherd is a summer camp in Maine for children from troubled homes. Your aunt has been involved with the organization for many years.”

He went on to answer Clare’s and A.J.’s questions, but Morgan tuned him out. This was so like Aunt Jo, she fumed. In life, she hadn’t approved of Morgan’s single-minded pursuit of success. In death, she’d done her best to derail it. In all honesty, Morgan hadn’t even expected to be remembered in her great-aunt’s will. Until Seth Mitchell had called to tell her she was a beneficiary, she’d expected nothing more than a cursory remembrance of some sort, if that. Instead, it sounded as if she’d been left a windfall. With strings. Strings that would require her to juggle the demands of her career with Aunt Jo’s stipulations.

It was not a task she relished.

Seth paused, and she tuned him back in when he began speaking again. “Let’s officially start the clock for the six-month period on December 1. That will give you about a month to make plans. Now, are there any more general questions?”

The three women looked at him, looked at each other, then shook their heads

“Very well.” He handed them each a manila envelope. “But do feel free to call if any come up as you review the will more thoroughly.” He rose, signaling the end of the meeting, and extended his hand to each sister in turn. “Again, my condolences on the death of your great-aunt. Jo had a positive impact on countless lives and will be missed by many people. I know she loved each of you very much, and that she wanted you to succeed in claiming your bequests.

“Good luck, ladies.”

As Morgan followed her sisters from the office, Seth Mitchell’s final words echoed in her mind. Luck would help, of course.

But she knew it was going to take a whole lot more than that for her to find a way to claim her inheritance.

Chapter One

“You’re working over Thanksgiving?”

Morgan heard the surprise—and disapproval—in Grant Kincaid’s voice, and frowned in annoyance. It was the same reaction she’d gotten from A.J., who had made it clear that she thought her sister was a workaholic without a life. Morgan hadn’t liked it then; she didn’t like it now.

“I happen to be committed to my job,” Morgan replied stiffly. “In my world, working on holidays is a way of life. That’s how you get ahead.”

She braced herself for another negative comment. But he surprised her.

“Well, just let me know when you plan to come up and I’ll have the cottage ready,” he said.

“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I’d like to get an appraisal done on the property.”

There was a note of caution in his voice when he responded. “May I ask why?”

Her patience waning, Morgan glanced at her watch. “It will be extremely difficult for me to meet the residency stipulation in my great-aunt’s will, Mr. Kincaid. I have trouble taking off four days, let alone four weeks. So before I spend a lot of time and energy trying to figure out how to juggle my life to allow for several weeks in Maine, I want to make sure it’s worth my while. Besides, we’ll need to get an appraisal before we sell, anyway.”

“You’re planning to sell?” He made no attempt to disguise the shock in his voice.

“Of course. What would I do with a cottage in Maine?”

“Maybe the same thing your aunt did. Spend time here, relax, regain perspective. It’s a beautiful spot.”

Morgan gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m sure it’s lovely, Mr. Kincaid. But as I explained, I have little time for that kind of thing.”

“The cottage was very special to your aunt.”

“I understand that. But holding on to a place I’ll never use doesn’t make good business sense. Of course you’d certainly be welcome to buy my share at the end of six months, assuming I even make it that far.”

“That’s kind of you. But the property is way out of my price range.”

Was there a touch of sarcasm in his comment? Morgan couldn’t be sure, but she didn’t have time to waste wondering about it. She had a presentation to finalize for a meeting that would be starting in less than an hour. Further discussion of Aunt Jo’s cottage would have to wait.

“Look, I need to run. We can talk about that at some point in the future. In the meantime, can you take care of the appraisal?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I’ll try to get up to Maine soon. The cottage looks to be about a four-hour drive from Boston. Is that right?”

“More like five, if you’re not familiar with the back roads.”

“Okay. I’ll try to make a weekend trip soon.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

This time there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. Nor the fact that he didn’t think much of her priorities. Just like her sister. Come to think of it, he and A.J. would have been ideal co-owners of the cottage, Morgan reflected. Too bad Aunt Jo hadn’t paired them up.

Grant replaced the receiver and turned to find his father watching him.

“I take it that was Jo’s great-niece?” Andrew Kincaid said.

“None other.”

“Sounded like an interesting conversation from this end.”

“Were you eavesdropping?” Grant asked with a smile.

“Of course. That’s what family is for,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling.

Grant chuckled. He and his father didn’t have many secrets. Nor did anyone in his extended family. He’d always been close to his sister, Kit, and her husband, Bill, the pastor at their church. And he doted on his fifteen-year-old twin nieces. He also had a deep love and affection for his uncle, who worked with him and his dad in the cabinet shop. They were a small but close-knit bunch.

Except for his mother, of course.

Which brought him back to Morgan Williams.

“Interesting is a good way to describe the conversation.” He shook his head. “She’s a piece of work.”

“How so?”

“When I suggested she come up to take a look at the cottage over Thanksgiving, she told me she’d be working.”

“On Thanksgiving?”

“My exact reaction. And she did not appreciate it.”

“So when is she coming up?”

“Who knows? But in the meantime, she asked me to get an appraisal on the property, because she plans to sell.”

The older man pondered that. “How do you feel about letting the place go?”

Grant shrugged, but his eyes were troubled. “There won’t be much choice if she wants to sell, unless we can find someone who’s willing to buy her half and take me on as co-owner.”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind when she sees it.”

As Grant replayed their conversation in his mind, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t place any bets on that. She’s one tough cookie. A hard-nosed businesswoman through and through. I can’t figure out why Jo left the place to her.”

His father pulled on a pair of work gloves. “I imagine she had her reasons. Jo was a smart lady. I can’t remember her ever doing anything that didn’t make sense.”

“Well, there’s always a first time.” Grant reached for his own gloves. “Now let’s go sort through that load of maple.”

Morgan punched in the number for Good Shepherd Camp and drummed her fingers on the desk as she waited for someone to answer. At least this stipulation in her aunt’s will should be manageable. Serving as an advisory member of a charitable board for six months and offering a bit of advice on a fund-raising drive was a piece of cake compared to spending four weeks in a remote cottage on the coast of Maine.

The phone continued to ring, and Morgan was just about to hang up when someone answered.

“Good Shepherd Camp,” said a breathless female voice.

“Good morning. This is Morgan Williams. May I speak with the person in charge?”

Her crisp request was met with an amused chuckle. “You’ve got her. Mary Stanton. I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around here in the off-season. How can I help you?”

“Actually, it’s more like how I can help you.” Morgan explained the provision in Aunt Jo’s will. “So I just need to see how you’d like me to get involved,” she finished.

“I’d heard about your great-aunt’s death,” the woman said, her voice sympathetic. “She was a long-time supporter of the camp. Going back well before my time, in fact. I’m sorry for your loss. And ours.”

“I’m sure my great-aunt will be missed by many people.” Morgan kept her reply innocuous.

“I’m a bit surprised by the stipulation in her will, but we’re always happy to have more help. We run this operation on a shoestring. There are just a couple of full-time employees—me, in the office, and Joe Carroll at the camp, who does maintenance. He and his wife, Elizabeth, live there year-round. We beef up the paid staff a bit in the summer, but most of our counselors are volunteers. So we’re always looking for free help.” She paused as if considering the best next step. “I’ll tell you what. Let me have the president of the board give you a call to discuss your involvement. That’s really who you should talk to, since the board makes all the decisions, anyway. I’m just a worker bee,” the woman said with a laugh.

“That would be great. Let me give you my number.” As she did so, Clark, her boss, appeared at her door and began making urgent motions. “Um, look, I need to go. It seems some sort of crisis has arisen here.”

“Of course. We’ll be in touch. And thank you again. Good Shepherd Camp is a very worthwhile effort. Your time won’t be wasted.”

Morgan wasn’t sure she agreed. No matter how much or how little time she spent on Aunt Jo’s pet project, it was still time away from her job. And since she had her sights set on a top spot in the firm in the not-too-distant future, she couldn’t afford to let her focus waver.

But unfortunately, Aunt Jo had done her best to see that it did.

As Grant stared at the message from Mary Stanton, then read it again, a slow smile spread over his face. Morgan Williams must just love this, he thought with perverse enjoyment. Not only had Jo put a residency requirement in her bequest, she’d ordered her niece to help out at Good Shepherd. Morgan Williams didn’t strike him as the type of woman who liked to take orders. Which Jo must have known. So what was the older woman up to?

Grant didn’t have a clue. But it didn’t matter. Extra hands were always welcome at Good Shepherd, willing or not. As president of the board, he’d done his share of recruiting volunteers, and it wasn’t easy. People these days, even those who called themselves Christians, were too busy to take time out to help others. So he was glad Jo had recruited this “volunteer” for him. Morgan Williams might be reluctant, but they were in dire need of her expertise. The camp’s financial situation was precarious at best, and Grant was willing to do just about anything to shore up the coffers. Even conspiring with Jo’s workaholic niece.

The bell over the front door of the cabinet shop jangled, and Grant looked up to find his uncle juggling a large white bag, a tray of drinks and a stack of mail.

“I ran into Chuck at the sandwich shop and offered to take our mail off his hands,” Uncle Pete said, his usual ruddy face even redder, thanks to the biting wind.

“December’s a bear for the postal service. Figured I’d save him three stops. Where’s Andrew?”

“In the back.”

The older man peered at the slip of paper in Grant’s hand. “I see you got your message.”

“You could have let it roll to the answering machine.”

“Never did trust those things. Come on back. Let’s eat.”

Eying the bag, Grant shook his head, exasperation mingling with affection. “You don’t have to bring me lunch, Uncle Pete. I can take care of myself.”

“So what’re you going to eat today?”

“I’ll grab something on the way to Brunswick.”

The older man gave a skeptical snort. “I’ve heard that before. What’d you eat yesterday?”

Grant felt his neck grow warm. “I skipped lunch yesterday.”

“That’s what I figured. Come on back and eat. No more arguments.”

“How about a thank-you instead?”

“Not necessary,” Uncle Pete said, his voice gruff.

“Wish I could do more, in fact. You’ve had a tough time, still do, and if I want to help you out in little ways, let me. Come on back.”

Before Grant could respond, Uncle Pete headed for the back room. Grant took his time following. Thank you, Lord, for this loving family, he prayed, as he had so many times in the past two-and-a-half years. I couldn’t make it without them.

By the time Grant got to the worn pine table where the three men had shared so many lunches, his father had cleared off a spot and Uncle Pete was spreading out the food and sorting through the mail. He looked at the two men with affection as he moved a T-square and hand-drawn plans for a mahogany entertainment center off to the side. His bachelor uncle and his father had lived together ever since Grant had gone off to college. It had been a good arrangement, providing both men with much-needed companionship. They’d invited Grant to join them a couple of years ago, but for now he wanted to remain in the tiny bungalow where he’d known so much joy. Leaving it would somehow seem to signal a loss of hope.

Yet there were times when he was tempted to accept their offer. As much as he liked quiet, and as comfortable as he was with solitude, the loneliness…no, emptiness was a better word, he decided…sometimes got to him. Maybe someday he would move in with them, if… Grant cut off that thought. He wouldn’t let himself go there. He never did.

“Looks like your mother remembered your birthday,” Uncle Pete remarked, handing Grant a blue envelope with the logo of a well-known greeting card company on the back.

Grant took it without comment, laid it aside, and turned his attention to his turkey sandwich.

“It’s nice that she remembered,” his father commented.

“Yeah. Only a week late.” There was a bitter edge to Grant’s voice.

His father reached over and laid a work-worn hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Let it go, son. It’s ancient history now.”

“I can’t forget what she did, Dad. I don’t know how you can.”

“I haven’t forgotten. But I made my peace with it a long time ago. It’s time you did, too.”

Uncle Pete generally watched this exchange without a word. It had been replayed numerous times over the years—and always with the same result. But this time he spoke. “Andrew’s right, Grant. Give it to the Lord. Get on with your life.”

“What she did was wrong, Uncle Pete.”

“I’m not sayin’ it was right or wrong. Just that it’s over. Holdin’ on to anger don’t help nobody.”

Grant crumpled the paper that had held his sandwich, then tossed it into the bag. “I wish I could. You two put me to shame.”

“Hardly. What you’ve done these past two-and-a-half years would have finished me off,” his father said.

“I doubt that. I come from strong stock. Besides, people do what they have to do.”

“Not everybody,” Uncle Pete disagreed. “And you’ve never wavered all this time, either. You’re just as faithful now as you were at the beginning.”

Uncomfortable with the praise, Grant glanced at his watch. “Which reminds me. I need to run. I’ll be back by about two-thirty.”

“Take your time, son. And give her our best.”

“I always do. See you guys later. Thanks for lunch, Uncle Pete.”

“Glad to do it. Don’t forget to return that call.”

That brought a smile to Grant’s face. “It’s right at the top of my list as soon as I get back.”

As he walked down the quiet hallway, Grant raised his hand in greeting to the woman behind the desk. “Hi, Ruth. Any change?” He’d been asking the same question for more than two years. And getting the same answer.

“No. She’s holding her own.”

He continued down the hall, stopping outside the familiar room where he’d spent so many hours. He took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door halfway behind him.

After all this time, he still harbored a faint hope that one day he’d walk into the extended-care facility and find his wife waiting to greet him with her sweet smile. But he was always disappointed. Though less so now. Hope, once strong, had dimmed as days became weeks, and months became years.

Grant moved beside the bed and stared down at the face of the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman to whom he had pledged his life six-and-a-half years ago—for better or worse—before God. And he’d meant every word of that vow. He just hadn’t expected the worst to happen so quickly, just four short years into their marriage. Now the woman around whom he’d planned his future, the woman with whom he’d hoped to raise a family, the woman with whom he’d wanted to grow old, lay suspended between life and death, her once-strong limbs wasted, her passionate, laughter-filled eyes shuttered.

Closing his eyes, Grant took a steadying breath.

Lord, give me strength to carry on, he prayed. I don’t know why you’ve given Christine and me this cross to bear, but I place my trust in you. Please continue to watch over us.

He left his eyes closed for a long moment, drawing what solace he could from the prayer he uttered every day at his wife’s bedside. Then he leaned down to kiss her cool forehead, reaching over to take her unresponsive hand in his. “Hi, Christine. It’s Grant. I brought a new novel I thought you’d enjoy. And the Bible, of course. But first I’ll give you all the family news.”

He sat beside her, keeping her hand in his, and talked with her about his surprising bequest from Jo, filled her in on the latest commissions they’d received at the shop, and reminded her how much everyone missed her. It was a routine he’d begun soon after the accident, at the suggestion of her doctors, who had told him that comatose people could sometimes hear voices. They’d encouraged him to share his day with her, to read to her, saying that it might make a difference in her recovery. They didn’t push him to do that anymore. But he still continued the practice.