NINE
Michael was easy to rile. All Isabel had to do was offer to drive again.
“Not funny, Isabel,” was becoming his mantra.
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” she argued. It was a lie, but she was sticking to it.
She couldn’t get another word in for a good ten minutes while he vented.
As soon as he wound down, she said, “You’re in a mood, aren’t you? And by the way, when we left the house, I was simply offering to drive by walking over to the driver’s side of the car. You could have said, ‘No, thank you,’ but instead you dragged me to the passenger side—”
“I did not drag you.”
Ignoring the interruption she continued, “—and proceeded to lecture me while working yourself into a lather reciting the rules of the road. What did you do? Memorize the driver’s manual? And yes,” she continued before he could interrupt again, “I do know a rolling stop isn’t a stop, and I also know that yield doesn’t mean I get to squeeze into the lane no matter how many cars are in my way.”
When Michael began to laugh, she realized she was the one getting all worked up now.
“Okay, no more lecturing,” Michael conceded. “I’ll even change the subject. Are you planning to stay at the hotel tonight, or will you pack your things and drive back with me?”
“I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Then you’ll check out in the morning.” It was a statement, not a question, and he expected her to agree.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know yet? You came to Boston to have some fun, didn’t you? And then you’re going to Scotland, right?”
Isabel’s cell phone rang, halting the conversation. She saw who the caller was and pushed the decline button. Then she answered his question. “Plans have a way of changing, Michael.”
Her cell phone rang again. It was the same caller and she once again declined.
She said, “He’s very persistent.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“James Reid. He was calling me nonstop for a while, but I haven’t heard from him for several days, so I was hoping he had given up. He’s with a company called the Patterson Group, and they want to purchase Glen MacKenna. That’s the name of the land I’ll own soon,” she explained. “Or have I already told you that? They offered what they insist is a good and fair amount. Those were Reid’s words in the multiple messages he left. He even suggested that their attorney would be happy to get the papers ready for my signature.”
“And?” He was determined not to tell her what to do. She should make up her own mind. Still, he wasn’t going to let her do anything crazy.
“And I’m going to get my own attorney.”
“Good girl.”
“My great-uncle, Compton MacKenna, was a very peculiar man. He wrote a letter to me. It’s in a sealed envelope, and I’m not supposed to open it until my birthday, not a day before, in the solicitor’s office.”
“Before you sign anything, you’ll want your attorney to go over all of it, too. Right?”
“Of course.”
She waited, and when he remained silent, she asked, “Aren’t you going to say ‘good girl’ again?”
“No, you only get one of those a night. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
Feigning surprise, she said, “Why, Michael Buchanan, I think you might have a sense of humor.”
“But I’m still a pompous jerk?”
“A pompous, arrogant, obnoxious jerk,” she corrected, “...with a sense of humor.”