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Perhaps she needed something stronger than a stiff drink. Although, I wasn’t sure what she needed was necessarily legal, and even giving the legal options without consent probably made it decidedly against the law.
There was no grinding a sleeping pill up into a jam sandwich for me, then.
At least I was in the right place to find out.
I followed them inside to the waiting room where Mr. Porter was already waiting for us. I’d met him once before when I was a teenager and he and his wife had joined Grandpa and my parents for dinner, but it had been as brief as you’d expect for a fourteen-year-old girl who wanted to skip out to see the friends she could only see once a year when she visited for the summer.
About five minutes.
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Neil,” he said, greeting both of my parents before turning to me. “Miss O’Neil, it’s lovely to see you all again. And, of course, please accept my condolences on your terrible loss.”
“Thank you,” Dad said, bobbing his head in that way people did when they had to acknowledge such a comment. “We’ve just come from the church and my wife isn’t feeling well, so if you don’t mind…”
“Of course, absolutely. Can I offer you some tea? Coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Dad said, glancing at me. “Three cups, Lottie?”
I nodded. “Yes, please.”
Ugh.
I hated tea.
Why had he even asked me that?
And why was I too polite to say no?
Oh, right. I was British, and refusing a cup of tea in this country was borderline treason, that was why.
I was having a bad enough day as it was without getting myself locked up in the Tower of London or something.
“Jane, could you get the O’Neils three cups of tea, please? Actually, would you make a pot? I’ll have one myself,” Mr. Porter asked the young woman behind the reception counter.
“Of course. I’ll bring it in for you,” she replied, and I recognized her voice as the one who’d let us in.
“Thank you,” I said to her as the solicitor ushered my parents through the glass doors into a short hallway. It might have been vintage on the outside, but it was clean and modern on the inside.
I hurried after them just as he was guiding them into a side room, and I gave him a small smile as I dipped into his office. It was larger than I thought it would be, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a rich mahogany that gave an air of elegance to the place.
No Ikea furniture for Mr. Porter, then.
The desk was the same deep wooden tone, and there were three chairs around it—one high-backed leather chair for Mr. Porter, and two leather armchairs with studs at the seams for my parents.
I was just about to ask if I was going to be standing when Mr. Porter produced another armchair from the corner of the room.
“Oh, thank you,” I said, tucking my dress under my thighs as I sat down. It was leather, and the last thing I needed right now was sticky leg syndrome.
Mr. Porter sat on his side of the desk, pulled a file out from the drawer to his right, and looked at the three of us. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
“So to summarise,” Mr. Porter said after what felt like forever but was realistically only twenty minutes or so. “To Mr. O’Neil is Mr. Walsh’s old motorcycle and his car, as well as any and all tools in the property.”
Dad bobbed his head. “Thank you.”
“And for Mrs. O’Neil, the primary beneficiary, we have the house and all its contents except those specified otherwise at 23 Sequoia Avenue, the stocks and bonds held in the deceased’s name, and the total sum of four-hundred and ten thousand, seventy-two pounds, and thirteen pence. That is the extent of the bequeathments to you, Mrs. O’Neil. Are you happy with what I’ve told you today?”
Wow. Grandpa was rich.
Mum nodded slowly.
