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“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’sGhost 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?”