Page 1

Chapter One

The day her mother died, Callan Roberts was propping up a bar somewhere in the north of France, hitting on a waitress, thighs throbbing from the heat of the motorcycle that was standing outside. All in all, it was a good day. Less so for her mother, admittedly, but Cal bedded the waitress, so, silver linings and all that.

Perhaps the day would have been slightly less good if Cal had known that her mother had died. But since she didn’t, the fact had no bearing on the rest of her trip.

It was close to three months later when she got the phone call. This time she was propping up a bar from the opposite side in a firmly English pub, watching Syd wipe glasses and contemplating going for a smoke break even though she hadn’t smoked for fifteen years. Sometimes she just liked to go out back and feel the sun on her skin for a few minutes.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket and it was an excuse to go outside so she pulled it out. “Gotta take this,” she said.

Syd nodded, intent on polishing the glass she was holding, and Cal slipped out back before she answered.

“Yep?”

“Callan Roberts?”

Was it ever a good sign when someone called you by your full name? Cal had been in enough trouble in her life that she felt an automatic shiver go up her spine. “Depends on who’s asking.”

There was an exasperated sigh from the other end of the phone and then the man collected himself. “I’m a solicitor.”

“I’m a bartender.”

A second of silence. “Right, um, okay.”

Cal took pity on him. “And I’m Cal. Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad tidings.” Papers shuffled. “I’m, er, calling to inform you that a Mrs. Pamela Roberts has unfortunately passed away. Your mother, I believe?”

Cal looked up at the uncharacteristically hot sun and thought about this for a second. She let the information sink in through her skin with the sunlight, felt it begin to percolate inside her, and wondered just how she felt about it.

It didn’t take that long to figure out that she didn’t feel that much different from how she’d felt thirty seconds ago. Just slightly warmer.

“Yes, my mother,” she said. Not that the word meant that much. Not anymore.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “The thing is, Ms. Roberts, we’ve had some trouble in tracking you down. The, uh, deceased’s will lists you as both the executor and sole beneficiary.”

“Huh,” said Cal. Though now that she thought about it, that probably made sense. She was an only child, her father had died when she was five. Her mother hadn’t had anyone else to leave anything to.

“And, well, um, there is the question of what you’d like to do with the property and its contents.”

“Right.”

Again there was that confused silence. “Uh, perhaps I should call back at a more convenient time?”

“No,” Cal said, sniffing and straightening her back. She should go back inside, start cutting lemons, help Syd. “I’ll come down next week. Deal with things then.”

“Right, yes, of course,” said the man. “I’ll, uh, email you the details and such, shall I?”

Cal gave him her email address and then hung up, sliding her phone back into the pocket of her jeans. She took a second to check on her bike before she went in, polishing a non-existent spot with the sleeve of her shirt. Then, satisfied, she went back into the pub.

“Everything alright?” Syd asked, glasses all arrayed and ready for opening now.

“My mum died,” said Cal, getting out a knife and pulling the basket of lemons closer to her.

“Shit.”

Cal looked up and Syd was staring at her.

“Sorry?” tried Syd.