Page 101 of Delicious (Delicious #1)

Chapter Five

David

T he formal dining room of Galferkus House is filled with voices, the clinking of fine china, and the heavy scent of polished oak and burning peat from the grand fireplace. The room is packed with family members, friends, and estate staff, all gathered for the reading of my grandfather’s will.

I take small pleasure in the sneer my parents aim at the estate staff who, in their minds, have no place at the same table as them. In this legal process, they are all equal, and that likely riles my mother especially up to no end. I stand near the long mahogany table, my parents flanking me like sentries. Their presence is oppressive, thick with unspoken words and judgment. I don’t need to hear what they’re thinking to know how they feel about today, about who is in attendance. Then I see him.

Kelly enters the room alone, his coat buttoned up against the morning chill, his hair slightly ruffled by the wind outside. I rein in a smile as he greets Gertrude, my grandmother’s former personal maid, with a warm smile and a gentle hug. She holds his face in her palms, before bringing his face down to hers and pecking him affectionally on the cheek. He doesn’t look at me immediately, scanning the room, but I catch the flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he takes a seat. No Ashley. I'd expected his friend to be here, standing at his side like a shield, but for whatever reason, Kelly has come alone.

My mother leans in slightly, her voice as sharp as the pearls around her neck. "That boy has no shame. Look at him, cavorting with the help, out in public, just for anyone to see."

My father scoffs under his breath, adjusting his cufflinks. "Showing his face here at all, of all places. It’s pathetic."

I grip the back of the chair in front of me, my knuckles whitening. "I don’t want to hear it," I say flatly, “keep your venom and bile to yourself and maybe tell someone who respects your opinion.” My mother gasps. I turn away before I do something I regret.

Bertie steps to the head of the table and clears his throat. "Welcome everyone, If everyone could take their seats, we’ll begin."

I take my place, directly across from Kelly. For a moment, our eyes meet. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something behind it, a quiet resolve, maybe even curiosity.

Bertie begins to read the will. To my parents, Grandfather leaves ￡10,000,000, a fortune to most people, but a drop in the ocean to them. My father barely reacts. It’s expected. They’ve made their own money, built their empire in stock trading during the 80s and 90s. Still, the underlying message is clear: You’ve made your wealth. This estate is not yours.

"Along with the sum," Bertie continues, "Carrick and Lucinda McCraig will also inherit the villa in the South of France."

My mother smiles at that, her posture relaxing. Of course, she’s already imagining the remodelling.

The reading moves through various bequests, substantial amounts left to certain staff members, small inheritances to distant relatives. To Gertrude he bequeaths Grandmother’s jewellery, including a sapphire necklace worth around ￡3,000,000 and a Tiffany brooch valued at a cool million and a half.

“This is beyond a joke!” my mother exclaims loudly.

“A problem, Mrs. McCraig?” Bertie smiles sweetly.

“He can’t just leave Moira’s and this family's treasured possessions to a stranger like that, can he?” She twirls her pearls around her thin index finger.

“He can and he has” Bertie narrows his eyes at her, “and I would hardly call someone, who has devoted thirty years of loyal and devoted service to the original Mrs. McCraig, a stranger. Do you?” My mother moves to say something as my father places a hand on her arm, stilling her. Then Bertie pauses, adjusts his glasses, and his voice shifts slightly as he moves on to me.

"To my grandson, David McCraig, I leave Galferkus Estate in its entirety, along with all holdings, investments, and assets, totalling ￡526 million."

A hush falls over the room.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Galferkus. The land. The home. The legacy. It’s mine now. Bertie continues, "It is my wish that someone invested in agriculture, in the land itself, would continue the McCraig name. As Carrick McCraig built his fortune elsewhere, it is my belief that David is the rightful heir to Galferkus, someone who understands its value beyond the numbers."

My father’s lips press together so tightly they turn white. My mother shifts uncomfortably, but she stays silent. They both knew this was a possibility, but to hear it spoken aloud, to have it confirmed so clearly, is something else entirely. Then comes the last part.

"Finally, to Kelly Baker…" Bertie says, pausing as he lifts a small, sealed envelope with a red wax seal. "I leave this letter."

My parents snicker under their breath. My father mutters something about sentimentality, my mother smirks. But I don’t. Because I see Kelly’s expression shift. He reaches for the letter with careful fingers, breaks the seal, and his eyes scan the page.

And then he smiles. A single tear slips down his cheek, catching the light before he blinks it away. I watch him, the weight in my chest growing heavier. What did my grandfather write to him? Why does it feel more important than anything else in this room?

My parents demand to know, but Bertie clears his throat, his expression firm. "The contents of the letter are for Mr. Baker’s eyes only."

Kelly folds the letter carefully, tucks it into his coat pocket, and, without another word, stands and walks out of the room.

Many hours later, after the guests and family members trickle out, the house feels cavernous. My parents barely say goodbye before disappearing, eager to start their villa renovations. The estate is mine now, and yet, it feels as though I’ve lost something rather than gained.

I stand in the great hall, staring at the fireplace, watching as the flames flicker against the stone walls. I think of my grandparents dancing in front of this very fire, my grandfather twirling my grandmother in his arms as she laughed, her head thrown back in delight.

I whisper into the empty space, "Goodnight, Grandad. Goodnight, Gran."

Just as I’m about to send the remaining staff home, Bertie catches my shoulder. "Congratulations, David. Your grandfather definitely knew what he was doing. I imagine he and your grandmother were looking down this morning on that fiasco with a smile on their faces."

“I don’t remember hearing your name in the will Bertie.” I suddenly remember.

“I requested not to be in the will,” Bertie smiled, “Your grandparents were always good to me and my Ruth, god rest her soul.”

“But surely…” I started.

“We made a deal, your grandfather and I,” he grinned, “Whoever passed on first, would look after the other's sweetheart until the last one standing followed.” A knot lodges in my throat. “I know your Grandfather won’t do me wrong. I’ll meet up with all of them again soon enough. I don’t need any trinkets or anything to help me pass the time until then.”

“You’re a good man, Bertie.” I pull him into a gentle hug, his hand resting gently on my back.

“If I have any advice for you, Master McCraig,” Bertie says as I pull away, “it’s to not let the trinkets or anything keep you from what you truly desire in this world.” I nod, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Bertie’s gaze sharpens slightly. "You should pay particular attention to the stable cottage. Might want to go check on it right away."

I frown. "Why?"

He just smiles. "Trust me."

I make it outside with record speed. The quad bike roars to life, and I take off across the estate, the cold wind biting at my face. The moon hangs high overhead as I reach the stable cottage. The moment I pull up, I know something is different.

Candlelight glows softly from the windows. A faint melody drifts from inside, something familiar, something from the past. Then I see the path.

Lined with lanterns, interspersed with flowers, a careful arrangement of objects leads from the front of the cottage around the side to the kitchen entrance. A rugby ball signed by Jonny Wilkinson. A travel guide from our tour of Italy. A keychain, the same one I gave Kelly with the key to my flat, the day I asked him to move in with me. Photographs of us, frozen in time. And at the very end, a picture of Kelly on our wedding day, smiling at me as if I was the only thing in the world. My heart pounds as I follow the path, each object like a breadcrumb pulling me forward. I push open the door to the country kitchen. The room is bathed in candlelight. The table is set for two. And standing there, waiting, is Kelly. He looks at me, his expression open, unguarded.

"What’s going on?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intend.