“Roy! How are you? To what do I owe this honor?”
“Fine, and how are you?” replied the head of Marcus Finch and lawyer extraordinaire. “Feeling better, I hope.”
“Getting my head straight, if that’s what you mean,” Will said cautiously.
“I won’t mince words. I have a case for you, an important case.”
“Well, give it to someone else because I am no longer a part of Marcus Finch.”
“Look, Will...” Roy hesitated, piquing Will’s interest. Roy Wallis never showed his unease.
“Look at what?”
“Ezra McBride has insisted that you handle it, and I think you know what that means.”
Will stayed silent, digesting the information. His palms were sweaty. “I guess it means a heap of money for the company.”
“It also means the loss of a very good client...not to mention the repercussions if he gets convicted.” Roy’s frustration sneaked through his usual steely tone. “Our reputation is at stake here, Will. You can’t deal with these people lightly.”
“Then perhaps the company should change the people it represents,” Will suggested coldly. “Don’t tell me...what is it this time? Murder, perhaps? Extortion? Bribery? Or maybe he just wants to cover up an even worse misdeed, like—”
“No!” Roy was quick to stop his tirade. “You know I can’t mention the details. We need you back, Will. You have responsibilities.”
“My only responsibilities are here,” Will said. “Get some other mug to do your dirty work. I’m too busy.”
He ended the call and had to pause at the bottom of the staircase, trying to still his shaking body. He thought he’d finally got his point across to Marcus Finch, but it seemed they just wouldn’t let him go. It disgusted him, the way they valued winning—and getting paid for it—over the greater good.
You were like that, too, he reminded himself. Getting this or that murderer off when everyone knew they’d done it, and worse, knew that they’d do it all over again...and again...and again as long as they had people like Will to protect them from the law. Well, not anymore.
“You okay?” asked Jim when Will walked into the kitchen. He was waiting by the back door, looking awkward.
“I’m fine...let’s just get this over with.”
“We can leave it for today, if you like.”
“I have nothing else to do.” Will’s voice was cold and cutting.
“You’re a bit pale, that’s all.”
Will took a breath. He wasn’t in court now and never would be again. “Sorry, I really am as keen as you are to get these plans sorted. I just had a difficult telephone conversation, that’s all.”
“Perhaps you should leave your phone behind, then,” suggested Jim.
The idea alone left Will reeling. “But what if...”
“What if nothing. If someone wants to speak to you badly enough, they’ll get hold of you later.”
Feeling anxiety and freedom all rolled into one, Will dropped his phone on the table in triumph and reached for his jacket.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s go.”
* * *
WILL HAD ONLY spoken to Roger Simmons on the phone up until now, and the architect proved to be totally different than he’d expected. Average height with a middle-aged paunch, graying hair and kind blue eyes, he was the epitome of grandfatherhood.
Will had hired him for his reputation, and in his world that meant expensive suits and lean bodies achieved through hours in the gym—men and women who were trying to make a statement to the world. This man’s statement, it seemed, was in his work, not his appearance. He was what he was, and Will could tell it by the firm, honest grip of his handshake.
“Now,” Roger said, ushering him to a seat at the table and laying out some large sheets of paper. “Jim here tells me we have crossed wires regarding this development.”
Will leaned forward, poring over the precisely drawn plans. “Since I first spoke to you, I guess I’ve had a change of heart. Instead of the rather grand communal idea, I thought that maybe we should keep it more traditional.”
“He wants to give visitors the opportunity to live as people used to do,” Jim added. “Cut out a lot of the amenities.”
“And you think it will work?” Roger asked, frowning.
Will shrugged. “Well, it seems to be fashionable in places like London and Manchester nowadays. You know, to get away from the pressures of business and modern living, return to your roots and see how things used to be. It will have to be cleverly done, of course, to make the visitors feel that they’re stepping back in time without it being too uncomfortable. I thought we could get quite a few cottages in there and make it like a real community, so that they can socialize if they want but have their own space, as well.”
Roger tapped his pencil against his chin. “Mmm...that will take some working out. And do you intend to live on-site, too?”
Will hesitated. “I had intended to, but...”
“Well then, why don’t we put the farmhouse plans aside for now and focus on the outbuildings first? You may end up wanting to move somewhere more private.”
“That makes sense,” Will said. “I’m enjoying the solitude at Craig Side and I don’t want to lose that. I’ll look forward to seeing your ideas.”
Roger nodded, smiling. “I really think I understand where you’re coming from now. I’ll have some plans for you very soon.”
Will stood and shook Roger’s hand. The architect had a firm grip.
“You do realize you’ll get some opposition from the locals?”
Will frowned. “But why? The new plans are going to be very traditional. Why would anyone object?”
“You obviously don’t know much about the folks around here,” Jim remarked. “They don’t like tourists wandering about, upsetting the sheep, leaving gates open and messing up the land.”
“Well, there aren’t that many people around here to object, anyway,” Will said. He might not be a defense lawyer anymore, but that didn’t mean he had to give up his skills of persuasion. “We can overcome anything they have to say, I’m sure. In my experience, there is always a way.”
Roger appeared doubtful. “It’s not quite as easy as that,” he said. “And I wouldn’t underestimate our local council, but we’ll just have to do our best with that. Anyway, I’ll be in touch in the next couple days and we’ll take it from there.”
Roger left, and Will walked Jim to his car.
“Do you think we’ll have objections from the locals?” he asked the builder.
“Probably,” Jim said. “People around here object to everything.”
Back at Craig Side, Will ate a late lunch beside the stove. For the first time in what felt like ages, he felt a flicker of enthusiasm for the future, followed almost immediately by regret that he might have to leave this place he had become so attached to. The builders’ presence was irritating enough, but it was temporary; what would a property constantly full of tourists do to him?
It was kind of weird that he—who not so long ago thrived on the hubbub of city life—now felt threatened by the idea of sharing his space with just a few tourists.
Closing his eyes, he listened to the silence. It was total and welcome, calming his troubled mind. Later, he supposed, picking up the crumpled invoice from where he had thrown it earlier, he would have to go up to