WILDFLOWER HOLLOW

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Chapter One — The Inheritance

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“Some inherit houses. Others inherit their destiny.”
— Beady Eyes 🐦‍⬛

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At precisely eleven minutes past nine on a Tuesday morning, Donna learned that she had inherited Wildflower Hollow.

She was not impressed.

Donna sat behind an enormous glass desk on the thirty-second floor of one of the city's most prestigious legal buildings, dressed in a charcoal designer suit that had cost more than some people's monthly salaries.

Her nearly black hair was swept into an immaculate twist. Her heels were Italian. Her manicure was flawless, and the coffee cooling beside her laptop had been delivered exactly the way she liked it.

Black.

No sugar.

No nonsense.

Everything in Donna's life had a place, a purpose and, preferably, an appointment.

Wildflower Hollow had none of those things.

Her intercom buzzed.

“Donna?”

“Yes?”

“Mr Charles Whitmore is holding on line two. He says he's the executor of your late aunt's estate.”

Donna's fingers paused over the keyboard.

“My aunt?”

“Margery Ashcombe.”

For the briefest moment, Donna said nothing.

The name opened a door in her memory that she had not expected.

Not Wildflower Hollow.

Not yet.

A funeral.

It had been a grey afternoon.

A little country church. Damp earth. White lilies.

Donna remembered standing beside her father at Aunt Margery's funeral, dressed in black and discreetly checking the time more often than she cared to admit.

She had gone for him. Her father had loved his sister dearly, and Donna knew her absence would hurt him. So she had rearranged her morning, driven out from the city and sat beside him through the service.

She remembered the coffin disappearing beneath flowers.

She remembered her father's hand tightening around hers.

And she remembered thinking about the consultation waiting for her at four o'clock.

Afterwards, everyone had drifted towards long tables beneath the trees.

There were cakes. Good heavens, there had been cakes. Chocolate cakes, fruit cakes, cream cakes, little iced cakes, sandwiches stacked on silver trays, homemade pies and enormous teapots disappearing beneath knitted tea cosies.

It was exactly the sort of gathering Aunt Margery would have loved.

Someone had touched Donna gently on the arm.

“Stay and have something, dear.”

But Donna had already reached for her car keys.

“I can't. I'm terribly sorry. I have to get back to the city.”

She had a consultation at four.

Her father had looked at her.

He hadn't asked her to stay.

Somehow, remembering it now, that was the part that bothered her.

Donna had kissed his cheek.

“I'll call you tonight, Dad.”

Then she had climbed into her car and driven away.

She hadn't gone to Wildflower Hollow after the funeral.

She hadn't walked through Aunt Margery's front door.

She hadn't stayed for a cup of tea.

She hadn't even eaten a piece of cake.

“Donna?”

Her assistant's voice brought her back.

“Mr Whitmore is still holding.”

Donna blinked.

“Yes. Of course. Put him through.”

The executor was terribly polite.

Donna found this exhausting.

“Ms Donna, thank you for taking my call. I am Charles Whitmore, executor of the estate of the late Margery Ashcombe.”

“Yes.”

“Firstly, may I offer my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“I am pleased to tell you that the administration of your aunt's estate has reached the stage where I can formally confirm that you are the sole heir.”

Donna frowned.

“The sole heir?”

“Yes.”

“To what, exactly?”

There was a slight pause.

“To everything.”

Donna leaned back in her chair.

Mr Whitmore began listing it.

There was the house.

The surrounding land.

The contents of the property.

Several outbuildings.

An orchard.

A conservatory.

A library with a substantial collection of books.

Something he referred to as the lower meadow.

And, of course, Wildflower Hollow itself.

Donna's eyes drifted towards the enormous custody brief lying beside her laptop.

MERCER v MERCER

She had court papers to finish, a consultation at eleven, another matter at two and a custody hearing requiring her full attention.

She did not have time for orchards.

“Mr Whitmore, I'm sorry to interrupt, but what exactly do you need from me?”

“Well... nothing immediately. I merely thought you would want to know that Wildflower Hollow now belongs to you.”

Donna stared through the glass windows at the city below.

Wildflower Hollow.

Even the name sounded inconvenient.

“And what am I supposed to do with it?”

“That, Ms Donna, is entirely up to you.”

“Good. Please send me the details of the attorney dealing with the property. I'll instruct him to put it on the market.”

Silence.

“You wish to sell it?”

“Yes.”

“You don't want to see it first?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“Your aunt was extraordinarily fond of Wildflower Hollow.”

“I'm sure she was.”

“She was also very fond of you.”

Donna's fingers stopped briefly on the keyboard.

For a second, she saw the funeral again.

Her father standing beneath the trees.

The tables laden with cakes.

Her car keys in her hand.

Then the moment passed.

“I appreciate the call, Mr Whitmore. Unfortunately, I have an extremely busy day.”

“Of course.”

“Please email me the documents.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

Donna ended the call.

She opened a new email.

Dear Mr Whitmore,

Please proceed with the necessary arrangements to place Wildflower Hollow on the market at the earliest opportunity—

Her intercom buzzed again.

Donna closed her eyes.

“What is it?”

“There is a gentleman at reception asking to see you.”

“I don't have any appointments.”

“He says it's urgent.”

“Everything is urgent.”

A hesitant pause.

“He says his name is Daniel Mercer.”

Donna's hand froze above the keyboard.

Her eyes moved slowly towards the custody file.

MERCER v MERCER

She knew exactly who Daniel Mercer was.

The father of the boy.

Donna glanced at the time.

“I have five minutes.”

Daniel Mercer did not look like a man preparing for court. He looked like a man who had not slept. His shirt was creased. His eyes were red. There was stubble along his jaw, and he clutched a worn folder so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

Donna gestured towards the chair opposite her desk.

“Mr Mercer. I have a court appearance, so I'm afraid you'll have to be brief.”

He didn't sit.

“You represent my wife.”

“Your estranged wife, yes.”

“You're going to help her take my son away from me.”

Donna's expression remained professional.

“I am representing my client's interests.”

“Please.”

There was something about the word that made Donna impatient.

She looked at the clock.

“Mr Mercer—”

“You don't understand.”

He opened the folder with trembling hands and pushed several papers across her immaculate glass desk.

Donna looked at them but did not pick them up.

“Her boyfriend hurts him.”

Donna raised her eyes.

“He's six years old,” Daniel continued. “He's frightened of him. He told me things.”

His voice broke.

“Please. Just read those.”

“If you have allegations of abuse, your attorney needs to place them properly before the court.”

“My lawyer says we need proof.”

“Then your lawyer is correct.”

Daniel stared at her.

“He's a little boy! What proof do you want him to bring you?”

Donna's jaw tightened.

“Mr Mercer, I understand that this is emotional—”

“No.”

His voice was suddenly quiet.

“You don't.”

Donna glanced towards the door.

Four minutes.

“Just speak to him,” Daniel said. “Once. That's all I'm asking. Ask my son yourself.”

“Mr Mercer, I cannot simply interview a child involved in ongoing custody proceedings because his father arrives at my office without an appointment.”

“He's scared.”

“You need to discuss this with your attorney.”

“Please.”

Donna stood.

The meeting was over.

Daniel remained where he was.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

He looked at her as though he were desperately searching for something behind the immaculate suit, the expensive desk and the professional expression.

Something human enough to listen.

“My son is telling us that something is wrong.”

Donna reached for the intercom.

“Reception, could you please ask someone to assist Mr Mercer downstairs?”

His face changed.

Not anger.

Defeat.

And somehow that was worse.

Daniel slowly gathered the papers Donna had never touched.

At the door, he stopped.

Then he turned.

“If something happens to my boy, you will remember that I came here.”

Donna said nothing.

Daniel Mercer walked out.

The door closed behind him.

For perhaps three seconds, Donna remained standing.

Then her phone rang.

Her next appointment had arrived.

And Donna went back to work.

Three days later, the little boy was dead.

Six years old.

Beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend.

Donna read the message once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Around her, the city continued as though nothing had happened.

Phones rang.

Printers hummed.

Someone laughed in the corridor.

Thirty-two floors below, cars moved through the streets like tiny silver insects.

Donna sat perfectly still.

On one corner of her desk lay the Wildflower Hollow documents.

On the other lay the Mercer custody file.

Her eyes moved towards the empty chair opposite her desk.

Three days earlier, Daniel Mercer had stood beside it and begged her to listen.

His words came back with terrible clarity.

If something happens to my boy, you will remember that I came here.

Donna remembered.

Every word.

She went to the hospital.

She didn't know why.

Perhaps some foolish part of her believed there might still be something she could do.

There wasn't.

Daniel sat alone.

He seemed smaller somehow.

When he saw her approaching, something in his face hardened.

Donna stopped several feet away.

“I am so sorry.”

“Don't.”

“I didn't know.”

“I told you.”

Donna swallowed.

There was no courtroom argument available to her.

No clever interpretation of the facts.

No legal technicality.

No opposing counsel to defeat.

Just a grieving father.

And a little boy who was dead.

“I should have listened.”

Daniel looked at her.

“Yes.”

There was nothing she could say to that.

Donna reached into her handbag and removed an envelope.

“I know this can't possibly make any difference, but I thought perhaps the funeral expenses—”

Daniel looked at the envelope.

Then at her.

“Do you think money can bury a six-year-old boy?”

Donna's hand fell to her side.

“No.”

“Then take it and go.”

She placed the envelope quietly on the little table beside him.

Daniel didn't touch it.

Donna walked away.

Outside the hospital, the afternoon sun was unbearably bright.

People were talking.

Cars were passing.

Someone across the street was laughing.

The world had not stopped.

Donna could not understand why.

Something inside her had.

The following morning, Donna resigned.

Twenty-four hours' notice.

No negotiation.

No farewell drinks.

No explanation.

People were stunned.

Donna did not care.

For years, she had been one of the names people wanted attached to difficult cases.

She was successful.

Expensive.

Formidable.

She rarely lost.

Some had called her ruthless.

Until that week, Donna had considered it a compliment.

She packed one box.

Her degrees.

Two photographs.

A fountain pen.

And the Mercer custody file she could not bring herself to throw away.

Then she walked out of the office she had spent years fighting to earn.

At home, she stood in the middle of her immaculate apartment.

White walls.

White kitchen.

Glass.

Chrome.

Nothing out of place.

Nothing unnecessary.

Even the flowers on the dining-room table were white.

For years, Donna had thought it looked sophisticated.

Now it simply looked empty.

Her laptop chimed.

An unread email waited on the screen.

RE: WILDFLOWER HOLLOW — INSTRUCTIONS TO SELL

Donna stared at it.

For some reason, she thought about Aunt Margery's funeral.

The cakes beneath the trees.

Her father's face.

Stay and have something, dear.

I can't. I have to get back to the city.

Always somewhere else to be.

Always something more important waiting.

Donna looked around the apartment.

Then she deleted the unfinished instruction to sell Wildflower Hollow.

She found Charles Whitmore's number.

He answered on the third ring.

“Whitmore.”

“Mr Whitmore? It's Donna.”

There was unmistakable surprise in his voice.

“Ms Donna.”

“I've changed my mind.”

“About Wildflower Hollow?”

“For now.”

A small pause.

“What would you like me to do?”

Donna looked at the Mercer file lying on her dining-room table.

Then at the life she had spent years building around herself.

“I'd like the keys.”

Two days later, the city disappeared in Donna's rear-view mirror.

She told herself she was only going to Wildflower Hollow to sort through Aunt Margery's belongings.

A week.

Perhaps two.

She would decide what should be kept, arrange for the rest to be dealt with and then put the property on the market.

That was all.

She certainly wasn't moving there.

People like Donna did not abandon successful careers and disappear into houses with names.

By late afternoon, the road had narrowed considerably.

Donna frowned at the navigation screen.

“Surely not.”

The pleasant tar road disappeared.

In its place was dirt.

Donna stopped the car.

Her expensive vehicle was most certainly not designed for this.

She considered turning around.

Then she remembered that there was nowhere she particularly wanted to return to.

She drove on.

Branches brushed against the car.

Wildflowers crowded the verges as though nobody had ever explained to them that plants were supposed to remain politely inside flowerbeds.

There were roses climbing over fences.

Lavender growing in unruly purple clouds.

Somewhere beyond the trees, water glittered in the late afternoon sun.

Donna lowered the window.

The air smelled different here.

Earth.

Flowers.

Something green and clean that had no business existing in the city.

And then she saw it.

The gate.

Old wrought iron stood between two weathered stone pillars almost swallowed by ivy and climbing roses.

Beyond it, a winding driveway disappeared beneath enormous trees.

Farther away, Donna could just make out the roof of a sprawling old cottage.

She stopped the car.

For the first time since leaving the city, she felt something other than exhaustion.

Something strange moved through her.

Recognition, perhaps.

Which was ridiculous.

She had barely visited the place as a child.

And yet...

Donna climbed out.

The countryside was almost unnervingly quiet.

She walked towards the gate with the keys Mr Whitmore had couriered to her.

One large brass key.

One smaller key.

And an ancient-looking thing that Donna suspected belonged in a museum rather than on a keyring.

She reached for the gate.

Something black moved above her.

Donna stopped.

A large crow sat on top of the stone pillar.

It stared down at her.

Donna stared back.

The bird was enormous.

Glossy black feathers caught the last of the afternoon light. Its eyes were bright, intelligent and—Donna would later insist this was impossible—distinctly disapproving.

“Shoo.”

The crow did not shoo.

Donna waved one hand.

“Go on.”

The crow leaned forward.

Donna frowned.

“Don't you dare.”

The crow tilted its head.

Then, in a perfectly clear and remarkably irritated voice, it said:

“Is this the time to get here? You are late.”

Donna dropped the keys.

The crow looked down at them.

Then back at her.

Donna didn't move.

Neither did the crow.

Beyond the iron gate, roses stirred in the evening breeze.

Somewhere among the trees, something rustled.

And at the end of the winding drive, Wildflower Hollow waited.

Donna didn't know it yet, but the crow was right.

She was late.

Years late.

And Wildflower Hollow had been waiting for her all along.  (To be continued . . . ) Want to see Donna's city apartment? Click here

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