Page 21 of The Cottage on Blueberry Bay

“The rest of his artwork is up to you,” he said. “But I’m sure we will find buyers for at least some of it.”

“How long does this kind of thing take?” Meredith asked. She hadn’t had to go through and distribute someone’s whole life before. After her mother died, they all just kept her things like she left it. “And will I have to pay an inheritance tax?”

He shook his head. “No inheritance tax in Maine for property. However, that could change with Jacob’s artwork.”

“Oh, right, the art.” She sat there quietly, wishing she could calculate all of this in her head, but she didn’t know the numbers. Hopefully with the price of the house and what she may receive with Jacob’s art and boat, she could very well save her house. “Will I have to pay you for all of this?”

He shook his head. “Jacob took care of it.”

Meredith nodded, staring at the name. She should call her attorney, but the only attorney she knew was the one who helped her with her divorce.

She could call Gordon. He would suggest someone he knows from somewhere. She could call Remy and ask for one of her fancy attorneys, though Meredith wouldn’t be able to afford hers.

And to her horror, that was when her throat started to tighten, and her hands started shaking, and her eyes started filling with tears.

“Do you have a bathroom?” she asked, but the tears had already fallen.

“It’s in the back,” he said, standing up and pointing to a narrow hall. “On the right.”

She didn’t look at him as she hurried to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t connect this emotion to the loss of Jacob. She carried no grief for a man who had deserted her. She’d become emotional because she realized just how alone she really was.

CHAPTER8

As a family lawyer, Quinn had been in plenty of meetings with clients and their family where emotions ran high. It wasn’t easy watching people go through the hardest times in their lives. It was another reason why he hated his job so much. No one in a small town ever went to his office for good things.

Usually, in a small town, peoplehadto go to a lawyer,hadto give their money, because something terrible hadhappened to them.

He thought, naively, that this meeting with Jacob’s daughter would be different. She had no real ties to Jacob, and to inherit a windfall should’ve seemed like a dream come true.

When she returned to the table, he passed her the box of tissues and started to move on with the meeting.

“I have an art appraiser in Portland that will be able to help you,” he said, handing over the packet he’d created with some of Jacob’s art.

She drew a tissue out of the box, twisted it in her hand, and stared at the cover.

“Is this Jacob’s work?” she asked, her finger tracing the rectangular shape of a picture of one of his paintings.

“Yes.” Quinn waited as she opened the cover to the table of contents. “He had quite a few pieces that I’m sure would go for a good price.”

“Really?” She slanted her head, as though the idea surprised her. She shut the cover before even going through Jacob’s work.

Quinn shrugged. “Jacob had no trouble selling his stuff.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, almost appearing angry, and it took him by surprise.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“He made money on his artwork?”

“Yes,” he said.

She let out a huff and leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he had all this”—she gestured with both hands to the papers covering the table— “and not once did he try to reach out to his daughter.”

Quinn felt that one. He wished he had an explanation, but Jacob never provided one, and he didn’t ask.

“After the accident, he was never the same,” Quinn said. He had heard all the stories about the storm of the century. The boat capsizing. All the crew dead, except for Jacob.

“Accident?” She looked confused.

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