The Christmas Campaign. Patricia Bradley
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he hadn’t expected to be left a quarter of the estate.
Not that he ever wanted any of Richard Elliott’s money, but he had wanted his approval—something he wasn’t sure he had until now. That’s what a will was—a person’s final judgment of his heirs. He took in a satisfied breath and released it.
The attorney went on to list the few people his grandfather had left personal items to, including Millie and Gunner. They would remain in their little cottage behind the main house along with a nice pension.
While the attorney searched his papers, a mantel clock chimed four times. Peter slipped his grandfather’s pocket watch out and flipped it open. Four o’clock. Right on the money.
He closed the watch and ran his thumb over the smooth case, remembering how his grandfather had given it to him after he’d won a race against Jake, using less than honorable tactics. But instead of admonishing Peter, he’d simply said that winning wasn’t everything, and he hoped the watch would remind him of that. It was a lesson Peter wasn’t sure he’d learned yet.
He would deeply miss his grandfather, miss the long talks even though they usually disagreed, miss the challenges, and even the contests his grandfather came up with.
And Peter would miss sitting with him in his walnut-paneled den. Correction. The house now belonged to his aunt, something his cousin already seemed comfortable with as he leaned back in the leather chair and propped his ankle across his knee.
Jake, like Peter, had taken his lanky, six-foot-one frame from the Elliott side of the family. Height and blue eyes were the only physical traits he and Jake shared. Jake had more of the Irish in him from the O’Neils, with his dark hair and somewhat darker complexion, than Peter who had the fairer Scottish coloring and blond hair. But they both had the Elliott competitive spirit.
The attorney cleared his throat. “Now, to the business end.”
Amelia stood. “Is there any need for me to stay for this?”
Corbett looked up. “No, it deals with the two grandsons,” he said. “If you wish to leave while we conduct this part of the will, you are welcome to do so.”
She glanced at Jake, her eyes questioning him.
Color flooded his face. “I can handle this, Mother.”
“Good. I have a house to show at four-thirty.” She kissed her son and hugged Peter. “Come to dinner later this week.”
“Thank you, Aunt Amelia,” he said. “Let me know which night.”
He’d always liked his aunt—she’d had fun games for them to play when they were growing up and never tried to get him and Jake to compete against each other. In fact, she’d tried to get her father to stop his games. To no avail.
After the door closed behind Amelia, Robert Corbett shifted his gaze back to the document while Jake maintained an air of indifference, and Peter studied the dark red carpet.
He didn’t understand why Corbett said this part of the will dealt with him and Jake. Jake, he understood. His cousin was already operations manager at the furniture factory, and it was only natural that he would step into his grandfather’s shoes.
Peter would be surprised if he were mentioned at all, since his grandfather never got over his spurning the family business to gallivant around the world and then choose a government career.
“The reins to Elliott Manufacturing will pass to the winner of the following contest.”
Peter jerked his head up. “What?”
“What?” Jake’s indifference evaporated as he echoed the question.
Corbett peered over his glasses. “I assume your questions reflect surprise rather than an inability to hear or understand, so I will continue rather than repeat myself.”
He resumed reading. “I can hear both of you squawking about right now, but it will do you no good. At the time of this writing, Robert will attest to the soundness of my mind.”
Peter and Jake exchanged glances, and Peter knew his cousin was thinking the same thing he was. Not another one of Grandfather’s crazy contests. For as long as Peter could remember, Richard Elliott loved to pit his two grandsons against each other. “Iron sharpens iron,” he’d always said. Trouble was, it sometimes sharpened it to a nub.
“I tried to talk him out of this, but he would not be dissuaded.” Corbett placed the will on the desk and handed each of them an envelope. “The terms of the contest are laid out in these papers. If you will take your—”
“Is this some kind of joke?” Jake asked.
“I can assure you, Mr. O’Neil, it is not a joke. Your grandfather put a lot of time and thought into this. It was his belief that the director of Elliott Manufacturing needs all of the skills this contest will require. Now, I will give you a minute to look over the instructions and terms.”
Peter opened his envelope and slid out the papers. As far as he was concerned, the contest was over. He had no desire to run the company and would gladly cede the directorship to Jake.
He liked his life just the way it was, much preferring his involvement with the children’s shelter and his job as head of the Department of Human Services in Cedar Grove to running a furniture manufacturing business. And he looked forward to starting the teenage community center he’d mentioned to Cal. Getting it approved by the city council and obtaining the funds needed to run it was all the challenge he wanted.
Peter skimmed the papers and abruptly stopped, frowning.
A half million dollars. He blinked and looked again. No, he’d seen right. He raised his gaze to the lawyer, who sat with his hands clasped together on the desk, his face unreadable. Peter sneaked a glance at Jake. His wide eyes indicated he’d seen the figure, too.
“Now, if you are ready, I’ll go over the broad points of the contest. You can read the fine print later at your convenience. You are welcome to make notes on the papers I gave you.”
Without waiting for an answer, he began reading.
“Okay, boys, you both know that for several years, it’s been in my heart to start two things in Cedar Grove. A place for senior citizens to meet and another one for teenagers. A year ago I purchased a building that would be suitable to house either of these projects. I’m assigning the youth project to Peter and the senior citizen project to Jake.
“You have ninety days to form a nonprofit organization and to come up with a five-year business plan, as well as obtain approval and backing from the city, which will include twenty-five thousand dollars a year to help run the operation. The rest of the money to run it will come from the half million dollars the winner receives. Whichever one of you is the first to get approval gets the building and the half million dollars. He also becomes CEO of Elliott Manufacturing.
“However, in obtaining city backing, neither this contest nor the subsequent funding can be mentioned. If the city doesn’t believe in the project enough to invest in it, you don’t have their support.
“As for a director for your project, it can’t be either of you. If you can’t get someone to volunteer to head it initially, you haven’t done your job. Whichever of you wins will then have the pleasure of hiring a director.”
Jake leaned forward. “I don’t think it’s fair that Peter has the advantage of being on the city council.”
Peter snorted. “That’s no advantage when I have two people who almost always vote against me, no matter what it is.”
Getting this project through wouldn’t be a slam dunk. He could probably count on two other members to vote his way, and the mayor if there was a tie. Then there was Cal and his crony, George Bivens—the two picked apart any proposal presented to the city council that didn’t come from either of them. That left G. Nicole Montgomery.
While she didn’t always vote against him, she asked