On the Right Side of a Dream by Sheila Williams Page A

knowledge that Millie had a son, even in Paper Moon where everybody knows everybody’s business or
thinks
that they know everybody’s business. But Millie did have her secrets and, unlike most folks around here, she was pretty good at keeping them. I’ve handled her legal affairs for some time but . . . well, attorney-client privilege being what it is . . .”
    “Who is . . . where is . . . was he born in Montana?” I was recovering from the shock. But I wasn’t too shocked to be nosy. “Or is that information privileged?” I asked, using his word.
    Geoff shrugged his shoulders.
    “Not anymore. At least half the town should know by now. Her son was born in Kenya, brought up in the UK, educated in the UK and the United States. He’s very wealthy, like the old-time tycoons. It’s quite a story.”
    And then I remembered that I had heard at least part of it—a story that Millie told me one summer night when the sky was so dark and clear that you could see the stars back to forever; a love story about a dancer and a wealthy farmer, set in Kenya. But was it a story—a short story that she had told me was for her creative writing class at the UM Extension—or was it true? Now, the words were coming back to me and I remembered the faraway look in Millie’s eyes when she spoke them. I remembered the purring of Asim, the Siamese cat who she’d held in her lap.
    She knew that, while it was easy to stay in paradise, it was better, even braver perhaps, to leave. She still had mountains of her own to climb. Even though she left everything she ever loved in his hands.
    What she’d left in his hands was her baby. Her story wasn’t make-believe at all. Dear Millie.
    “So, what do I do now?” I asked. I felt as if someone had given me a birthday present, changed their mind, and taken it back, wrapping paper, tape, bow, and all.
    “Until the hearing, which will probably take place in six weeks, the will stands, as written . . . more or less,” Geoff added uncertainly.
    That wasn’t helpful. I felt a stone settle in my stomach.
    “Oh, and you might want to get involved with the inn,” Geoff answered, closing his file folder. “During the interim.”
    I wanted to melt into a puddle and just drip away.
    “What about . . . the son? What’s his name?”
    “Broderick Tilson Hayward-Smith,” Geoff answered. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Hayward-Smith is flying in, sometime before the hearing. He wants to stay at the inn, get a feel for the place.” Geoff looked at me sympathetically. “I guess he’s checking out what he hopes will be his inheritance.” Then Geoff frowned. “Although his attorneys say that he’d like to tear down the place and sell the land to the VFW for a parking lot.”
    Six weeks? This man was coming in six weeks to stay at the inn? And the lawyer forgot to tell me?
    The phone rang just in time to keep me from crawling over that desk and smacking Geoff Black in the head with a stack of file folders.
    “Hello?” He listened for a moment then looked up at me. “It’s for you.”
    It was Inez and her girdle was in a knot. She needed help and could I stop by? The inn would be full of guests by the weekend with reservations booked last year. There was a list of unreturned phone calls and food to order. Millie’s house had been closed for most of the winter. FedEx had delivered four boxes—of something—and the carpet cleaners were coming on Wednesday. There was a stack of unopened mail, unpaid bills, and one of the cats had disappeared again. She didn’t have to tell me which one.
    I grumbled, growled, and just plain bitched all the way back to Paper Moon.
    “I thought God didn’t give you more than you could handle,” I complained to Jess. “What did I do to deserve all this?”
    Jess did not feel sorry for me.
    “Quit complaining!” he shot back. “You’re smart, hardworking, a halfway decent cook.” He winked at me. “You’re a little contrary but I still love you. And