Ring of Truth

By Sherry Gloag

How can one ring become embroiled in a catalog of lies, theft, broken promises, unrealistic demands and--love? Noelle McBride vows to walk away from her inheritance when she learns the ring her mother promised would be hers now comes with strings...no, more like ropes, attached. Reed Tanner is within a whisker of recovering the ring stolen from his Grandma until he learns about the conditions that will guarantee its return to his family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sherry Gloag
• Release date: Feb 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781523249381

Sherry Gloag

Best-selling author Sherry Gloag writes romances that stay with you long after you put her books down. One day, when stuck on completing a scene in her debut novel, The Brat,published by The Wild Rose Press, she opened a clean page and started 'freewriting'. She didn't sort of the errant scene, but she did write her first, published, 1k short story. She's had six more published since then. With eight published books under her belt and another due out in late 2013 Sherry is already working on her next novel. Each week, on her blog, along with a group of other talented authors she offers a free read under the umbrella heading of Tuesday's Tales. Sherry Gloag describes herself as a 'displaced' Scot living in the beautifly rural English county of Norfolk, where she enjoys talking with her characters while walking the area she calls 'her extended back garde'. But she does check to see if there's anyone e;se around before she gets involved with her characters. When she's not writing, Sherry enjoys reading, gardening and craftwork, to name a few of her hobbies. Her preference is for quiet when writing, but will occasionally use music to help set a mood if it is being elusive. Sherry Gloag loves hearing from her readers, [e-mail] You can find my books --> http://tinyurl.com/4qqnpck, http://tinyurl.com/4eog6cs, http://tinyurl.com/4dkmlh7, http://tinyurl.com/4jc42gf, http://tinyurl.com/4wy9hds, http://tinyurl.com/6bnvspc, http://tinyurl.com/5tj9zcc

Book preview

Edited

By

Cindy Davis

Formatted

By

Leanore Elliott

Book Design

By

Wicked Muse Productions

Cover Art

By

Danielle Doolittle at DoElle Designs

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DEDICATION

To Sandra Winner ~ who, like a flower, spreads beauty all around her.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

With special thanks to Cindy Davis for her patience.

To Leanore Elliott for all her help.

To Danielle Doolittle for creating the beautiful covers for the Hearts of Braden Series.

To Michel Prince who made this series happen,

And to all the authors who participated in creating this wonderful, imaginary town.

CHAPTER ONE

You’re joking? Noelle McBride shot to her feet, palmed her hands on her uncle’s desk and glared at him. Are you trying to tell me my mother’s ring is worth eight million pounds? Someone’s made a mistake.

No. Samuel Craven drew a paper from a folder and passed it across to her. There’s no mistake.

She took a couple of minutes to register the prestigious name at the top of the evaluation. A few more to focus on the date—two months ago. And seconds for the shock to propel Noelle across the spacious office to stare at the people outside scurrying past the window. Eight million pounds? she repeated. The assessor’s wrong. One glance from her uncle disabused her.

Memories, as vague as smoke drifting on a breeze shifted resurfaced. The cosiness of her parents’ bedroom while she sat on the end of their bed watching her mother prepare for a charity auction. Even the recollection of her mother’s perfume came back to haunt her.

I remember—she brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes—one night just before my sixth birthday, Mum and Dad were attending some function or other. A crystal clear scene materialized in her mind. For a moment she welcomed the coolness of the glass against her brow. She used to let me play with her jewellery box.

Turning Noelle recognised the shared grief in her uncle’s eyes. She’d lost her mother; he’d lost his sister.  I always went for the ring first. A great big thing with a huge lump of coloured red glass in the centre and surrounded by little stones. Mum said they were faux zircons. I called them ‘sparkles’. That night I couldn’t find it.

Her mother’s word filled her head. Be careful Noelle. I’ve put it somewhere safe. Put everything back.

I loved it so much I burst into tears, and pleaded with her to let me have it for my birthday. Noelle shivered and wrapped her arms around her waist in a useless attempt to hold in the warmth. She shook her head. The assessor told her to put it in a safe box if she had one. I’d never heard of rubies and didn’t care about the value.  I kept pestering her promising to look after it. In the end, I think to shut me up she swore it would be mine.

Another memory drew a stifled laugh. I tried to persuade her six was grown up enough.

You were always a little minx. Her uncle’s words enveloped her and coaxed out another laugh.

I didn’t expect to get it because she died.  The tears came, unstoppable. I didn’t want it this way. They clogged her throat. She dug in her pocket for a hanky and blew her nose. Oh, Uncle Sam, why did she die?

You read the doctor’s report. It’s of little comfort to know she didn’t suffer. But remember she passed in her sleep. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and crossed the room to stand in front of her. Your mother was a strong, independent woman Noelle. You of all people should understand, because the two of you come from the same mold.

Resentment warred with raging grief. Roiled in her gut, because an invisible enemy cut short her mother's vibrant life.

An aneurysm.

She wanted to scream and rant when the doctor told them her mother died from an aneurysm in the brain. Noelle straightened her spine and stepped away from her uncle. She’d never again tell her mother, how much she loved her, or to say goodbye, and wondered if the gaping hole in her heart would ever heal.

The memory of the undertaker’s regretful voice drowned out her uncle’s words.

I’m sorry we can’t carry out your mother’s funeral for another three weeks. That was a fortnight ago.

Noelle, are you listening?

Sam’s voice sharp enquiry snapped her back. What?

I said the will is not straightforward. I knew that, since I compiled it. I didn’t anticipate the search for one of her beneficiaries would become a major stumbling block.

Unease crawled up her spine. Unknown beneficiary? Her mother never mentioned... Why would she? No one anticipated dying in their sleep.

The rustle of Sam shifting papers on his desk jogged her back again. I’ve placed announcements in all the usual locations including the national newspapers, online and off, in an effort to locate him. Without luck, so far.

For God’s sake, what’s the rush? She pinched the bridge of her nose, even in death procedures ruled. Sorry. I understand. Who is this person, or is that a state secret?

His name is Reed Tanner.

He continued when she shook her head. Did Ronnie...your mother, ever mention him?

About to shake her head again, she paused, waited for any recollection to surface. No. I don’t recall the name at all. Didn’t Mum tell you why she included him when setting up her will?

I asked.

And?

She promised to tell me more when she located him.

So... Noelle dropped into the chair and knuckled her eyes like a weary child. There’s nothing in that lot? What about the investigator she employed? Have you spoken to him?

Yes. Surprise sharpened his voice. You knew about the P.I.?

Of course. She’s a wealthy woman and always ran a check on the people with whom she dealt. Especially personnel who applied for top positions in her I.T. company. I wish I’d investigated Roger.

Inclining his head in acknowledgement, Sam waved his hand over the papers. He’s drawn a blank.

I see. Right now all Noelle wanted was to return to Scent With Love. In other words, you’re basically saying you can’t probate the will until you find this man.

That’s about it. Sam began returning the papers to their folder.

I’m going back to work. We had fifty orders to complete when I left this morning with more coming in. Impatience borne of grief sharpened her voice. She rose crossed to her uncle and held on tight. God, I miss her. The words almost choked her and she looked up to see the same grief mirrored in Sam’s eyes.

*  *  *  *

Noelle continued to study the flowers on her workbench, and ignored the phone, her uncle’s words still ringing in her ears.

Until I trace Reed Tanner I can’t execute the terms of your mother’s will. 

And if you don’t?

Sam’s shrug shredded her last sliver of patience. Are we expected to put our lives on hold until this guy is found?

We all go on as before, Sam replied with a deceptive calm.

She nearly decked him. You may manage that without your sister, but I can’t without my mother.  Anger coalesced with grief and propelled her across the floor her hand on the doorknob. I’ll ‘go on’ as you put it. Sure. But as before? I’m missing her far too much to manage that.

A rose thorn lanced her fingers when tears clouded her vision. The pain of loss, as sharp as the thorn, pierced her heart. The growing pile discarded blooms filled the bin at her side.

*  *  *  *

The back door to Scent With Love swung open and the following slam confirmed her friend, and employee, Shauna’s arrival. Pasting a smile on her lips she waited for the complaint about coming in to work on the orders for her mother’s funeral.

Why am I not surprised? Shauna stood in the doorway, her hands fisted on her hips. I told you the girls and I can manage. Her voice gentled. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not right.

I need to be doing.  Noelle chose another rose, white this time. She studied the creation, cut the stem and began easing it into the tiniest of gaps in the swathe of red roses already set in the wreath. Tears fogged her vision and she laid her snips on the table. It’s essential for me... Indicating the other flowers in front of her and the full tubs standing along the back wall, she sighed, before continuing. It’s the tranquillity of working with the flowers. Concentrating on the orders keeps my mind occupied.

Something she hoped would stem the unexpected sense of abandonment. Noelle searched for white rose, discovered the butchered remains of the last available one and turned for the cold storage room. She heaved in another breath striving for the elusive composure she craved. Laurie phoned last night. According to her doctor it’s not a flu bug she’s suffering from but glandular fever. She’ll be off work for several days, even weeks. You can’t do all this—she indicated the order sheets hanging on the nearby post—and run the shop on your own, with Jean away on holiday.

Shauna swallowed an oath, slung her coat in the general direction of the chair and nodded. You’re right, it’d be a struggle. Do you want me to see if I can find a temp to fill in?

The phone rang at the same time someone rattled the shop door. You stay here. Pointing at the uncompleted wreath on the workbench Shauna picked up the phone, strode out to let their first customer in.

The hum of voices beyond the workroom door comforted her. Four more completed wreaths awaited collection, and she’d finish this one in a matter of minutes. With a deft twist of her left hand, and shuffle of fingers on the right, Noelle finished the bow, bent a length of flower wire through the loop and pulled. The ribbon shifted, the tails flared out and with the expertise of experience she coiled the wire, cut it to length and pinned the bow in place.

Setting it aside, Noelle picked up the next sheet as Shauna called through. We’ve got five more orders all from the Cresswells. Jolene’s ordered for every branch of their family.

Thank you. Noelle hunted in her apron pocket, found a pencil stub and scrawled the details. Will you phone for some more calla lilies, we’re running low? she called back. Everyone loved her mother; even so the quantity of orders and cards overwhelmed her.

She studied her uncle’s request, sifted through the materials and began arranging them in front of her. The silver triple candelabra glinted in the pale sunlight filtering through the window, and caught the glitter covering the two candles already in place. Noelle placed it in the roundabout she often used and reached for the lady-holder and a pair of snips. It may seem odd to the uninitiated to choose a holder created for the use of bridal bouquets, but it fit Sam’s request for a specific alter display too well to ignore. And Sam deserved something ultra special for his sister.

Cutting off the handle she positioned it in the third and central candlestick after filling it with hot glue.

Glad to think of something more cheerful Noelle invited in the memory of Shauna’s horrified You’re not going to ruin that gorgeous candelabra with glue, are you? made her smile.

No, when it’s finished, if you put the candelabra in the freezer for a while and then the glue comes away, without leaving any trace at all.

Her hands trembled when her thoughts returned to the reason for the arrangement, and the cutters sliced through the petals of white lily. With a curse she slung the remains in the bin.

Noelle cut into the base of the candle, created the desired wedge shape and secured it in the foam before wiring camellia leaves and setting them in place to hide the white holder. She worked from one side to the opposite, stopping long enough to assess the symmetry before repeating the process until a collar with several layers of leaves covered evidence of the plastic container.

She hadn’t lied to Sam. Life would never be the same again. A future without her mother’s laughter didn’t bear thinking about. As for her unquestioning support in times of need, and there’d been a few, Roger Tinkerton, her almost husband, to name one.

Men had no place in her life now. If this stranger thought he was going to... What? The man didn’t know he’d been named in the will. After work she’d go online and see if she could find out more about this Reed Tanner.

*  *  *  *

Reed Tanner picked up his phone swiped the screen and grinned at his father’s image.

How’s it going? His father’s voice kept breaking up, but the first question never varied.

The bank foreclosed yesterday, the staff are rioting outside the locked perimeter and the customers organised an all night vigil to stop the bailiffs coming in.

As expected a hearty roar of laughter that blasted his eardrum drowned out activities going on in the background of the cruise ship.

From his office window Reed studied the row upon row of display stands that held a myriad of potted flowers, annuals, and trays of bedding plants.

After years of prevarication his parents stunned him when they finally took the plunge and booked themselves a break. More than a holiday, a six-month break with an option on an extension. He grinned at the memory of their anxious faces when they told him.

"Last year’s hurricane taught