Until the will was read, I didn’t even know we owned a cottage in the Cotswolds.
Clearly the solicitor did; he had, as my son would say, a face like a slapped arse.
“He… errr… several years ago… a tax ploy I think….”
So here I am, weekend after weekend.
Because if I can’t discover what or who drew him here all those times when he was supposed to be on business trips, then I have to look closer to home…
… to determine whether something, someone drove him here.
And I don’t know which is worse.
Many thanks to the leader of Friday Fictioneers, who continues to keep this happy band of writers flexing their imaginations, week after week. Thank you, Rochelle.