Chapter 24
Frankie
Before going to Malcolm, I send an email to the partners at Wild Coast about my concerns and remind them of the agreement we made when I brought the Sanctuary project to them.
I don’t expect an answer from them right away.
They’ll have some side conversations, I’m sure.
But I’d prefer to resolve everything nicely, if possible.
After I press send, I close my laptop and take a deep breath. It’s not even ten am yet, I feel like I’ve had a full day, and I still need to have a difficult conversation with Malcolm. It’s not one I can put off either, so I tuck my laptop under my arm and make my way to Malcolm’s office.
I pass Sybil on my way, who’s on her mobile with what sounds like one of Malcolm’s doctors. I point toward his office, and she nods her permission.
Not that I need permission or an appointment to see him anymore.
Most of his time is spent in the hospital bed we’ve had set up in his office, along with a portable desk.
It’s too hard for him to climb the stairs to his bedroom.
He’d rather be in his office anyway, working when he feels up to it—which isn’t often.
He doesn’t have the strength for meetings and business, but he still tries.
If I let him, he’ll die working, Bluetooth in his ear, waiting for one last call.
He’s in a race against time, and we all know it.
Which is why, for the past month, most of my time—with Sybil’s help—has been spent nagging him to rest. Even when he agrees to, he doesn’t really rest. If Sybil’s not taking notes about what needs to happen, I am.
He doesn’t want his employees or board members—or anyone—to know how sick he really is.
So, most of his communication is done by memo and email.
Sybil’s delegated most of Malcolm’s responsibilities to various VP’s and CEO’s, some with his permission, some for his own good. He’s not sick like he was during the chemo treatments, but he’s weak and he’s in pain. He grits his teeth through it, mostly, only taking morphine if he's desperate.
I knock on his heavy office door before peeking my head inside. He’s at his main desk, but he’s not working. His head tilts forward, his chin resting on his chest, and for a second, I think he may have actually done it—died right there at his desk.
I rush to him, grab his wrist to check for a pulse and watch his chest for movement. He startles awake, and I exhale.
“You scared me.” I rest a hand on his shoulder.
With surprising tenderness, he pats my hand. “I’m okay. Just drifted off.”
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, Dad?”
I’ve been calling Malcolm that again. Dad still sounds strange to my ears when I do, but every time, there’s a kind of softening that happens in his face and his body. Even in the air around us—maybe in my own body, too. The title has a sort of healing effect on our relationship.
“No. Too much to do. I’m alright.” Tight wrinkles appear at the corners of his eyes. His breath comes out in choppy spurts. He’s lying about how good he feels.
“You need anything? Water? Something to eat?”
He doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore, so I’m really just grasping for anything to do for him.
Malcolm presses his lips together—his version of a smile—and shakes his head. “Unless I can convince you to be part of BIG again.”
I huff. He’s said a version of the same thing often enough that BIG has become a sort of running joke between us.
But I don’t say no, like I have every other time he’s brought it up.
I pull an armchair from the other side of his desk, then swivel his chair so we’re practically sitting knee to knee when I settle into my chair.
I sit tall, cross my legs and clasp my hands in my lap, attempting to play the role of a businesswoman.
“I've told you my terms, Dad. Investments have to align with my values. Projects can’t hurt the environment. Small businesses can’t be put out of business. People have to be paid a living wage.” There’s more, but I stop there.
“That’s not a way to run a business, Francesca. Profit is the purpose.” His eyes are steel. If they were the only part of his body visible, you’d never know he was dying.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m an actor, not a businesswoman.”
“An actor,” he scoffs. “Guess it’s my own fault for making that dream possible.”
“It’s absolutely your fault, Dad. And I’m grateful you made it happen.” I reach for his hand and hold his bone-thin fingers in mine.
I wouldn’t say things are good between us, but they’re better.
We still don’t see eye to eye. I still bristle against his attempts to pressure me into doing what he wants.
He’s still uncomfortable with any kind of real affection, but we have moments like this that we never had before.
I won’t say living here with him was something I wanted to do or that I ever thought I would do, but I don’t regret it. I chose it.
“Did you come to tell me you got that part you wanted?” He slides his hand from mine and swivels his chair back to his desk and bank of computers.
“Haven’t heard yet.”
He knows I’ve auditioned for Allison Fisher.
For the first time, he stayed out of it.
He didn’t use his influence to get me the part.
He didn’t offer to produce the movie just so I could be in it.
Which, honestly, is kind of scary, because if I don’t get the part, what does it say about my skills as an actor?
But if I do get it, I will have earned it.
“I reckon you’ll hear soon.” He clears his throat. “She’d be an idiot not to cast you.”
A smile slips out. “Cheers, Dad.”
He coughs, and I rush to pour him a glass of water.
The cough grows deeper, and he shakes too hard to take the glass from me.
I put my hand on his back and try to hold him steady enough to raise the glass to his lips.
He’s finally able to take a sip, but by the time the coughing subsides, he’s too weak to sit upright.
“Probably better take that rest.” His voice is raw and hoarse.
He grasps my hand and I lift him up by his elbow, then gently guide him to his bed. I help him under the blankets, tucking them up around his chest. His hands are ice cold.
“You want the heat on?” I ask.
With his eyes closed, he nods, so I flip the switch on his electric blanket.
“How’s your pain?”
He holds up eight fingers, which is the level he’ll take meds. I crush the pills into a cup of orange juice, then help him drink it.
Within a few minutes, his breathing is more regular, but his eyelids are growing heavy.
I wish I could wait until after he rests to talk to him about Wild Coast and Sanctuary, but he might be worse when he wakes.
I'm not sure how many more times he’ll be able to climb out of this bed by himself.
This could be my last chance to ask him what I need to.
“Dad…can we talk about Sanctuary for minute?” I sit on the edge of his bed.
“What’s that?”
A week ago, I wouldn’t have had to remind him. A couple of days ago I wouldn’t have had to.
“That’s the inn at Serenity Cove. The one the old hotel sold to instead of us.”
“I know what it is,” he barks with frustration.
“There’s some things you don’t know about it…”
His eyes narrow as I tell him how I’m the reason the developers of Sanctuary were able to buy the property out from under him and shut down our Rancho Mirage plans.
He works his jaw back and forth, and I worry that this will be the end of all the progress we’ve made.
But I keep talking. I tell him what they’re trying to do now, and how Brandon is about to publish a story that will hurt me by driving a wedge between me and the people I care about in Serenity—the people I was trying to protect.
Malcolm listens without saying a word, without moving a muscle, besides when he clenches his jaw. He keeps his mouth pressed closed until I’m done talking.
“You’re the reason we lost that hotel.”
It’s not a question. He states it as fact, without emotion.
“Yeah.” I'm not sure what to make of his reaction, or lack of one.
“You may be more of a businesswoman than an actor, Francesca,” he says with a level of pride I’ve never heard in his voice before. At least not when he’s talking about me.
Malcolm doesn’t smile, but I do.
“I don’t go by Francesca, Dad. Just Frankie, actually.”
He lets out a laugh that turns into a cough. Not as long or as painful as the last one, which means the morphine is doing its job, but it also means I don’t have much time before he drifts off to sleep. His eyes are already closing.
“Is this a confession? You asking for my deathbed forgiveness? Because there’s nothing to forgive. It’s just business.” He opens his eyes slightly, and there’s a glimmer of hope there. “Or do you want advice?”
I tuck my fingers around his hand by my side. “Yeah…I want advice, Dad. I want your help.”
He smirks. “You want my money.”
“I want my money, Dad. The money I earned,” I steady myself, then push on with the offer I’ve been crafting in my head since my convo this morning with Cal.
“But if you want me to be part of BIG, I’ll do it, as long as we can buy out the other partners in Wild Coast and put Sanctuary back on track, doing what we promised—buying local, protecting the environment, leaving the beaches open to the public. ”
Malcolm shifts in his bed and lets out a pained grunt. “Just Sanctuary? Or are you going to throw all the BIG money at hugging trees and saving the earth?”
There’s no bite in his words. He even offers what might pass for a grin.
So, I return the gesture. “Not just yet. But I’d like to move BIG in that direction.
I do think there’s money to be made in eco-tourism.
If I’m going to be a controlling partner, like you want, I’m not going to promise to be on board investing in projects or companies that don’t, at least, have some green initiatives. ”
He growls, but he hasn’t moved his hand out of mine. In fact, he’s very close to holding my hand.
“I’ll carry on the Forsythe legacy, but it’s got to be Forsythe, not just Malcolm Forsythe. I am who I am, in part because of you. So let who I am and what I believe in be part of your legacy too.”
His eyes drop. He rubs his nose, sniffs. If he were a different man, I’d think he were trying not to cry. But I’m not going to assign any emotions to Malcolm. I’m just going to love him for who he is—for the imperfect man and father that he is—and let go of everything else.
When his eyes meet mine again, he says, “Get Archie to be a part of it too. Maybe he can keep you in check. He’s done alright with Bombora.”
My mouth falls open, but before I can thank him, he’s speaking again. “I’ve left the two of you a controlling interest in BIG and given you both access to your trust funds. That’s it, though. Anything else I’ve left to you, you’ll inherit after proving yourselves.”
I don’t care what his stipulations are or how he expects me to “prove myself,” because I don’t care about any of his money except for what’s mine and what I can use to save Serenity Cove.
I turn and throw my arms around Malcolm’s neck, resting my cheek on his chest. “Thank you, Dad. Thank you.”
He doesn’t exactly hug me, but he pats my back, and I'm aware how much energy that takes for him right now. I think it may be the most tender moment we’ve ever shared.
“I love you,” I tell him for the first, and what may be the last, time.
He holds me just tight enough to count as a hug.