Chapter 3
Chapter Three
T hree days after the phone call from her father’s lawyer, three days after Mike’s admission, Sylvie was on the ferry back to Nantucket Island.
It felt like a nightmare. Too exhausted to leave her vehicle, she remained inside it throughout the journey across the water, crying and sneezing into a tissue from a mix of seasonal allergies and desperation.
She couldn’t be around people, least of all tourists, who’d come to take in the pretty spring weather on Nantucket Island.
Tourists have so much to live for, with partners to sleep next to at night and children to play with.
When the ferry pulled into the harbor and dropped its ramp, she started her engine and dutifully drove onto the island she’d promised never to return to.
But this was the only place in the world where she was needed right now.
Somehow, this gave her a gravity she no longer had in Manhattan.
Sylvie’s friends said she was ridiculous for thinking so. “You have a million friends, a huge social circle, and so many other writer-colleagues who love you,” another environmentalist writer named Steffi had told her. “You’re needed in Manhattan, whether you like it or not.”
But Sylvie felt like she was floating. A meeting with her father’s lawyer was a thing on the calendar, something she could fathom.
Her Maps app led her directly to the parking lot on the far side of the Nantucket Historic District, where she parked and got out on shaking legs.
It was maybe seventy-three degrees with a light breeze and, therefore, the perfect day. It drove her insane.
She entered Timothy Everett’s office, which was bright with monstera plants and hardwood floors.
A receptionist in her late fifties greeted Sylvie warmly and prepared her a coffee with a side of soft cookies that Sylvie knew she wouldn’t be able to touch.
Her appetite was nonexistent. She sipped the coffee and studied the law degree hanging on the opposite wall of the lobby, wondering how often her father had sat in this very room.
Then again, Timothy said that he and her father were good friends.
Maybe they’d done all that “will” stuff in the comfort of one of their homes, pouring shots of whiskey and talking about how disappointed James was in his daughter, Sylvie.
On the phone, Timothy had said, “He really did love you, Sylvie. He struggled to know how to say it. But that’s a problem a lot of us in this generation have.”
Yeah, right, Sylvie had thought. Their relationship wasn’t a matter of millennials versus boomers.
It was far more complicated, far darker.
But whatever. She didn’t know how her father had talked about it after she’d left, that he’d tried to make sense of it with a friend.
But she couldn’t blame him for trying to rebrand, to tell the story in a way that made it easier to carry.
The receptionist chirped, “He’s ready to see you,” so Sylvie got up and crept into Timothy’s office.
There he was, sitting at the desk with a pen raised, scribbling a note to himself.
Just as he did on his website, he wore thick horn-rimmed glasses and a button-down shirt.
But his face was tan and open and friendly.
Sylvie found herself relaxing in his presence.
She found herself thinking, If only my dad had been more like you.
“Sylvie.” Timothy got up and reached a hand across the desk. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”
Sylvie shook his hand.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Timothy said. “James was one of my dearest friends and truly a singular human. I will miss him dearly.”
Sylvie fixed a fake smile on her face but could only maintain it for a few minutes before it fell. She sat down and crossed her ankles, searching the room for some sign of her father. She half expected him to spring out of the wardrobe and say surprise! Tricked you!
“I’ve read up on you, of course,” Timothy said.
“Your father was so proud of your work as a journalist, but I’d never read your work till now.
You’re truly a wonderful writer. That piece published yesterday about that Thailand resort floored me.
I read that an investigation’s already been started in Thailand, one that might close their doors for good.
You have power, Sylvie. It’s really something. ”
Sylvie’s cheeks were hot with surprise. She hadn’t expected to be praised like this and hadn’t imagined her father keeping up with her career.
But that was so like him: finding things to praise about her from beyond the grave when it couldn’t possibly affect their relationship and didn’t really matter.
Had he been here, she knew that he would only have criticized her.
Maybe he’d have told her her slacks didn’t suit her.
Perhaps he’d have said that she needed to dye her hair.
And although she was proud of that article, she didn’t like to think about Thailand.
“I’ve been very lucky,” Sylvie said next, then cursed herself for dismissing the amount of work she’d done. She’d built this career on her own. Luck had nothing to do with it.
Timothy cleared his throat and removed a thick folder from the second drawer of his desk. He opened it and adjusted his glasses. “I have here the final will and testament of James Bruckson,” he said.
“I don’t want anything,” Sylvie said firmly, surprising herself again. Why had she come all the way here if she wasn’t curious about what he’d left her?
Timothy arched his eyebrow and waited. The silence felt ponderous.
Sylvie finally said, “I’m sorry for interrupting. Please, keep reading.”
Timothy lent her a soft smile. “I know this is a great deal to handle.”
“Just give me the CliffsNotes,” she tried to joke.
“Gotcha.” Timothy leaned back and shuffled the papers. “Your father has left you a very modest inheritance plus the deed to The House on Nantucket.”
Sylvie remembered the little bed-and-breakfast her father had run next door to the family house.
As a little girl, she’d loved greeting the guests, making them little bouquets she picked, asking them questions about the faraway places they’d come from.
Sometimes they’d joked with her father and say, She’s perfect! Can we take her home with us?
“I’ll be selling it,” Sylvie said firmly. She had no interest in going back to the inn where her father had spent most of his time, the little universe he’d built up for people he never really knew.
I needed him, and he only had time for everyone else.
“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Timothy offered.
“Right. So I guess we’re done here?” Sylvie said, shifting forward in her chair.
“Not quite. The thing is, your father put a stipulation in his will,” he said. “If you want to sell the inn, you have to run it for a full year before you can.”
Sylvie’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry?”
Timothy tried to laugh. “I know. I thought it was truly bizarre when I first read it, too.”
“It doesn’t make any sense. I mean, I have a career. I have a life,” Sylvie said. “I really only came back to Nantucket to meet you and, you know…” She trailed off because she couldn’t bring herself to say “funeral.”
“I understand that very well,” he said.
“What happens if I don’t run the inn?”
“It will be sold at auction,” Timothy explained. “The funds will be donated.”
“And where will the donation go?”
Timothy removed his glasses and looked at her. “He’s playing a trick on you. I hope you know that.”
Sylvie’s stomach churned. “What charity?”
Timothy sighed. “It says here he wants the money to be donated to the Next Generation Nantucket Designers.”
“What is that?”
Timothy studied her. “He knew you’d react like this.”
“I can’t react in any way until you tell me what it is,” she said.
Timothy got up and walked to the window. “The Next Generation Nantucket Designers are in charge of brand-new hotel and luxury resort developments on Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard.”
A feeling of dread crept through her. She was beginning to understand.
“So,” she offered, “if I don’t run his stupid inn for a year, all that money will be donated to a company that goes against everything I’ve worked for throughout my entire career?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“And he did this on purpose.”
“It looks like it.” Timothy winced. “I can’t pretend to understand your relationship with your father.”
“I can’t pretend I’ve ever understood it.”
“But I think he loved you, Sylvie. And I think—for better or for worse—this is him trying to draw you closer to him. This is him trying to make you understand him a little bit better.”
“Oh, I understand him.” Sylvie crossed her arms. “That isn’t the problem.”
Timothy dropped his head. “Why don’t you think it over while you’re here? The funeral’s tomorrow. We can meet later this week to discuss your thoughts.”
Sylvie’s head was spinning. She was exhausted after the drive.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll think it over.”
“I hope you’ll let me know if you need anything,” he said.
“I need a better father.” Sylvie sighed.
“Nobody is perfect,” Timothy said with a soft smile.
“Not everyone is manipulative. This is manipulative,” Sylvie said.
There was a knock on the door. The receptionist entered to say that Timothy’s next client had arrived and asked if he was ready to see them.
Timothy gave Sylvie a look that meant he was sorry, that he wished there was more he could do, but that he was bound by the legality of the document on his desk.
Sylvie gathered her things and left without saying goodbye.