4. Jake
4
JAKE
“Catching up with an old friend,” I announce to the crowd, feeling like the outsider I am in this town. “Remember to always use a crosswalk.”
A few onlookers wave and nod before moving down the sidewalk or returning to the stores lining the street. I’m not sure if anyone recognizes me as Gilbert Byrne’s grandson or remembers the summer I spent raising hell in this town after my brother died. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
Skylark has been my grandfather’s home for the past twenty years, but it isn’t mine. I’ve come to Colorado for him and our family’s legacy, and then I’m out of here. The beauty of the remote age of office work is I can run the foundation from Austin just as easily as I can in Skylark.
My grandpa explained how Iris had been appointed mayor months ago, but somehow I figured I could avoid her during my visit. She shot that plan all to hell when she rushed across the street without looking. I’m sure she didn’t expect someone to come barreling around the corner, especially someone who had been texting and driving. Not that I’m admitting it to her. I want to claim no hard feelings about how things ended between us, but the sharp ache in my heart after seeing her only reminds me that where Iris is concerned, the emotions are like a dry, crusty scab over a cut that just won’t heal.
Glancing at my watch as I climb back into the truck, I toss my phone on the bench seat next to me—there’s nothing I need it for anyway—and start the six-mile drive to my grandfather’s ranch. Thankfully, the pastry box on the passenger side floor wasn’t jostled in my near miss with Iris.
The Colorado scenery never ceases to amaze me. Jagged peaks of the nearby Flatirons dominate the horizon, and the mountainsides display patches of vivid yellow as aspens stand out against the dark pines. Clusters of cottonwoods border the creek that winds to the south of the highway, golden leaves shimmering in the bright afternoon sun. The light is less intense than in the summer months, everything bathed in a gentle glow. I can feel the change of seasons in the air and hope to tap into that energy. I’m going to need it.
As I pull to a stop in the wide gravel driveway, I tell myself I’m ready for this. Despite my run-in with Iris, I’m ready to prove I’m not the screwup everyone thinks I am.
Everything about my grandfather’s sprawling ranch is picture-postcard perfect, except for the man stepping out of the front door. I grab the bakery box, roll my shoulders against the tension that has immediately gathered there, and adopt a sneer—the expression my father expects from me.
“Hey there, Daddio,” I call good-naturedly. Neither of us are fooled.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I hold up the box. “Can I offer you a donut?”
It’s Dad’s turn to sneer. I doubt he’s allowed even a crumb of white flour, let alone processed sugar, to pass over his lips into the temple of his body. When we were kids, Mike would use his allowance to bribe the housekeeper into bringing us candy, cupcakes, and cookies. We’d sit on the floor of his closet and laugh and feast until our bellies hurt, and then laugh some more. My older-by-eighteen-months brother had an insatiable sweet tooth and would continue shoveling in the junk food long after I gave up, rolling around on the carpeted floor, nauseous and begging for release.
But when Dad discovered our stash of sweet treats, Mike wasn’t the one blamed, despite his admission that the whole thing had been his idea. Oh, no. I was relegated to flavorless chicken, white rice, and water for a month. Denelle, our kind-hearted housekeeper, was replaced by a stern-faced battle-axe of a woman who took a perverse pleasure in ensuring Mikey and I had access to zero sugar-laden treats.
The whole situation, the association with my father’s angry face, ruined my taste for dessert. But not Mike. My brother wouldn’t be denied or let himself rot under my father’s domineering thumb. He was shrewder about his rebellion, a skill I never learned.
Case in point, I open the box lid and shove half a maple-glazed donut into my mouth, noisily licking my fingertips as Lane Byrne watches with undisguised disgust. Overindulging in a blood-sugar-spiking pastry isn’t the first thing my father has unfairly judged me for and won’t be the last.
“He’ll never give the reins of the foundation to you,” he says, his voice a razor’s edge.
“You think he’ll give it to you?” I ask, forcing myself to swallow the donut that suddenly tastes like sandpaper in my mouth.
“If the alternative is having some pampered rich boy spending the endowment on blow and prostitutes, absolutely.”
I smile, wide and slow. “I gave up blow years ago. My nose is too pretty. Besides, we’re in Colorado. Wacky weed is more the style out here.”
He gives a derisive snort. “That doesn’t make it any better.”
“Try a gummy, Dad. Might relax you enough to pull that stick out of your ass.”
If a jaw could turn to stone, my dad’s features would be plastered on the face of Mount Rushmore right now. I shouldn’t take so much pleasure in baiting him, but he makes it so damn easy.
“You can’t fake your way into being a responsible grown-up, Jake.”
“How much do you hate that you could lose to a loser like me?”
A muscle ticks in his cheek. Not quite granite, after all. “I wouldn’t lose anything. Unlike you, I’ve made something of myself. I walked away to prove to my father that I could become something on my own. Assure him I’m worthy of stewarding his legacy. I’ve always had a master plan. You aren’t part of it.”
“We don’t need to rehash your opinion of me when we both know it. You think the wrong son died on that boat all those years ago.” The moment the words escape, I feel hollowed out, like I've ripped something essential from my core and laid it bare between us.
He closes his eyes. For a moment, pain spreads across his face, like a crack in a window, expanding until the whole thing feels like it might shatter. The answering emotion that wells inside me takes my breath away. I live with that same pain, loss, regret, and grief. Every damn day.
It’s been five years since I’ve seen my father in person. Since my mother orchestrated a reunion dinner that ended with my dad tossing his bourbon in my face and storming out. The giant ice cube stung like a son of a bitch.
“I never said those words,” he tells me quietly.
“You didn’t need to.”
His gaze crashes into mine, hazel eyes with the same flecks of gold. I don’t spend much time looking in the mirror, mostly because I hate my resemblance to him. He’s the last person I want to see gazing back at me.
“Why are you really here, Jake? Did you run out of yachts to party on? And what makes you think you’re remotely qualified to handle the foundation?”
“I’m qualified because I care .”
His eyes narrow. “You don’t care about anything or anyone but yourself.”
My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “I know you blame me for Mikey’s death,” I say, my voice low. “Maybe I should have been able to save him. But I didn’t, and I live with that every day. Running the foundation is my chance to do something good. Mikey believed in helping people. I want to honor him. And I’m done letting people think I’m a screw-up.”
“Your brother was ten times the man you’ll ever be, even as a kid.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, but I force my shoulders to stay relaxed. “Great catching up, Dad , but I’ve got some donuts to deliver.” I glance at my watch. “Nearly ten-thirty. Might be time to rip the day’s first bong hit. I know you appreciate a schedule.”
His lip curls into a sneer before he turns and walks away, his boots crunching on the gravel. I stand there, watching him go. My chest feels tight, like the weight of his disapproval is crushing me. As I head toward the house, the stupid, secret part of me that has always hoped my father and I could find a way past our mutual animosity gives a limp protest. I shove that mangy beast into the dark cave where I’ve kept it all these years.
My grandfather is at the kitchen table, finishing his green tea and the New York Times crossword puzzle. I smile when he looks up and try not to let guilt prick tiny holes in my righteous anger. The truth is, I’ve mostly seen my grandfather when he’s come to Texas for visits with the foundation staff who work in the satellite office in downtown Austin. Skylark holds too many memories—most of them not good—for me to feel comfortable here.
“Did you know they put a second stoplight on Main Street?” I ask. “This town is coming into its own.”
“You doing okay?” He takes off his glasses and rubs two fingers over his eyes. “You probably realize I sent you on the pastry errand not because I had a hankering for donuts. I knew your dad was coming by this morning but hoped he’d be gone by the time you got back.”
I place the box on the table and grab the other half of the maple donut. I’m already feeling sick. Might as well continue the fun.
“How do you know we had a run-in? Were you peeping out the front window?”
His grin widens, and he pulls a cell phone from under the newspaper. “No peeping necessary when I’ve got cameras on my doorbell. Makes it feel like I’m watching a movie playing in my driveway. Looked like a standoff at the O.K. Corral out there.”
“No standoff,” I answer, unsure whether to admire or fear that my eighty-five-year-old grandfather is embracing modern technology. “I gave up fighting with him or trying to prove something a long time ago.”
Grandpa doesn’t argue, but I’m not sure he believes me. I’m not sure I believe me. “I’m glad you’re here, Jake.”
“He won’t do right by the foundation, Grandpa. We both know it.”
“And you will?” He gives me the same arched brow treatment I gave Iris. It’s a small comfort knowing I look like my grandfather as well as my dad. “You haven’t shown much interest in our philanthropic efforts before now.”
I incline my head. “Talk to the grants manager in Austin. I’ve been doing more—learning the ropes.” Maybe it’s not enough, but I’m trying.
“Dad wants the glory. He doesn’t care about truly helping people.”
“I appreciate that.” Grandpa sighs, and that exhalation of breath feels like it carries a deeper message.. “But it’s going to take more than donuts. You want to learn…I’ll teach you.” He taps his pen on the newspaper. “But first, I need some help with this. It's a four letter word and the clue is ‘a mountain for the mind.’”
Is he punking me?
“I’ll take a jelly donut, too,” Grandpa says as he waits. It doesn’t look like he picked this crossword clue because he’s trying to subtly give me a clue as to what’s in store for this visit.
I take a plate from the cabinet, set the jelly donut on it and then slide it in front of him.
“Test, Grandpa.” I make sure my tone stays light and ignore the gleam in his eyes. “The word you’re looking for is test.”
It won’t be easy, but I hope I pass the one I’m facing here in Skylark.