7. Jake
7
JAKE
“Are you sure I can’t head straight to the office like a regular employee? I’m certain you’re plenty capable of getting yourself to your dance class, Gramps.”
He cackles—literally cackles—from the passenger side of the truck. “There’s nothing regular about you, Jakey.”
He pats the dashboard with gnarled fingers. Although Gilbert Byrne still has a thick head of shockingly white hair,he’s plagued by arthritis and various other issues that have aged his body, but not his mind. “I know you’re going to love Char, short for Charlotte—she’s our instructor—and the others, just like I knew I needed to keep this old girl running for when you came back.”
“Can we at least talk about your visions for the future on the way to your dance class?” I can hardly believe my grandfather is taking dance lessons, let alone enjoying them so much. I suppose moving is good for him, but dancing?
“ Our dance class,” he clarifies.
A knot forms in my stomach. “Uh…I don’t think so. I’m dropping you off and then heading to the nearest coffee shop to get some work done.”
“The hell you are.” Grandpa sits back against the seat. “There’s a new gal starting today who’ll need a partner, so you’re joining the class. I already talked to Char and got you enrolled. Char’s the best. She spent years dancing on cruise ships and man, can she move.”
My jaw drops. “You aren’t serious. I don’t have time for?—”
“You can make time for this. It’s an hour twice a week. Although you and the new gal might need some extra practice. We can’t have you embarrassing us before the big show.”
“Whoa! Big show? Let’s pump the plié brakes,” I tell him.
“It’s not ballet, Jakey. It’s couples dancing—ballroom. Like on those reality competition shows. It’s real popular. You’re going to love it.”
“Grandpa, if I’m going to show you I’m the right guy to take the reins of the Byrne Family Foundation, I think my attention should be on that.”
“I disagree.” The amusement has drained from his voice, and I glance over, trying to mask my frustration and panic.
“You disagree that I’m the right person to take over the foundation?” Sure, most people think I’m a trustafarian slacker, but I thought my grandfather saw more. I wanted to believe he saw the me I could be if given the chance. “Why did you invite me here to discuss the opportunity? Why not just make the announcement that Dad’s your successor?”
“Pump the jumping to conclusions brakes, kid. I’m not ready to make an announcement on who will take the reins, and I won’t be rushed on my decision. I disagree about where your attention should be while you’re here. Don’t get your britches in a twist.”
Grandpa means business when he starts talking britches, so even though it’s killing me, I keep my mouth shut.
“We have your reputation to consider if you truly want to be thought of as a viable candidate.” His voice is gentle even though the words land like a lead weight. “Your lifestyle is public knowledge.”
I know my reputation. I’m the one who cultivated it, even after I outgrew that version of myself. “What does me being a slacker have to do with dance class?”
“I’m happy you’re interested in our family’s legacy, but the foundation is about commitment to the communities we serve in Colorado and Texas. You don’t stick with things.”
“I can stick,” I tell him. In the past decade, I’ve written and published eight bestselling mysteries and learned a metric shit ton about dedication, time, effort, and hard work. But I’ve also kept my career a massive secret from the world. Not even my grandfather knows about that part of my life, and even though the secret is coming back to bite me in the ass, I don’t plan to share that information with anyone.
But, seriously? I can’t stick? All I do is stick—for my readers, my publisher, and my brother’s memory. Using a pen name started so I wouldn’t have to explain that I was, in essence, stealing my dead brother’s dream. It’s allowed me to honor his memory on my own terms, preserving control and keeping the focus on the books.
I made a vow when I started writing, and I won’t go back on it now. I have to find another way to convince my grandfather I’m not the silver-spoon slacker everyone thinks I am.
“How many sports did you play growing up?”
I tap my thumb on the steering wheel. “Plenty of kids are multi-sport athletes.”
“How many full seasons did you make it through on a team?”
“I don’t like being told what to do.” I also didn’t appreciate being compared to my older brother and coming up short every time. It seemed easier to go in a different direction than Mike, which happened to be quitting.
“How many schools did you attend?”
“I get your point.”
“What about college?”
“It wasn’t the right fit.”
“Three semesters at Yale. Three.”
“Who cares? All I ever heard from Dad was that Yale isn’t Harvard.”
According to the GPS, we’ve almost made it to the dance studio, and I want nothing more than to drop the old man off and keep driving. Every sideways glance from him just confirms what I already know—he still sees me as that irresponsible teenager, not someone worthy of carrying on his legacy.
Grandpa pats my arm, and even though I’m still frustrated, the blame lies with me for not giving him a reason to believe I’ve changed. The worst part? How much it stings. Like I'm seventeen again and desperate for his approval
“I need to know you’re committed and not just looking for an opportunity to beat your father. The foundation means the world to me. The staff and the people we serve are family, Jake. Family matters.”
My life has been devoted to honoring Mike’s dream of writing books, but it’s become even bigger than either of us could have imagined. Family matters most, but I’ve let the past overshadow everything.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the truck’s engine. The breeze whips a few bright yellow leaves across the windshield, and I feel like I’m swirling the same way, unsure of my path and where I’ll land.
I could so easily reveal my identity as NYT bestseller Spencer Charles, but that feels like selling out on my brother. I wrote that first book as a way to finally deal with my grief from losing him, and I never intended to take credit for a career that should have been his if he’d lived.
My grandpa, like everyone else, thinks I’ve spent the better part of ten years partying and surfing and squandering my life. If a dance class is going to help him think I can commit to something, what the hell will it hurt? Probably a lot less than receiving kudos for success that doesn’t truly feel like it belongs to me.
“Do you know why I signed up for this dancing class?”
“An excuse to wear tight pants and get a spray tan like the reality show dancers?”
“I did it for a woman.”
An answer I hadn’t expected. “What woman?”
“Gloria Johnson.”
“Former U.S. Senator Johnson?”
“The very one. She’s a force to be reckoned with. I haven’t met a woman with her character since…since your grandmother passed away fifteen years ago.”
“Good for you, Gramps. It’s about time you climbed back on that horse.”
He shakes his head. “This isn’t about climbing or horses. It’s about putting yourself out there and sticking with something. I started dancing because of Gloria, but I’ve stayed with it for me. The connection and collaboration invigorate me, just like running the foundation did for so many years. I want to share that with you. Dance is more than just moving better—it teaches you how to live better.”
“Deep thoughts with Gilbert Byrne,” I mutter.
“I also get my hands on Gloria twice a week,” he adds with a mischievous laugh.
“My corneas are burning at the mental image.” I mock shudder, then meet his gaze. “Why not just ask her out?”
“She said no,” he answers simply. “But I’m not giving up. I’m?—”
“Sticking,” I say with an eye roll. “Fine. I’ll partner up with your new gal. I’m sticking, too, Grandpa. And I’m going to prove it to you in whatever way works.”
If a few weeks of dancing with one of Skylark’s fleet-footed geriatrics gets me closer to my goal, then it’ll be worth it. If I can prove to both my grandfather and the people around here that I’m not the same person some of them remember from that wild and regrettable summer after my brother died, even better.
Grandpa squeezes my shoulder as we enter the studio’s lobby. “You won’t regret this, kid.”
Several couples are gathered inside a large studio. Framed photos of dancers line the far wall, while the one closest to us is mirrored floor to ceiling.
A woman who looks to be in her late thirties, wearing a fitted top and flowing skirt, steps out of a small office to greet us. “Hello, Gilbert. And you must be Jake.”
“Yup.” I hold out my hand to shake hers. “Based on your impeccable posture, I’m guessing you’re Charlotte, my new dance instructor.”
She carries herself with poise and grace, her dark hair tied back in a low bun. Her features are striking but approachable, and her dark red lips curve into a smile as she takes my hand. “Call me Char. I recognize the devilish twinkle in your eyes. Just like your grandfather.”
“This one’s trouble,” Grandpa confirms, and my stomach tightens. I’ve always been the troublesome brother.
Char must sense that the joke falls flat with me because she squeezes my hand a little tighter. “We’re happy to have you join us. Come in and meet everyone. What size shoe do you wear, Jake?”
“Thirteen,” I answer, eliciting a throaty laugh.
“I like big feet in a man,” she says, linking her arm with mine. Maybe this dance class is going to get spicier than I anticipated.
She leads me into the studio with Grandpa following. The floors are the same light wood as the lobby area, and a wide bank of windows lets in the morning light.
“Everyone, help me welcome our newest student.”
I recognize Gloria Johnson as the members of the class approach. Her smile is warm, and her eyes bright as she gives Grandpa a little wave.
“Are you my partner?” I ask the woman standing next to Gloria. Both of their faces are lined with soft wrinkles, but the former senator is taller, her hair styled in a classic bob. She exudes confidence and looks elegant in her cashmere sweater and dark pants.
The woman I assume to be my partner could be a stand-in for Mrs. Claus. Her eyes twinkle and her posture is slightly stooped, but her smile is bright and welcoming.
“Not so fast, kid.” A tall, balding man with a slight paunch steps forward and shoots me a glare. “Janie is mine.” He puts a protective arm around Mrs. Claus’s shoulder. “In dance class and life.”
“Fifty-five years last week,” Janie confirms, holding up her left hand. “We’re glad you’re here, Jake. Your grandfather said you’re a great dancer.”
Grandpa elbows me and says, “Jake’s got all the right moves.”
I’d like to move right on out of this place.
“Here she is now,” Char announces before I can make an escape. “Our other new student.”
I turn with the rest of the group, and suddenly I’m not going anywhere.