10. Archie
Archie
S unday morning I wake up with a start to a foghorn blaring.
I'm an early riser, but five a.m. is ridiculous on a Sunday.
I put a pillow over my face, which barely muffles the sound.
The blaring continues steadily—the same pace, the same volume level—for about a thousand years before I toss the pillow aside and sit up.
The foghorn isn’t coming from outside. It's somewhere in the house, but it's not an alarm I’ve heard before.
This sound is loud and deep, like a nonstop tugboat parade, with each boat blaring its horn in succession.
I kick off the covers and slip on my trackies—no wandering around pants-less with Piper in the house—and follow the sound of the horn to her bedroom.
I knock and wait. There's no answer, so I crack the door open and peek inside.
Her bed is empty. I push open the door a little wider—still no Piper.
But I find the source of the sound next to the bed.
An old school alarm clock. I switch it off, then scroll through the settings until I find the volume level. Yep, it's at ten.
I’m about to turn it down, then stop. If Piper needs an alarm this loud to get her up in the mornings, I probably shouldn’t mess with it the day before her internship starts; although she obviously didn’t need it this morning.
There's no way I'm going back to sleep now, so I wander downstairs, checking my phone messages on the way, just in case Dad has changed his mind since our convo yesterday, which didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.
I wanted to avoid a confrontation, so instead of refusing to sign so that I can sell the house, I came up with a plan that would benefit everyone, including Piper and Cynthia.
I told Dad he should give Cynthia ten million dollars instead of the house.
I sold the idea as a less expensive option for him—the house is worth at least twelve million.
In reality, Cynthia would come out the winner.
She’d have plenty of money to buy Piper a house and still have cash left over to live on herself.
On the flip side, if she keeps this house, she’s going to have a massive tax bill come next year and won’t have money to pay it.
Dad’s adamant, though, about not negotiating with her lawyers anymore. Not only is he confident Cynthia would only demand more money, he’s also confident that my idea to sell the house to fund my surf wear company—Bombora—is, to quote him, “daft” when I don’t even have a business plan.
“Then give me time to create one,” I’d told him. “Two weeks to prove I know what I’m doing. If you don’t like the plan, I’ll come home. If you do like it, give me access to my trust, and I’ll use the money there to fund it. Cynthia can keep the house. You don’t have to deal with her lawyers.”
Dad was quiet long enough, I thought he might be considering my idea until he’d said, “I don’t think so, Archibald. Let’s stick to our plan for you to come home Monday.”
I was so surprised that, for a second, my mind went blank. Then everything went black, and I heard someone say, “No!”
In the next second, I realized it was me.
“Excuse me?” Dad said.
And I knew if I backed down then, I’d not only be in Brisbane by Monday, I’d be under his thumb for the rest of my life.
“I’m not signing the deed until you give me the chance to create a business plan and seriously consider making me the trustee of my own money.” The words came out in a rush of heat.
“Archibald, are you threatening me?” The calm in Dad’s voice was more terrifying than if he'd yelled.
“I'm asking you to give me a chance, Dad.” My chest rose and fell in heavy breaths while I waited for his reply.
“Two weeks,” he’d finally said. “You get to be the one to tell Piper she’ll have to leave the house until then. I’ve paid enough of that girl’s expenses already. She doesn’t need free room and board from me before the house is Cynthia’s.”
Then he’d hung up, and I’d gone to tell Piper she’d have to leave.
Somehow what came out of my mouth was that we’d be sharing the house for the next two weeks.
Truth is, I feel a bit bad that Piper got dragged into this. It really has nothing to do with her, and there’s enough room here for both of us. I can’t kick her out.
There aren’t any messages from Dad or Sybil, but there is a text from Dex:
Found a place. Don’t worry about me they’re hand-shaped by the most talented blokes in the business. Can’t risk them getting stolen from the garage or an outdoor shed.”
I don’t understand why I feel I have to explain myself. Piper doesn’t know I’m thinking about her not being a kid anymore, and I sound like an idiot.
I pick out which board will work best on the low waves today, grab my wetsuit, and head for the door.
"Have a good surf," she says, breathing heavily.
Which really doesn’t help my focus.
It occurs to me that I could invite Piper to come with me. She used to surf. She might like to today. And while I was successful at avoiding her yesterday, that’s going to be more difficult for an entire two weeks.
I walk past her and pause, the invitation on the tip of my tongue when I change my mind. It’s better not to get too friendly. And best not to give my addled brain anymore opportunities for inappropriate thoughts. I’m not sure what it might convince me of if I were to see Piper in a bikini.
Instead of an invitation, I tell her, “I moved out of the upstairs bathroom yesterday, so you have it to yourself. I’ll use the one down here.”
“I noticed. Thanks.”