Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
“ W hat the hell?” I ask aloud. In a flash, I realize I’ve lost the damn Oscar, and to my horror I’m not the least bit gracious. In fact, I’m unabashedly pissed.
Midar looks at me over his tortoiseshell frames. “I’m sorry? Would you like me to repeat that?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer, my eyes traveling from one family member to the next, hoping for a show of support. Jay’s eyes are sympathetic, but Joad can’t even look at me. He’s doodling on his legal pad, his jaw twitching manically. And Catherine, well, she really could have been an actress, because the look of incredulity on her face is completely believable.
Mr. Midar leans nearer to me and speaks deliberately, as if I’m his infirm old grandmother. “Your mother’s shares of Bohlinger Cosmetics will go to your sister-in-law, Catherine.” He holds out the official document for me to see. “You’ll each get a copy of this, but you’re welcome to read mine now.”
I scowl and wave him off, trying my damnedest to breathe. “No. Thank you,” I manage. “Continue. Please. I’m sorry.” I slouch into my chair and bite my lip to keep it from trembling. There must be a mistake. I…I’ve worked so hard. I wanted to make her proud. Did Catherine set me up? No, she’d never be that cruel.
“That about wraps up this part of the process,” he tells us. “I do have one private matter to discuss with Brett.” He looks at me. “Do you have time now, or shall we arrange to meet another day?”
I’m lost in a fog, struggling to make my way out. “Today’s fine,” someone says in a voice that sounds like mine.
“Okay, then.” He scans the faces at the table. “Any questions before we adjourn?”
“We’re all set,” Joad says. He rises from his chair and searches for the door like a prisoner going for the break.
Catherine checks her phone for messages and Jay rushes to Midar, full of gratitude. He glances at me but quickly averts his eyes. My bro feels sheepish, no doubt. And I feel sick. The only one familiar to me is Shelley, with her unruly brown curls and soft gray eyes. She opens her arms and pulls me into a hug. Not even Shelley knows what to say to me.
In turns, my sibs shake Mr. Midar’s hand while I sit silent in my chair like the naughty student who’s been kept after class. As soon as they leave, Midar closes the door. When it shuts, it’s so silent I can hear the swish of blood as it races past my temples. He returns to his seat at the head of the table, so that we form a right angle. His face is smooth and tan, and his brown eyes softly incongruent with his angular features.
“You doing all right?” he asks me, as if he actually wants an answer. We must be paying him by the hour.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. Poor, motherless, and humiliated, but fine. Just fine .
“Your mother worried that today would be especially hard on you.”
“Really?” I say with a bitter little cackle. “She thought it might upset me to be written out of her will?”
He pats my hand. “That’s not entirely true.”
“Her only daughter, and I get nothing. Nada. Not even a token piece of furniture. I’m her daughter, damn it.”
I yank my hand from his and bury it on my lap. When I lower my gaze, it lands on my emerald ring, meanders up to my Rolex watch, and eventually falls on my Cartier Trinity bracelet. I look up and see something resembling disgust darken Mr. Midar’s lovely face.
“I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m selfish and spoiled. You think this is about money, or power.” My throat tightens. “The thing is, yesterday all I wanted was her bed. That’s it. I just wanted her old antique…” I rub the knot in my throat. “Bed…so I could curl up and feel her…”
To my horror, I begin to weep. Dainty at first, my whimpers turn into misshapen, blustery sobs. Midar races to his desk in search of tissues. He hands me one and pats my back while I fight to regain my composure. “I’m sorry,” I croak. “This is all…very hard for me.”
“I understand.” The shadow that crosses his face makes me think he really might.
I dab my eyes on the tissue. One deep breath. Now another . “Okay,” I say, teetering on the edge of composure. “You said you had some business to discuss.”
He pulls a second manila file from a leather portfolio and places it on the table before me. “Elizabeth had something different in mind for you.”
He opens the file and hands me a piece of yellowed notebook paper. I stare at it. The mosaic creases tell me it had once been wadded into a tight little ball. “What’s this?”
“A life list,” he tells me. “ Your life list.”
It takes several seconds before I recognize that this is, indeed, my handwriting. My flowery, fourteen-year-old handwriting. Apparently I’d written a life list, though I have no recollection of it. Beside certain goals, I spy my mother’s handwritten commentary.
MY LIFE GOALS
*1. Have a baby, maybe two
2. Kiss Nick Nicol
3. Make the cheerleading squad Congratulations. Was that so important?
4. Earn straight A’s Perfection is overrated .
5. Ski the Alps What fun we had!
*6. Get a dog
7. Answer correctly when Sister Rose calls on me and I’m talking to Carrie
8. Go to Paris Ah, the memories we made!
*9. Stay friends with Carrie Newsome forever !
10. Go to Northwestern I’m so proud of my Wildcat!
11. Be super friendly and nice Way to go!
*12. Help poor people
*13. Have a really cool house
*14. Buy a horse
15. Run with the bulls Don’t even think about it .
16. Learn French Très bien!
*17. Fall in love
*18. Perform live, on a super big stage
*19. Have a good relationship with my dad
*20. Be an awesome teacher!
“Huh,” I say, scanning the list. “Kiss Nick Nicol. Be a cheerleader.” I smile and slide the list back to him. “Cute. Where’d you get this?”
“Elizabeth. She kept it all these years.”
I cock my head. “So…what? She’s willed me my old life list? Is that it?”
Mr. Midar doesn’t smile. “Well, sort of.”
“What’s going on?”
He scoots his chair closer to mine. “Okay, here’s the deal. Elizabeth fished this list out of the trash years ago. Over the years, every time you accomplished one of your goals, she’d scratch it off.” He points to LEARN FRENCH . “See?”
My mother had slashed a line through the goal and beside it written Très bien!
“But ten goals on the list haven’t been accomplished yet.”
“No kidding. These are nothing like the goals I have now.”
He shakes his head. “Your mother thought these goals were valid, even today.”
I scowl, stung to think she didn’t know me better. “Well, she was wrong.”
“And she’d like you to complete the list.”
My mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be joking.” I shake the list at him. “I wrote these twenty years ago! I’d love to honor my mother’s wishes, but it’s not going to happen with these goals!”
He holds out his hands like a traffic cop. “Whoa, I’m just the messenger.”
I take a deep breath and nod. “I’m sorry.” I sink back into my chair and rub my forehead. “What was she possibly thinking?”
Thumbing through the file, Mr. Midar removes a pale pink envelope. I recognize it at once. Her favorite Crane stationery. “Elizabeth wrote you a letter and she’s asked me to read it aloud to you. Don’t ask me why I can’t just give it to you. She was insistent that I read it aloud.” He gives me a smart-aleck grin. “You do read, don’t you?”
I hide a smile. “Look, I don’t have a clue what my mother was thinking. Before today I’d have said that if she asked you to read it aloud to me, there’s a reason. But today all bets are off.”
“I suspect that’s still the case. She had her reasons.”
My heart quickens at the sound of the tearing envelope. I force myself to sit back and fold my hands on my lap.
Midar positions his reading glasses on his nose and clears his throat.
“‘Dear Brett,
“‘Let me begin by saying how very sorry I am for everything you’ve had to endure these past four months. You were my spine, my soul, and I thank you. I didn’t want to leave you yet. We had so much living and loving left, didn’t we? But you are strong, you will endure, you will even thrive, though you don’t believe me now. I know today you are sad. Let that sadness sit with you a bit.
“‘I wish I were there to help you get through this time of sorrow. I’d grab you into my arms and squeeze you until your breath catches, just like it did when you were a little girl. Or maybe I’d take you to lunch. We’d find a cozy table at The Drake and I’d spend all afternoon listening to your fears and sorrows, rubbing your arm to let you know I feel your pain.’”
Midar’s voice sounds a little thick. He looks over at me. “You okay?”
I nod, unable to speak. He clutches my arm and squeezes before he continues.
“‘You must have been very confused today when your brothers received their inheritance, and you didn’t. And I can only imagine how angry you were when the top job was given to Catherine. Trust me. I know what I’m doing, and everything I do is in your best interest.’”
Midar smiles at me. “Your mother loved you.”
“I know,” I whisper, covering my trembling chin.
“‘One day almost twenty years ago, I was emptying your Beverly Hills, 90210 wastebasket and I found this crumpled ball of paper. Of course, I was too nosy to let it go. You can imagine how delighted I was when I unfurled it and discovered you’d written a life list. I’m not sure why you chose to throw it away, because I thought it was lovely. I asked you about it later that night, do you remember?’”
“No,” I say aloud.
“‘You told me dreams were for fools. You said you didn’t believe in dreams. I think it may have had something to do with your father. He was supposed to have picked you up that afternoon for an outing, but he never came.’”
Pain grips hold of my heart and twists, contorting it into a wretched knot of shame and anger. I bite my bottom lip and squeeze shut my eyes. How many times had Father stood me up? I’ve lost count. After the first dozen times, I should have learned. But I was too gullible. I believed in Charles Bohlinger. Like a mythical Santa Claus, my father would surely appear, if only I believed.
“‘Your life goals touched me deeply. Some were funny, like number seven. Others were serious and compassionate, like number twelve: HELP POOR PEOPLE . You were always such a giver, Brett, such a sensitive, thoughtful spirit. It pains me now to see that so many of your life goals remain unfulfilled.’”
“I don’t want these goals, Mother. I’ve changed.”
“‘Of course you’ve changed,’” Midar reads.
I snatch the letter from him. “Did she really say that?”
He points to the line. “Right here.”
The hairs on my arms rise. “Weird. Keep going.”
“‘Of course you’ve changed, but darling, I fear you’ve abandoned your true aspirations. Do you even have any goals today?’”
“Of course I do,” I say, racking my brain to come up with even one. “Before today, I hoped to run Bohlinger Cosmetics.”
“‘The business was never a fit for you.’”
Before I have time to grab the paper, Mr. Midar leans over, pointing to the sentence.
“Oh, my God. It’s like she’s listening to me.”
“Maybe that’s why she wanted me to read it aloud, so you two could have a bit of dialogue.”
I blot my eyes with a Kleenex. “She always had a sixth sense. Whenever something bothered me, I never had to tell her. She’d tell me. And when I’d try to convince her otherwise, she’d look at me and say, ‘Brett, you’re forgetting, I made you. I’m the one person you can’t fool.’”
“Nice,” he says. “That kind of connection is priceless.”
I see it again, that flash of pain in his eyes. “Have you lost a parent?”
“They’re both alive. They live in Champaign.”
But he doesn’t say whether they’re healthy. I leave it alone.
“‘I regret letting you work for Bohlinger Cosmetics all these years—’”
“Mother! Thanks a lot!”
“‘You were much too sensitive for that environment. You were a born teacher.’”
“Teaching? But I hated teaching!”
“‘You never gave it a fair chance. You had a terrible experience that year at Meadowdale, remember?’”
I shake my head. “Oh, I remember all right. It was the longest year of my life.”
“‘And when you came to me, crying and frustrated and filled with angst, I welcomed you into the business, and found a spot for you in the marketing department. I’d have done anything to erase that pain and worry from your beautiful face. Aside from insisting you maintain your teaching certification over the years, I’ve let you abandon your true dream. I’ve allowed you to stay in a cozy, highly paid job that neither challenges nor excites you.’”
“I like my job,” I say.
“‘Fear of change makes us stagnant. Which leads me back to your life list. Please look at your goals as Brad continues reading.’”
He positions the list in front of us and I study it, more carefully this time.
“‘Of the original twenty, I’ve placed an asterisk beside the ten remaining goals I want you to pursue. Let’s begin with number one: HAVE A BABY , MAYBE TWO. ’ ”
I groan. “This is insane!”
“‘I fear you’ll forever live with a shadow on your heart if children—or at least a child—are not part of your life. Though I know many childless women who are happy, I do not believe you’re one of them. You were my girl who loved her baby dolls, who couldn’t wait to be twelve so she could babysit. You were the girl who used to swaddle Toby the cat in your baby blanket and cry when he’d wriggle free and leap from the rocking chair. Remember, darling?’”
My laugh gets tangled in a sob. Mr. Midar hands me another tissue.
“I do love kids, but…” I cannot finish the thought. It would require me to blame Andrew, and that’s just not fair. For some reason, the tears keep coming. I can’t seem to stop them. Midar waits, until finally I point to the letter and wave him on.
“You sure?” he asks, his hand on my back.
I nod, the tissue pinched on my nose.
He looks skeptical, but he continues.
“‘Let’s skip number two. I hope you did, indeed, kiss Nick Nicol, and I hope it was delightful.’ ”
I smile. “It was.”
Midar winks at me, and together we look at my list.
“‘Let’s move down to number six,’” he reads. “‘ GET A DOG . I think this is a grand idea! Go find your puppy, Brett!’”
“A dog? What makes you think I want a dog? I don’t have time for a fish, let alone a dog.” I look at Brad. “What happens if I don’t complete these goals?”
He pulls out a stack of pink envelopes, bound together with a rubber band. “Your mother stipulated that each time you complete a life goal, you return to me and receive one of these envelopes. Upon completion of all ten goals, you get this.” He holds out an envelope that reads FULFILLMENT .
“What’s in the FULFILLMENT envelope?”
“Your inheritance.”
“Of course,” I say, rubbing my temples. I look him square in the face. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
He lifts his shoulders. “I’m guessing it’ll mean some major life revisions.”
“Revisions? Life as I know it has just been shredded! And I’m supposed to piece it back together in a way that some—some kid wanted it to be?”
“Look, if this is too much for you today, we can arrange to meet again.”
I pull myself to my feet. “It is too much. I came here this morning expecting to walk out the CEO of Bohlinger Cosmetics. I was going to make my mother proud, take the business to new heights.” My throat seizes up and I swallow hard. “Instead I’m supposed to get a horse? Unbelievable!” I blink to keep my tears at bay and extend my hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Midar. I know this isn’t your fault. But I just can’t deal with this right now. I’ll be in touch.”
I’m nearly out the door when Midar rushes to me, waving the life list. “Keep this,” he says, “in case you change your mind.” He tucks the list in my hands. “The clock’s ticking.”
I cock my head. “What clock?”
He looks down at his Cole Haans, sheepish. “You must complete at least one goal by the end of this month. In one year from today—that’d be September thirteenth of next year—the entire list is to be completed.”