Chapter 3 #2
My father doesn’t like people causing a scene that might reflect poorly on him.
And the irony of that isn’t lost on me, given the choices he’s made.
I suppose when you’re the king, you’re privy to all the resources required to bury ugly little secrets.
My dad clears his throat as he shifts his gaze to his empty wine glass and the bottle of red being presented by our server at his other side.
My dad swirls a sample of the wine in his glass then swallows it.
“That’s fine, yes.” He nods while reading the label. Our server pours a glass for three of us, and I push mine toward the center of the table when he leaves. My father wrinkles his nose.
“You have a problem with wine?” he says.
I shake my head.
“Just trying to keep a clear head,” I say.
“She didn’t have to come,” Caleb says, finally responding to my father’s jab about Saylor being cast aside at her own party. I grab the water glass to my right and take a sip to keep myself from snickering.
My father’s palm slams down on the linen-covered table, the silverware and water glasses buzzing with the sudden tremor. Caleb jumps in his seat, and I sink back, getting more comfortable for the show.
“Allison has been loyal to this family . . . to me.”
I cough out a short laugh that earns me a sharp glare, my father’s nostrils flaring. Maybe even smoking.
“Sorry, loyal. Continue.” I lift my hand and swallow down all the bullshit I know about how far Saylor’s mom’s loyalty goes. Besides, I know better than to deflect for Caleb. My days of taking the heat so he could skate by are long gone. He’s a big boy.
“Allison pulled your little party together. Every little whim you had, she made happen. You’d be wise to remember that,” our father continues, his ire back where I’d like it to stay.
Directed at my brother. “And maybe have a little respect for her daughter, who I believe was shacking up in your room only a week ago?”
My brother’s eyes haven’t left the center of the table since my father’s hand came down on it, but he manages to squeak out, “Yes, sir.”
The cloud of tension settling over us bursts with the delivery of our salads, and my father shifts his personality again, pretending to give a shit about Caleb’s fraternity bid when he gets to college.
My gaze drifts back to the envelope, which has been pushed aside to make room for our meals.
But its presence is everything. I know it in my gut.
I nudge the leafy greens around my plate and pick out some nuts and tomatoes until I can’t handle the small talk that doesn’t involve me any longer.
“I’ve got a busy day, Dad. Can we get to the point of this?
” I wipe the corners of my mouth with my napkin then toss it on top of my barely eaten lobster salad.
My father’s gaze remains fixed on my slight for a breath before he sets his knife and fork down and dabs the corners of his mouth with his own napkin.
He sets the linen to the side and brings his elbows to the table, rubbing his hands together as his head falls to the side and his eyes zero in on me.
“I’m sorry, Rowan. I didn’t mean to interrupt your booming oil change business—”
“Okay, you know what?” I get up from my chair, not really in the mood for my father’s insults about the direction I decided to take my life.
“Relax, relax,” he says, gesturing his splayed hand toward my abandoned seat. I take a deep breath and sit down, my hands splayed on my thighs, giving me something to squeeze and release my frustration.
My father’s gaze sticks to mine as his right palm covers the ominous envelope.
He lifts it, balancing it on its edge and tapping it on the table almost as if to show off its weight.
When he finally unfolds the top and pulls out two sets of folded documents, both my brother and I lean in with our forearms on the table, like good students.
I have a feeling, though, that our motivations are vastly different.
Where Caleb is likely curious, maybe even excited, I’m soaked in caution.
If the years I have on my brother of watching, studying my father’s every move, have taught me one thing, it’s that anything David Anderson puts on paper is probably written with poison and blood.
“As you both may or may not know, my marriage last year to Lindsey prompted a review of my estate, and I’ve been putting off updates to my will because . . . well . . . I don’t have a good taste in my mouth when it comes to dying.”
Caleb chuckles along with my father, but I remain stone cold silent. My father’s gaze squares on me.
“Maybe you’re warmer to the idea of me no longer being here.” He couches his dig as a continuation of his morbid joke, but I note the subtle shift in the tone of his laugh. It’s loaded with passive aggression.
“I just don’t like thinking about you and death, is all.
There’s so much finality to it.” My response is honest, but I don’t voice my motivation.
I don’t like thinking about it because it’s going to come with more emotional stress for my mom, renewed disappointment in my brother, who will no doubt salivate at the wealth he’ll inherit, and I will be forced to take my share of money I never wanted in the first place.
Unless, of course, this lunch is about taking me out of the will completely. I perk up.
“How benevolent.” The way my father’s tongue curls around that word reminds me of a snake.
“Hmmm. Indeed,” I say, glancing to the papers my father continues to cradle between his hands.
“Right.” He splits the documents and passes one to me, the other to Caleb, and we both spend a few seconds silently reading the cover page.
“It’s all there, very standard. I’m not cutting Lindsey into the will. She will have her own earnings from being my wife, and that should serve her fine.”
“Romantic,” I joke under my breath.
My father clears his throat, but I remain unfazed.
I don’t like Lindsey. She’s only four years older than me, and my father married her after meeting her on a whirlwind ski trip last year.
She’s a viper. But I guess, who isn’t. Everyone linked to my dad seems to be one, or at least in training to gain their fangs.
“Everything will be divided equally between you two, into trusts. This will codify that,” my father explains.
“Equal?” My brother’s objection makes me smirk, but I don’t divert my attention from the words I’m trying to decipher on page two.
“He is your family, Caleb. Just because he doesn’t believe in working a proper job—”
He’s baiting me, but I know better than to engage, so I merely glance up from the pages while my brother does the work.
“I’m the one coming to work for you. This will be my hard work, too.” My brother whines a lot for a guy about to head off to college.
Our father flattens his hand on Caleb’s contract and forces my brother to look him in the eyes.
“And I have no doubt you will one day soar far beyond me and be an incredible success.” My brother blinks at my father’s syrupy praise. It makes me want to vomit, but my dad seems to have uttered the perfect phrase to cast Caleb back under his spell.
With the timid nod of a spoiled child who was just handed a consolation prize and told to be grateful, Caleb takes the pen my father holds out for him and scribbles his name on a line next to today’s date.
It’s a tiny clue that stabs at my gut, and when I flip to the final page of my document, I find the freshly typed date there, too.
“You pull this right from the printer or something?” I quirk a brow and tap on the date with my finger.
My father shrugs, taking the pen from Caleb’s hand and holding it out for me.
“I don’t know when Allison printed them. She handled the details,” he says.
My father has incredible discipline. It’s made him a shark in business. It’s let him pull apart companies under the guise of helping the little guy. And I can’t help but feel like I’m on the opposite end of a high-stakes poker table in a basement right now.
“I’d like to take it home and read it first, if you don’t mind,” I say, pushing his hand down and refusing the pen.
His mouth pulls tight, the slight flex where it puckers at the edges the only physical sign that I’ve made him mad. But he is angry. I swear I can smell the shift in the air. It smells acrid, like dawn after a gunfight.
“Sure,” he says, moving the pen away. Giving in. I don’t buy it, though.
“I probably should have held off when you needed that lawyer, too. You know, to make sure that I fully vetted the situation you found yourself in before coming to the rescue.” He slowly slides the pen back toward me.
I chew at the inside of my cheek as our eyes duel briefly, my heart paused, probably considering how much it’s worth to keep beating if I’m stuck in a situation like this.
I take the pen. He knew I would. My brother’s knife saws against his plate as he digs in to finish his salad. He’s the only one left eating. I lost my appetite the moment my father called for us to meet.
My gaze drops back to the signature page, the date now hitting me like a vital timestamp that I will forever remember. Adjusting my elbow on the table, I glance up to meet my father’s glare. He blinks slowly.
“One day you can donate everything you inherit. Does that make you feel better?” he says.
“Only mildly better than burning it,” I respond, scratching my name across the line before dropping the pen to the paper and pushing them away.
“You do seem to like playing with fire,” my father incites.
Unlike Caleb, however, I only feel beholden to this man to a point. I signed his fucking trust papers. I am not, however, sticking around for more insults and dessert.
“Caleb, it’s been nice. Sort of. Dad, it’s been . . .” I draw in a deep breath as I stand from the table and remind myself that I’m building a legacy of my own far away from this toxic one being thrust at me.
I nod to Rob as I leave the restaurant, his shoulders once again ratcheted up to his ears with stress. Pausing just before the exit, I fish out my wallet and pull out the two hundred dollar bills I won at pick-up basketball last weekend, and turn back to hand them to Rob.
“Thank you for your hospitality, or something,” I mutter, not sure how to couch this tip.
“Wow, uh . . . thanks,” he says, tucking the cash in his suit jacket pocket as I wave off his gratitude. I don’t want him feeling like that’s a payoff. If anything, it’s restitution for years of empty promises from his most difficult clientele.
I pull my phone out of my pocket when my feet reach the parking lot, and when I read the message from Miguel asking if I’m down for a trip up north this week to pick up an investment car he found online and wants to flip, I jokingly ask if I can leave right now.
MIGUEL: It’s not ready until Thursday but you do you, man.
A four-day road trip with spotty phone service is tempting after that lunch, but I guess I can drown myself in engine work until then.
SAYLOR: I’m keeping the shirt.
Or other distractions . . .