Chapter 1 Lucy
LUCY
FOUR WEEKS LATER
I’ve never seen my father look like this.
Furious, and yet utterly humbled. His nondescript brown hair is slicked back to his scalp, revealing a prominent widow’s peak. Machines beep around him, monitoring his heart.
“In many ways, he’s very fortunate, Ms. De Bose,” the doctor says. “Strokes can often cause severe issues that seriously affect standard of living. And heart disease is a silent killer. Aphasia, while complex, will still enable him to function day-to-day.”
My father opens his mouth and strains to say a word, then shakes his head. I can see the vein pulsing at the side of his forehead.
Technically, it’s a little over four weeks since I came back home from New York for the first stroke, all ready with emergency paperwork to be able to practice in Colorado.
The stroke my father ignored because ‘it was minor’, and ‘he was lucky’.
The one where he forcibly told me to get back onto a plane to Manhattan because I was making the illness look worse than it was.
That my arrival would have his rivals circling like vultures.
It’s been four days since this new heart attack and stroke combo hit him far worse than the first stroke did.
I quickly made peace with never seeing him again.
Until Mom called me in tears and told me she couldn’t cope with this on her own.
That I had to protect my family’s good name and reputation.
That she suspected my father may have been involved in things he shouldn’t be, and I was needed to deal with them and protect him before it impacted all of us.
Because of his aphasia, I can’t ask him what those things might be because he’s unable to answer.
I have no love for my father, but I do hold some for my complicated mother, whose motivations have always been confusing to me.
She’s the only reason I haven’t gone non-contact with them.
My father loves her only marginally more than he loves me.
He married her for her family money, even though his own family already had plenty.
He stays married to her for image reasons.
To the best of my knowledge, they’ve slept in separate rooms for over a decade. Dad is married to his legal reputation. Mom is married to the illusion of a happy home and family.
My father spent the first two days in the ICU with a mix of sedation for intubation and brain-pressure management. I left him with my mother while I tried, unsuccessfully, to find out more details about her suspicions.
I’m a defense attorney, and I like to think I help those who most need the help.
My father, on the other hand, deals in the cutthroat world of people and companies trying to evade, well, everything: Taxes.
Environmental responsibilities. Consequences for using cancer-causing chemicals without telling the public.
I feel dirty even touching it.
And if dealing with all this weren’t enough, I’ve put copious amounts of energy into avoiding Zach.
Or Grudge, as it said on his cut. He used to talk so excitedly about being given a road name, about what an honor it would be to receive one.
Seeing him again a month ago, for the first time in a decade, caused my knees to shake.
He’s lost a little of the youthful exuberance I used to love, replaced with a ruthless competence.
If I didn’t know him, I’d be terrified of him.
He’s Grudge now, not Zach, and for my own sanity, I should think of him that way.
Occasionally, I slip but try to correct myself when I do.
Grudge.
Vice president of the Iron Outlaws.
Just like he always wanted.
And yet, a whisper of warmth crept through me when we stood face-to-face. In his eyes, I found the man I loved with every vulnerable piece of my heart.
When I returned to New York, waves of guilt would pass through me. My fiancé, Henry, was happy to have me home, but every now and then, when he touched me, my mind would stray to how it felt to be in Grudge’s orbit.
Although, if I’d known then what I know now about Henry, I wouldn’t have worried.
I shake the thought from my head and look to my father’s doctor.
“My father is a lawyer, Dr. Henderson. A trial lawyer. While he has sufficient funds to live out the rest of his life without working, it’s in his blood. He’s also mid-trial. The inability to speak normally is devastating for him.”
My father slaps the bedding of his hospital bed like a round of applause.
My mother tries to calm him by placing her hand over his, but he shakes her off.
“I understand,” Henderson says. “We’ll make the referral for speech-language pathology to start as soon as possible.
What’s important is we keep your father calm.
” He looks over to my father, who is wearing a venerable sneer.
“And that we push forward with figuring out communication methods between you all. Aphasia can last days, or it may never go away. Only time will tell us what we’re dealing with.
But we need you calm to aid your recovery from the heart attack and stroke. ”
The wide-eyed look on my father’s face says that on a one-to-ten scale of being calm, he’s a solid eleven.
Eventually, Henderson leaves.
I look at the notepad my father has attempted to write notes on all day. The frantic scribbles. The panic. But days of being unable to communicate have taken their toll.
While I have zero respect for my father, having all your mental faculties and being able to understand everything that is said to you, but being unable to find words in reply, let alone being able to say it in any kind of understandable order must be terrifying.
He grabs the pad and manages to scribble a single word.
Work?
“I’ve been in today. Spent the time with Jasmine and Nancy.
” Dad’s assistant and clerk have been invaluable.
Before I even hit the airport a month ago, when Dad had the first stroke, I applied for a pro hac vice admission so I could get permission to practice in Colorado for Dad’s current major case.
But I also filed a notice of emergency medical incapacity.
Thanks to the fact that my father is well known and respected within the Colorado Supreme Court, I was quickly able to get my license to practice here, thanks to bar reciprocity.
A quiet word with a long-time friend of my father greased the wheels.
Like all the privilege I know I stand on, it both bothers me I was able to do that, and yet, I’m grateful that I could.
My father was furious, and the only legal action I undertook while I was here was to support Greer, a favor to the Iron Outlaws’ club lawyer, who encouraged me when I was young to take the legal path.
He failed to mention the favor would involve seeing my ex-husband.
“Judge Boland granted a continuance, but I think the defense will file for a mistrial, even if your most senior associates step in. They are looking for any excuse to stall this.”
Mom nibbles the side of her finger, then, as if realizing what she’s doing, slaps her hand down on her thigh and puts the other hand over it. “This is what I’m worried about.” She glances over to Dad, who doesn’t look at her. “They can’t think you’re incapable of practicing.”
I roll my eyes at this because my father isn’t capable of practicing.
“Lucy, please,” Mom begs. “You need to be your father’s face to the world. If they are granted a mistrial based on your father’s absence, everyone will know how ill he is. Don’t let them do this to his good name.”
“If there are problems with his good name, it won’t be because of a health scare.
And just because they ask for a mistrial, doesn’t mean they’ll get one.
Legal teams change all the time, and as much as I hate to admit it, Dad has some strong associates.
It will look even stranger if I suddenly step in. ”
My father opens his mouth, but the few words and sound make no sense.
But, because I’m the good girl, I’ve gone through all the evidence Dad collated. “I’m ready in case your client pivots legal teams, and we need to hand all your case files over.”
My dad violently shakes his head.
“I know it’s not what you want,” I say. “But unfortunately, we should be prepared. I think it’s one thing to have a few days of cover when your lawyer comes down with food poisoning, but it’s something completely different when they may not be available for the duration of their trial.”
Dad throws his hands in the air, and the wretched pain of desperation passes over his face.
“I’m going home,” I say to my parents. “Do you need a ride, Mom?”
“No,” she says, pulling the chair up next to Dad’s bed. “I drove over myself and I’m going to stay for another hour because I hate to leave your dad like this. But take care on the ride home.”
I sometimes wonder if Mom would ask so much of me if she knew the extent of the powerful blackmail Dad held over me when I needed his support.
But it seems to be an unwritten rule between the two of us that we don’t talk about how my father dominated both our lives in ways that were, and continue to be, unhealthy.
She must have seen it in my actions, though. In how I only ever came home to see her when my father was out of town.
The drive is quiet and comfortable in my father’s truck.
It’s too cold to risk the sports car, now.
December is just around the corner bringing frost and snow.
As the gates open to my family’s estate, I mentally debate whether they provide security or a prison.
And I suppose the difference is the direction you approach them from.
From the outside, they look like security.
But after decades living here, I can fully attest they’re a prison.