37. Chapter 37
Theresa. He hadn’t thought about her since he left Ohio the last time.
That was a lie. She kept cropping up here and there, on the open road between towns, any time his mind wandered. Her rebuff had been so abrupt and swift, so goddamn final, Jason wondered if he’d stumbled onto another two, like Billy. Or, even more elusive, the uncrackable one.
He didn’t want to find out. Ones, twos, and threes were too much work, and he was tired. What was Ann doing with a boyfriend? Nikki too? What kind of men shackled themselves to those women? And why would those women take themselves off the market in the prime of their lives?
He didn’t actually know how old they were.
Or their last names. Or their hopes, dreams, preferred types of men.
He knew he’d wake up with gum in his mouth and a thong in his pocket—for later, she’d grin—after a night with Nikki.
Ann wanted to take it from behind while he pulled her hair, and he wondered if she grew up on a horse farm.
Boyfriends. They had boyfriends, and Jason spent the night alone.
He slept in the next morning, then showered and appraised the Panhead, which looked as tired as he felt even after a long night of sleep. They were both getting old—Jason was in the second half of his thirties already. How did that happen?
To give his road-weary lady a rest, he hoofed it across the road to the truck stop diner where all his girls were taken and bypassed his usual booth for a spot in the corner, good for a quiet meeting with the attorney he wasn’t anxious to meet.
He was looking out the window, wondering what kind of swanky car the lawyer drove, when she asked, “Coffee?”
Theresa was wearing makeup and her own name tag today.
He didn’t know why—he hadn’t even opened his mouth yet—but he felt like an ass. Must’ve been something in her eyes. He turned his cup over. Were his knuckles always this dry and cracked? He rubbed them with his other hand, which was just as chapped.
“Eggs over easy, rye toast, four strips of bacon, extra crispy?” she asked, looking at the coffee she poured and not at him.
She remembered him. She wasn’t smiling, so she remembered Ann too.
“No,” he said, even though it was exactly what he wanted. “What are your specials?”
She raised an eyebrow. There was light brown eyeshadow dusted underneath them. He was right about how pretty she was.
“We have rib eye and eggs or chicken-fried steak if you’re looking for breakfast. A patty melt with fries or a club sandwich with chips for lunch. Dinner specials aren’t up yet.”
“How much?”
“All three ninety-five.”
“Even the rib eye?”
She paused. “I wouldn’t recommend it. There’s only one reason we serve steak for less than five bucks.”
He smiled. If she wanted to make him sick, she’d push the steak and watch him sweat his way to the men’s room.
“What’ll it be?” she asked.
“Just the coffee for now. I’m meeting someone.”
“What does she look like? I can point her in your direction.”
She definitely remembered Ann.
“I have no idea what he looks like. I’m told he wears bow ties.”
“Will your friend want coffee too?”
“No idea.” He shrugged. “He’s not my friend. Why don’t you ask him when he gets here? Or is your shift ending?”
“It’s not. I’ll come back.”
He watched her go, breathing in the flowery trail she left behind. He still couldn’t place the scent, which was as irritating and alluring as everything else about her.
He emptied two creams and two sugars into his cup to try it the way she drank it. With his face puckered in surprise at the sweetness, he looked up and saw Theresa pointing at him from down the row of booths.
“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud. Aldus Whitlock did, in fact, wear bow ties.
Shorter, scrawnier, and younger than Jason expected, with small, rimless glasses pushed up on his nose, the lawyer thanked Theresa and lifted his briefcase to keep it from bumping into anyone at the counter as he made his way down the aisle to Jason.
“Mr. Young?”
“You Whitcock?”
“Aldus Whitlock.”
They shook hands, and Whitlock set his briefcase on the seat beside him and a large envelope in the center of the table.
“This for me?” Jason asked.
“Yes, please, for the love of God, open it,” Whitlock said, turning up his coffee mug. “This place is… How’d you find it?”
“Luck, I guess.”
Jason opened the envelope and pulled out papers with Goldman, Ruth, Corless, and James across the top.
“Haven’t made partner, huh?”
“What?”
“You’re not on the letterhead,” Jason said. “Which explains why you’ll come all the way out here to meet me. Grunt work.”
“I’m not a grunt.” He straightened his bow tie and his spine. “It takes years to make partner.”
Jason was trying to make heads or tails of the papers in his hands and didn’t look up at Theresa filling Whitlock’s coffee.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“Cup of soup?” the lawyer said.
“Sure, we have chicken noodle or creamy steak and potato.”
“I’ll have the steak and potato, please.”
“He’ll have the chicken noodle,” Jason said without looking up. Sensing the lawyer would argue because that’s what lawyers did, he added, “Trust me.”
“You got it,” Theresa said.
“What am I looking at here?” Jason asked after she walked away.
“Your bequest.”
Jason put the papers down in front of him.
“Pretend for a minute that I don’t know any Stanley Woodridge or anything about him being my father, or about any bequest, or who Molly Millness is,” he said, pulling out a name he’d read several times on the first page.
“Molly is the executrix of Stanley’s estate. Your sister.”
Jason blinked. “Okay. Okay, how about you start at the beginning?”
Whitlock took a sip of his black coffee. “Do you know anything about the Woodridge family? Anything at all?”
“No. Sounds fancy.”
“It should. They’re one of the oldest families in this country. Made their money in transportation. Lots and lots of money. You follow?”
“Sure.”
“Stanley Woodridge was a very wealthy man at the time of his death. My firm represents the Woodridge family in all their business dealings. With regard to his estate, it’s my job to make sure the allocations are distributed properly.”
“I still don’t know what this has to do with me. You say he was my father? How do you know?”
“I don’t. The family is up in arms about this, as you can imagine. Old man leaves some unknown kid… Well, you’re not a kid anymore, are you?” Whitlock adjusted his glasses for a better look down his nose at Jason. “Leaves some unknown person ten million—”
“The fuck you just say?”
“Keep reading!” Whitlock ordered. “You can read, can’t you?”
“You know, for someone so prim and polished, you’ve got a hell of a mouth on you.”
“Did you hear me? He left you ten million dollars. You. Jason Stanley Young of Troutman, North Carolina. Molly, your sister, supposedly wants to contest—thinks the old man was senile, or something. She won’t get far.
The will was written ten years ago and it’s iron-clad. Jason—Mr. Young. You’re a millionaire.”