Chapter Two #2
It was true that this side of the Fortune family was much less affluent, with the exception of Clemons and his late half brother Archibald. But that didn’t matter. Their reputation did. Oakley’s own company was now the Fortune Rodeo Corporation. They had to live up to the moniker.
“You have plenty of money. You are well-off, and you promised all us kids you’d turn over a new leaf in Mom’s honor.” Oakley watched as Clemons pushed his plate toward the center of the table, his dissatisfaction evident. “Dad, come on. There is nothing wrong with the food. It’s delicious. Eat.”
That earned him another snort, and Oakley wondered if the five-year mark of his mother’s death was causing his father to have a resurgence of grief and loneliness. Could that be the reason he was acting out? His dad hadn’t dated at all since his wife passed.
“Dad, you’re better than this. You know Mom would not be happy to hear you’ve been suing everyone. It’s been almost five years, and you know she’d want you to be happy. Maybe it’s time to move on. Get back on the horse so to speak. Maybe go on a date or two.”
That had his father bolting to his feet.
He hovered over the table. “How dare you speak of your mother like you know what she’d want for me!
She was a saint. You have some gall suggesting these things, as if I’m not a grown man who knows the difference between right and wrong or when it’s the time to date.
Bad enough you kids are all coming here to keep tabs on me as if I’m some geriatric invalid.
” He hovered over the table, glowering down at him.
“Boy, you’re not only trying to poison everyone against me with these accusations, but you’re bordering on disrespect.
You need to watch yourself. I didn’t raise you to be like this. ”
His father had directed his tirades at Oakley before, but this one stung. “I didn’t say to forget Mom. Did you hear me say those words?” Oakley argued.
Clemons’s answer was to walk out of the restaurant.
Stormed might be a more apt description since people began looking at his father.
Oakley shook his head in disbelief. Having learned to always carry a wad of cash for these exact situations, he peeled off some bills, tossed them on the table and followed.
“Dad!” he shouted, but his sixty-eight-year-old father kept going. As his dad was tall and in good shape, Oakley increased his pace to keep up. He finally caught him along the promenade.
“Dad, stop it,” Oakley commanded. He didn’t have kids, and perhaps he was being somewhat disrespectful to think this way, but this felt akin to being a parent dealing with a wayward child. You loved them, but at the same time were also frustrated beyond belief. “Dad! Stop!”
His father stopped. But it wasn’t because he was waiting for Oakley. Instead, he pointed through some trees to a lump along the edge of the river. “What the heck is that?” Clemons asked.
A man with a huge gash on his head lay at the bottom of the steep hill, pressed up against some trees. Oakley gasped. His shock lasted a split second, and then he was on the move. “We have to help him.”
He started down the hill toward the bank, trying to keep his balance on the uneven slope. When they reached the man, Clemons leaned over him. “Is he alive?” Oakley asked.
“Yes. Thank goodness he’s breathing.” Clemons gestured toward where the man’s chest rose and fell. “But it seems he’s hurt bad. Look at that wound.”
Oakley already had his phone out. He dialed 9-1-1 and reported the incident. “What does he look like?” the dispatcher asked after he gave her their location.
“He appears to be late thirties. Blue eyes. Brown hair. Tall and muscular. Wearing jeans, a Western-style flannel shirt and sneakers.”
“Okay, can you stay on the line?” the operator asked.
“No, I need to help him, and yes, I know not to move him,” Oakley told her.
Since first responders were on the way, he hung up.
The other reason he wanted off the call was because his father was nosily searching the man’s pockets.
“Dad! What the hell are you doing? Stop that. Leave that to the police!”
In true form, his father ignored him. “Need to know who this guy is. Doesn’t have a wallet on him. What’s this?”
From the pocket of the man’s shirt, Clemons withdrew two things.
“Look at these.” He held them out for Oakley to see.
The first was a photo of a smiling baby that looked strangely familiar.
But then, Oakley figured, didn’t all babies sort of look the same, especially at that age?
Turning the photo over revealed there was nothing written on the back, not even a printed lab development coding or the date.
The second item was an envelope with one sheet of paper inside.
“Looks like a letter,” Clemons said. He unfolded it and read, “I think of you often and hope you forgive me.” He looked at Oakley and shrugged. “What’s that mean?”
“No idea. Put them back!”
The sound of sirens reached them, and at the top of the hill people were starting to gather and peer through the trees toward the riverbank.
Clemons quickly restored the items to where he found them.
The police arrived along with the paramedics.
A flurry of activity commenced as the EMTs triaged the man before loading him onto a gurney.
This allowed Oakley to study the man, whose face was pale and still and covered in blood.
“Have you seen him before?” one of the officers asked.
“No, I haven’t,” Oakley told her. “He looks a little bit like Henry Cavill. But it’s not.”
“Wouldn’t that have been something?” The officer gave a wistful half smile and faced Clemons. “And you? Have you seen the guy around town in the past few weeks?”
Clemons’s offhand shrug seemed forced. “No. Never. No clue who he is.”
“Seems like we have ourselves a John Doe until he wakes up.” The officer recorded their names and contact information in her notebook.
The paramedics began pushing the gurney up the hill, and once at the road, loaded the man into the ambulance, and then took off.
Some of the police officers followed the ambulance while others processed the scene.
“Wow. Wild, right? Certainly not what I was expecting to see today,” Oakley remarked as he and his dad climbed the hill.
When they reached the path, Clemons checked the hem of his suit and grimaced at the grass stains near the heel.
“Look at my clothes. This better come out or the dry cleaners and I will be having words.”
“I’m sure they’ll make it good as new. And I wonder what could have happened? Do you think that man was robbed?”
He had no wallet. If the trees hadn’t been there, would he have ended up in the river? Had someone pushed him off the promenade, or had he simply slipped and fallen? Down below the police officers bent over something. Oakley couldn’t hear what was being said, but one of them took notes.
“I hope he’s okay,” Oakley said.
“Should be,” Clemons mused. “Guy had to have been mugged. Won’t be surprised if that’s what the cops say.
This town isn’t so picture-postcard perfect as it pretends to be.
You may tell me to calm down, but you’re wrong.
I have a right to complain. It’s no better here than anywhere else.
That guy is proof that Emerald Ridge isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. ”
Oakley sighed. “Dad,” he began.
Clemons jabbed a finger in the air. “Don’t ‘Dad’ me. I’m no pushover. Just because I’m new here doesn’t mean I’m gonna let people in this town take advantage of me. I’ve made my money fair and square.”
Some would say that Clemons had made his money by abusing the tort system, but even Oakley had to admit that his dad had been justified in some of his causes.
The problem was Clemons had far too many causes.
He was like Giles Corey in The Crucible, Oakley’s favorite play—much put-upon and ready to get justice when he thought he was right, which most times he wasn’t.
Then again, Giles Corey was also deeply courageous and stood strong on his convictions.
He was definitely a paradox, just like Oakley’s father.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he cut his father off before he delved into another litany. “I’ll check in with the officers later and see if I can find out anything about him. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do. I’m going to go home and feed Mewington. Darn cat only likes the fancy wet food, that expensive stuff in the small can. He eats better than me.”
His dad leveled that complaint with affection, for Mewington was Clemons’s beloved, two-year-old Maine coon cat.
Upon learning that their father had had a Maine coon when he was younger, Oakley and his siblings had found the purebred cat at a local shelter and taken their dad to an adoption event.
It had been love at first sight for everyone.
Oakley’s baby sister, Cheyenne, had even gotten Mewington a diamond-studded pink collar, which Oakley found funny as the cat was a neutered male.
But as Cheyenne had said, fixed cats were now considered an it, and that meant they could wear whatever they wanted, and besides, Clemons had liked the way the pink color had popped against Mewington’s fluffy brown fur.
The Maine coon was spoiled rotten. Not only did Clemons brush him every day, but he’d also built Mewington a catio in the river-view house he’d rented for the year.
That way the kitty could be safely outside and get fresh air and touch grass while being contained.