7. Jake
Jake
After stopping at Richard Bradshaw’s office, it’s back to my father’s legal residence.
Once there, I sit for a heartbeat in my car, trying to decide what I hate most about the house. (Actually, I’m trying to push Richard’s observations out of my thoughts. I need focus right now, and will deal with all that later.)
It’s not that the house is big. I don’t mind generous proportions.
It’s not that it’s taupe, although a little colour never broke anyone’s heart.
It’s not that it’s landscaped with surgical precision, exactly the same species of each chosen plant placed at measured intervals with all the spontaneity of an SOS signal in Morse code.
It’s not the elaborate gates or the gold lions standing sentinel on the gateposts.
I have to confess that it’s not even the turrets, of which there are three.
The whole thing is just excessive. It’s overdone and out of place, plus every surface looks like fake something-or-other.
It reminds me of those castles in theme parks, the ones that are actually made of concrete with a faux stone surface.
It could be made of foam, extruded to look like a house.
It could be a huge birthday cake. It could be a bouncy castle in disguise.
There’s not one authentic or honest thing about it.
Inside, of course, it’s about ten million times worse.
My father’s study is a kind of a refuge.
Still overdone. Still reeking of fake wood panelling and what look to be Persian carpets but are really acrylic rugs machine-woven in a sweatshop somewhere.
It’s supposed to be a ye olde English kind of room, the lord of the manor’s smoking room – not the library as there aren’t any books – but it smells like plastic, the fire on the hearth is electric, and the mullions on the windows are made of coloured tape.
The chairs look like they’re upholstered in oxblood leather, but the surfaces are smooth, undoubtedly vinyl.
It lacks sincerity and integrity. The thing is, I don’t think they saved any money by these compromises in materials. Everything has a designer name on it, a hint that someone paid a premium for junk.
That just makes my heart hurt. Money spent on nothing violates my every principle.
Funny thing is I thought it violated my father’s principles, too.
The desk is big, though, and pretty empty.
I’ll give it that. The folding table that Mike set up is already covered with sorted papers, but I’ve only emptied a couple of drawers.
There are way too many documents, but I don’t want to miss a detail.
My father kept everything. I mean, everything.
There are receipts here that he must have moved from the old house to this house after it was built.
I’m wondering if there are any older than me.
The housekeeper brings me coffee and such is her warmth that she shuts the door firmly behind herself and everybody leaves me alone.
I had a funny feeling yesterday and today I’m on the hunt to prove my suspicions wrong.
Anything is better than thinking about my colossal mistake with Mackenzie.
I have until about four to think of what I should say if/when I call her, or maybe three.
No one likes an implication that they have nothing to do, even on a Thursday night.
I know I should apologize and that’s fine. It’s the next bit that I’m working on.
For the moment, though, I sort and organize.
By noon, I know I have to find the money.
That’s the thing, you see. So far, I’ve found receipts.
I’ve found invoices. I did not find money.
No statements from investment firms, like the ones I collate quarterly for my clients.
No monthly bank statements with fat balances.
No lists of GICs or RRSPs or tax-free savings accounts.
And really, when you keep every single piece of paper and you’re a rich man, that kind of stuff should be easy to find after your demise.
I’ve sorted all the contents of all the drawers and nada.
I find no joy in this quest.
My father’s laptop is in the top drawer of his desk and I’ve let it recharge all morning.
I power it up, discover that his password is the one written on a piece of paper underneath the laptop in the drawer, and I’m away.
The places he does business are all bookmarked and I use the info from Richard to access them legally as executor.
I also check the recent browser history.
I don’t find money.
I find debt. Lots of it.
It’s funny that I always assumed my father was loaded.
He made a lot of money. He inherited a bunch more when my mom died.
He spent very little. He was frugal to the point of being a miser.
And you know, if you earn more than you spend, it adds up.
The money should have piled up. There should be mountains of it.
I mean, this laptop is a perfect example of his choices. It’s so old that it should be carbon-dated. The Smithsonian is going to call, demanding it as a donation. He drove a ten-year-old Buick sedan and he only got it because his twenty-three-year-old sedan needed an engine job.
The man never spent a nickle he could save instead. He had capital assets, like this house. He owned the better part of Empire. He had a majority share in Cavendish Enterprises. There should be buckets of money.
But there was Candace. Everything makes sense when I consider her spending habits and the detritus of my father’s fortune.
Thirty years of Candace. That makes my heart stop.
What if there is no money? As in, none. I made an offhand comment to Mackenzie last night, but I didn’t imagine it could really be true. It’s a staggering possibility and I am still reeling when someone knocks on the door.
I call out and the door opens. My visitor is my half-brother, Luke. My illegitimate half-brother, Luke, whom my father hated more than anything or anyone in the world.
I’ve never been much of a fan either.
“Hey,” Luke says as if he isn’t aware of that. “Got a minute?” He says this as if we talk all the time, as if we’re on good even friendly terms, as if we are buddies running into each other, I dunno, at a hockey game.
It startles me into wondering why we shouldn’t get along.
I was trained to hate Luke, to bully him, to make his life miserable at every presented opportunity. I was taught to do that by my father, and I did it because he told me to. I mean, I was eight. But my father’s dictate hasn’t been a good enough reason for me to do anything for a long time.
There’s no reason for Luke and I to hate each other. We’re half-brothers and virtual strangers. He seems like a good guy, actually, while I know that my father was a nasty piece of work.
This is a great opportunity to begin the eviction that Richard made me aware of.
“Absolutely.” I gesture to the chair opposite me. “It’s been a while.”
At my tone, Luke is visibly relieved. He’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt, a leather jacket and boots and this despite the fact that it’s already a warm day. But then, I’m suited up, too. We all have our uniforms.
I vaguely recall hearing something that could have been a motorcycle, and recall that Luke is not only going to marry Daphne Bradshaw but just hosted his band’s reunion concert right here in Empire.
Mike said Luke was shaking things up locally, and Luke is responsible for Merrie opening The Carpe Diem Café here.
There’s something else, too, somewhere I’ve seen his name this very morning but it’s elusive.
Actually, I’m curious why he’s even shown up.
Where did I see Luke’s name?
He closes the door behind himself and settles into the chair. “It’s better than the rest of it,” he says quietly, his deep voice even lower than usual, as if we’re sharing a secret.
I can’t keep from smiling. “Kinda sorta,” I acknowledge. “You’d need the full survey before you could justify that conclusion.”
“Bad?”
“Scary bathrooms, and I haven’t even seen them all. Gold taps that are swans.”
He swallows a smile. “How about those lions?”
“New arrivals, I think.” I raise my eyebrows. “Did you see the living room?”
“Just a glimpse. It looked, um, shiny.”
“Shiny,” I agree. “Forty percent of what’s in that room is painted fake gold.”
He feigns surprise. “You mean it’s not 18 karat?”
“Using the real thing would be vulgar, evidently.”
“Ah.”
And there’s a moment here, when our gazes catch, when I feel that we are on the same proverbial page. We didn’t just both hate my father. We didn’t just both leave town as soon as possible. We’re not just both local boys made good.
Luke and I are both design snobs.
I can build on that.
“I can’t decide if the style is early Tutankhamen or late Nefertiti,” I say idly. “I get them mixed up all the time.”
Luke’s eyes are sparkling and he looks on the verge of laughter but he deadpans with admirable style. “Are the animal pelts zebra or leopard? Because zebra is early Tutankhamen and leopard is late Nefertiti.” Luke has a really low voice, which makes him sound very authoritative.
“Right. I always forget. And the pyramid finials?”
“Late,” Luke says with authority. He lifts a finger. “Early is round, like globes.”
We both grin at the same time. It’s a curious place to find common ground, but it’s a lot easier than fighting.
He leans forward. “Seriously. Tutankhamen?”
“There is a major Egyptian thing happening in there. Maybe it’s Cleopatra. Like I said, my expertise is thin in this particular design arena.”
“Hmm.” Luke looks around again, his gaze lingering on the electric fire. It looks remarkably feeble on a sunny July morning. “Quite a place.”
“I’m going to guess you’ve never been invited in before.”
“Not a once.” His brows rise in mock dismay. “Alas.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “So, what tempted you to step into the lion’s cave now? It can’t have been the promise of meeting me again.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was Margaret’s house.”