13. Jake
Jake
I do not sleep again that night.
It’s not just Mackenzie. It’s not just the conviction that I disappointed her. It’s the prospect of the day ahead.
Despite my irritation, I’m not looking forward to this.
I’m up at 5:58, because what’s the point of just lying there, wide awake?
A crisp white shirt is my choice, one with French cuffs, because this day is going to be a beast. I will be the most unpopular person at Casa Cavendish and I need to plan accordingly.
Madison, I know, has a nasty streak and Ethan is a dark horse.
I don’t care which of them damaged my car.
That’s just a detail. (Hell. It might have been Candace.)
I eye myself in the mirror when I’m suited to perfection, remind myself that I am an asshole, perhaps the greatest asshole of all time, and a fortress on an island as well. One with nuclear capabilities. Yes. That works.
I call Abbie and offer her a ride to Pearson. It’s good to hear her voice again and that makes me smile. She’s her usual cheerful self and she’s right – I have been too much of a stranger. I agree to pick her up at Cameron’s by noon and am on my way.
First stop is the office supply store in Havelock, where I get some bankers’ boxes. They’re packed flat and fit in the back seat easily. Whether they fit in the car once they’re assembled and filled is a question for later in the day.
Next, Richard Bradshaw’s office. He offers me a coffee, which I accept because it smells so great.
We review the state of the union, and the various doors he has unlocked for me.
I tell him about the deal I’ve made with Augustine Rhodes – conveniently omitting that Mackenzie brokered it – and he says he’ll take care of the details.
We talk about my duties as executor, the need to be fair and adhere to the intention of my father’s will, even if it can’t literally be fulfilled per his specifications thanks to the lack of cash, and (because I am a Cavendish) we also talk about my liability as executor.
Will my siblings sue me? Who knows? Candace might.
Richard wishes me luck and I think he means it.
Moments later, I knock at the door of Candace’s house, choosing formality since I don’t live there.
The housekeeper lets me in, her disapproval more than clear.
I haul the bankers’ boxes into my father’s study and start packing.
Locking the door made no difference – the room looks like a tornado came through.
I don’t care. All of the paperwork, receipts, bills, contracts, my father’s calendar and various little notes are packed up in record time.
I even take his laptop, for all the good it will do me.
I’ll go through all of it at home and sort it out all over again. No one will mess with it there.
Time is of the essence today.
I’ve carried half of the boxes out to the car when Madison steps into my return path.
She’s wearing pink Hello Kitty pajama pants and a pink cotton camisole with lace edging.
She looks sullen instead of cute, her dark hair hanging loose over her shoulders and her arms folded across her chest. “You can’t keep my credit cards,” she says, blocking my way back into the study.
“And good morning to you, too.” I give her a hard look and she steps aside reluctantly.
I get the next box and turn to take it to the car.
“You heard me,” she says, having taken up position in the doorway again. “You can’t do this to me.”
“Actually, I can.” I stop beside her and lower my voice. “Dad paid your bills. Dad is dead. Now I will be paying the bills out of his estate, and I won’t be covering your credit card bills because it’s not possible to do so without any cash in the estate.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Ask Richard Bradshaw.” I nudge past her and head to the car. One more box, which means all three of them will be there to confront me on my return. I’m just making it to freedom by a whisker.
“Jacob!” Candace calls as soon as I step back into the house.
She’s come down the stairs in a sheer red negligée trimmed in red marabou.
Her red satin mules have marabou on the toes, and her nails are a matching red.
Her hair is tumbling in a tangle over her shoulder and she looks as if she just hurled herself out of bed.
Yes, there are pillow creases on her cheek.
She did pause to put on her lipstick, though.
“Jacob, what is the meaning of this?” Her voice rises shrilly.
“Why won’t you give Madison her credit cards?
Where are my credit cards? What are you doing to us? ”
“You don’t need the cards, Candace, not anymore,” I say calmly.
“All of the accounts have been cancelled, so the cards are no good for anything.” Not quite true.
I’ve cancelled the bigger ones, but these people have credit card collections.
It’ll take me some time to get through to all the banks later this afternoon.
“You can’t cancel my cards!” Candace shrieks. She comes after me, hands extended like claws, but I pivot and grab her wrists before she does any damage.
“He says there’s no money,” Madison provides before I can say the same.
“That’s not possible.” Candace’s eyes look wild. “That can’t be true. Patrick said he’d always take care of me…”
“But you spent his money faster than he earned it.”
“No.” She stares at me as if she’s surprised – or maybe I’m lying - and once again, I’m annoyed.
“Oh yes. What’s left is debt. A whole crapton of it. Everything is mortgaged and financed and leased. It’s impressive, really. A house of cards, and it’s already started to collapse. I hope you have a bit of cash on hand.”
I hear the trucks arriving as Candace wilts before me. Madison hears them, too, and heads to a window with curiosity. Candace starts to cry as I grab the last box and head for the car.
Trust me. The situation is only going to get worse.
There is a flat-bed truck pulling into the driveway, and two more idling on the road.
It’s a tight squeeze, given the number of vehicles parked there and the sweeping curve of the drive, never mind the line of ornamental cedars on one side.
I point the first driver in the direction of the gold Infiniti SUV that is Candace’s pride and joy. It’s closest to the gates.
“What?” she cries from the doorway, clutching the front of her bathrobe.
“It would be best if you surrendered the keys,” I say to her. “Otherwise, they’ll have to rekey the vehicles and there will be a charge for that.”
She stares at me in shock, mouth hanging open. “But that’s my car!”
“Actually, no, it belongs to the bank, and since we’re not able to make the payments on the note any longer, they want it back.
” I’m actually being proactive here, because I really need the bank on my side to get through this in any way, shape or form.
The cars are the easiest sacrifice and the easiest for them to sell.
“But, but Patrick bought it for me, in cash.”
“And promptly refinanced it through the bank. If it’s got a bit of gas in it, you might own that but good luck getting it out of the tank.”
“You bastard,” she hisses at me, then vanishes into the house.
She returns a moment later with the key fob and unlocks the car, hastily removing an astonishing amount of junk from the interior as the flatbed truck backs up, beeping all the way.
Madison helps her and they pile it on the porch haphazardly.
The car, it appears, is yet another closet.
The driver of the flatbed sifts through the contents of SUV glove box, sorting out what he needs and what Candace can keep.
We confer, then he positions the flatbed and carefully drives the SUV onto it.
The Infiniti is secured with chains etc.
while I move my car out to the road to give the other drivers more space.
Moving my car also means it’ll be too far away for anyone to toss a rock through the windshield.
I feel a bit sorry for Candace, standing at the front door, clutching her empty shopping bags and her sunglasses, weeping as her SUV vanishes from view. This, unfortunately, is not going to be the low point of her day.
“Keys,” I say to Madison as the second flatbed turns into the driveway. Her bright red Audi is next in the queue of cars. It can’t be six months old.
“No,” she says, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She’s pale and I think she’s finally getting it.
I hold out my hand a little more. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under, but she scurries into the house and returns with her keys, viciously unlocking the car and emptying it of her belongings as the flatbed eases closer.
There’s a growing pile of junk on the porch now and I marvel that some people keep so much crap in their cars.
Maybe their vehicles were extra large purses.
I never want to see their closets.
We repeat the exercise and Madison joins her mom at the door, clutching a Godiva chocolate bag.
They each have one, maybe for strength. The second flatbed leaves, the red Audi perched on it like a cherry on a birthday cake, and there are only two more cars in the driveway.
Dad’s comparatively ancient Buick sedan and the yellow Mustang.
“I hate you, Jake Cavendish,” Madison mutters.
I try to explain. “But the bank will now see us as part of the solution, instead of the source of the problem.” It’s true.
They’d rather have the money, of course, but reclaiming the assets and selling them is better than Candace et al reneging on the debt.
I’m hoping that this choice will keep them at bay over the house a little longer.
The fact that bankers really don’t like repossessing primary residences is a factor on my side.
Madison just considers me with narrowed eyes. Now she looks like a furious cat.