6. The Last Will and Testament of Frances O’Shaughnessy （Melissa） #2
“Way more than seven billion. But he was wise, your father. Upon his death, and I’ll give myself some credit for ensuring such speedy legal maneuvers, all his money became tied up in a trust fund set up for you.
A trust fund that cannot be taxed. There’s just one caveat.
You can only access a portion of the fund at a time, so you’re not taxed at the same rate as a billionaire. Does that make sense?”
“Nothing makes any sense. Two weeks ago my daddy died and now I’m sitting in his office discussing money matters with a complete stranger I just hired as my own lawyer, and you’re telling me that he’s left me all his money but it’s tied up in a tricky trust fund?”
“He was adamant that you only be taxed as a millionaire, not a billionaire. In his words, it was for your own good,” Thomas said.
“But like I said, he was very creative, and even here he wanted you to succeed. There’s a certain condition that if met will give you complete access to the trust fund to do with as you please.
If you become a billionaire on your own, utilizing the money already available to you in the trust fund,” Thomas said, closing the file and sliding it to me.
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“Isn’t that clear already? He wanted you to succeed and make something of yourself. I say this with such confidence because he explicitly stated it in those very words. He was so confident that he said, ‘It’d take her less than a year.’”
“Great. Parental pressure from beyond the grave,” I said. Then quickly, upon realizing what I’d just said, I added, “I am sorry. My head’s all over the place.”
“It is a loss for me too. I understand what you’re going through,” Thomas said quietly, shuffling his fingers on the desk.
“What about the rest of it?”
“The house, the office, and a couple of other properties — they’re all left to you. He also wrote a letter. Here. With that, the matter of his last will and testament is considered resolved,” Thomas said, handing me the letter and getting up to leave.
“Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee or something?” I asked.
“It’s getting late, but you’re so kind to offer,” Thomas uttered. His weak, sad smile that said more than any of his words ever could. He could sympathize without pitying and be there for me without being an overburdening presence. That’s what the smile said, at least.
“If you were really his friend, would you tell me who all these people are outside?” I asked. “I’ve never met them before.”
“I haven’t either. But I do have some ideas.
When a man such as your father dies, it’s big news.
Those aren’t just his relatives; they are his old colleagues.
I am afraid that’s all I can say on the matter.
But you needn’t worry yourself for now. Is there someone who can be with you at this time? Friends, perhaps?”
Thomas was already at the door. I didn’t blame him. Even I didn’t want to stay here.
“I have my friends, the ones you met earlier. They’ve been staying with me for the past two weeks, and will probably stay for a little while longer,” I said. “Thank you, Thomas. That will be all.”
Thomas chuckled. He chuckled again with his hand on the doorknob.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“That’s what Hoffa always said to me whenever we concluded business. ‘Thanks, Tom. That’ll be all.’ They don’t really go away, the ones we love, you know. They live on in our hearts and in our memories.”
I patiently waited for Thomas to leave and close the door behind him, and then I burst into tears.
Bitter, hot tears ran down my face and neck, wetting my black blouse.
I did not care if anyone outside heard me crying.
As far as I knew, the walls were soundproof.
Being around everyone, whether my friends or people from Dad’s past, had put me in a position where I was unable to truly feel the grief and let myself cry.
Now, all by myself, I could weep freely. I didn’t know whether heaven was real or not, or if we went anywhere after we died, but I hoped that wherever Dad was, he was looking over me.
The letter still in my hands slipped a little, as if nudged from beyond the veil.
I didn’t have the heart to read it, but what better time than now, when I needed to hear from him one last time?
With trembling fingers, I opened it. I began reading his cursive handwriting, which sent me along another trajectory of memories, reminding me of all the times he had sat me down in this very study after school.
He would teach me how to read and write in cursive, telling me all along that it was a lost art.
Who knew that he was preparing me for this very moment?
Dear Melissa,
It’s not every day a man writes such a letter, but when one does, as I’m doing right now, a lot comes to mind that needs to be written.
And so I’ll try. I love you. I want you to always remember that.
From the minute you were born to my last breath, I have loved you more fiercely than anything in the entire universe.
Everything that I have done, I have done for you.
It might surprise you to learn this, and I suspect that some part of you’s already wondering things, but I had a past, a past as one of the most ruthless and feared men in Boston.
I will not go into that past except to state one thing about it.
It shames me greatly. When you were born, I said goodbye to that existence, took you with me to New York, and settled here, starting from scratch.
I hope that by the time you read this letter, you’re a strong woman, to whom I’ll have left everything that I ever owned. I trust you just as much as I love you. I say this now because I know that you’ll do all the right things.
You never saw your mother but in pictures, and so you never believed me when I told you that you had your mother’s eyes.
Trust me, you do. You have your mother’s eyes, her laugh, her sass, her optimism.
When she passed away, the only thing that comforted me was holding you in my arms. Slowly, as you grew up, it brought me comfort how much you looked like her, how much you acted like her.
It was like she was there but not there, you know?
I’m no writer, I don’t know how these things go.
But what I am is your father. I will always be your father. Nothing that I’ll write here will compensate for the grief you’re experiencing, just as nothing did when I buried my father with my own hands. It’s a hard thing, this business of death. It makes humble people out of us all.
I am at peace, child. Know this. I am at peace knowing that I made up for my mistakes, repented for my sins, and did the best I could do as your father.
I hope that was enough. I love you, pumpkin. I will miss you.
Goodbye, my everything.
PS: I’ll say hi to your mother for ya, huh?
I wasn’t weeping anymore. I was smiling. I promised myself that I’d read this letter every day for the rest of my life. I put it next to my heart and felt the paper on my skin, still smiling.
It was not the closure that I knew I wanted, but it was what I got.
I was thankful for it. I didn’t know how much later I exited the study; but by then, everyone in the drawing room had left, all the food on the spread eaten, and all the wine and whiskey drunk dry.
The only people there were the catering staff, picking up after the guests, and my friends, all of whom were sitting huddled in one corner, waiting patiently for me.
“I think I’d like to go home now,” I said, joining them.
“Who locks the house?” Nat asked. Suddenly, she put her finger to her nose, signifying that she was not it. Before anyone else could put their fingers to their nose, I’d already done it, leaving behind Vanessa with the fingerless nose.
“Ugh, I did not know we were doing that!” she protested.
“You know where to find us,” Nat said. “We’ll be at Melissa’s, all huddled up in our jammy-jams.”
“Could you sound any more like a kindergartener?” Vanessa scoffed.
“Chill, babe. It’s a smart home. It’ll lock itself after we leave,” I said, watching her facial expressions turn from dismay into pure shock.
“Y’all were pulling at my leg, weren’t you?” she said, grinning.
We all left the house together; just after I got into Nat’s car, I tapped the lock button on my phone. I watched as all the lights went out in the house, and the big wrought iron gate swung shut behind us.