Lost December

by Richard Paul Evans

  I’ve heard it said that more than a few men have been dashed to bits on the reef of femininity. If I wasn’t sunk, I was, at least, run aground. Within six weeks of our meeting we decided to only see each other.

  The “study group” continued to meet weekly, and Sean and I became friends as well. The relationship was refreshing. Outside of my father, I hadn’t had a close male friend in years.

  My school career rose and fell with the usual tides of academia, and I just floated through it, lost in love. As I became enmeshed in my new world, my previous life seemed to drift further and further away. My father and I emailed or texted almost every day, though usually it was just a quick note, “How are things? How’s business? How’s school?” He’d occasionally allude to some of the copy centers’ happenings, but not as much as I thought he would—always sharing more information about the people than the profits. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He had sent me away to find life outside of Crisp’s and he wasn’t about to sabotage his own plans.

  Crisp’s went public in late November with 100 million shares. Henry kept me abreast of the offering, texting me four or five times throughout the day. The stock was issued at a dollar a share and rose to $3.42 by the time the market closed. The Wharton 7 knew about it before I told them. They were congregated in the usual corner of Smokey Joe’s when Candace and I arrived.

  “So your old man’s worth a few hundred mill,” Marshall said as we approached the table. Candace and I sat down.

  “Apparently,” I said.

  “That’s a lot of calzone,” Sean said. “Congratulations.”

  “So,” Marshall said, leaning toward me. “What’s your share of the booty?”

  “What makes you think I have a share?”

  “Do you have any siblings?” Lucy asked.

  “No.”

  “Holy cannoli,” Marshall said, “It’s all yours someday. I think I’ll start being nicer to you.”

  Suzie said, “How do you even get motivated to study when you’ve got a parachute like that?”

  “I wouldn’t mind finding out,” Marshall said. “If you’re lucky, the old man will croak soon.”

  I felt my face turn red and I spun at him. “Why don’t you just shut up?”

  Marshall looked at me blankly, caught in the stupidity of his comment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean …”

  “You’re an idiot,” Sean said. “It’s his father.” Sean turned to me. “Sorry, man. Don’t listen to him.”

  Marshall turned pale. “I wasn’t serious.”

  I stood. “Let’s go,” I said to Candace.

  “Luke,” Marshall said, “it was a stupid joke.”

  “You’re a stupid joke,” Candace said.

  We walked out of the pub. James followed us out. “Hey, Luke. Sorry about that. You know how Marshall is. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  “Of course he did,” Candace said. “And why are you making excuses for Marshall? He and Sean mock you every time you open your mouth.”

  “They’re just joking around,” he said. James looked truly worried about my feelings.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I finally said. “I just need to cool off.”

  He looked relieved. “All right,” he said, patting my shoulder. “And congratulations. Success couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

  After he went back into the pub, Candace said, “Of all of them to be happy for your father’s success, you wouldn’t expect it to be James. He has the most to envy.”

  “He’s a good guy,” I said. “He reminds me of my father. You watch, he’ll go further than any of us.”

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  As a boy, I fantasized a “Currier and Ives” Christmas,

  dragging home a pine tree through pristine banks of crystalline snow.

  Unfortunately, in Phoenix, we’d be more likely

  to find a cactus than a pine.

  No matter. Like Heaven, Christmas is less about the weather

  than the company.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  That December I went home for Christmas. It was my first time back since I had left for school. I asked Candace to come with me, but she had commitments with her own family. It was her year to spend Christmas with her father, who would otherwise spend the holiday alone.

  “I couldn’t do that to him,” she said, “Besides, it’s still a little early to start meeting parents.” She must have seen the disappointment on my face when she said that, because she kissed me on the cheek, then added, “But not by much.”

  It was good to go home again. The mild Arizona winter was a stark, welcome contrast to the flesh-numbing cold of Philly. My father had invited his only brother, Paul, and his wife, Barbara, over for Christmas Eve dinner, which had been the routine for the past six Christmases, ever since the last of their children had married off and moved out of state. My father also invited his assistant, Mary, who was as close as family.

  As usual, my father had our dinner catered with the exception of the turkey and stuffing, which was his own specialty. We sat down to eat at the long table in the dining room that was used more often for business meetings than eating.

  After we’d settled in, Barbara asked me, “So how is school going?”

  “It’s good,” I said.

  “Luke’s been doing well,” my father said.

  “How are things on the romantic front?” Barbara asked, which was probably what she had meant by her first question.

  “I have a girlfriend,” I said.

  “Oh. Does she have a name?”

  “Candace.”

  “Candace. That’s a pretty name.”

  “Where’s she from?” Paul asked.

  “Cincinnati.”

  “Do you have any plans?” Barbara asked.

  I said without looking up, “I’ve got lots of plans.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I grinned. “No. Not yet.”

  “But you’ve discussed marriage.”

  “We’ve talked,” I said.

  My father looked at me with surprise.

  “Wonderful,” Barbara said, “Just wonderful. Let us know when something happens.”

  “You’ll be among the first to know,” I said.

  My father still said nothing, but I sensed that he was pleased.

  After dinner, we ate pecan pie, then talked over coffee until dark. After everyone had left, my father put his hand on my shoulder. “I want to show you something.”

  “How are things going with the business?” I asked, following him out of the room.

  “Okay,” he said in a tone that suggested otherwise. “We’re still growing in this economy,” he said. “The shareholders are happy.”

  “You don’t sound very happy,” I said.

  “I’m not sure I was ready to go public. It’s one thing to run a family business, it’s a whole different beast to have shareholders to answer to.”

  We walked into his den. “But you still own the majority of stock,” I said. “You can do as you please.”

  He grinned. “It’s not that simple. There’s such a thing as fiduciary responsibility. Stockholders have rights.”

  “Then you regret going public?”

  “Sometimes. But I can’t dismiss the good. The capital infusion has allowed us to exponentially increase our growth. Besides,” he said, looking into my eyes, “I won’t be here to run things forever.”

  “Sure you will,” I said. “You’re immortal.”

  He smiled. Then he pulled something down from a shelf—a leather binder embossed with his initials, CC, overlapped as they might be on a branding iron. He handed it to me. “Here you go.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I won’t be here to run things forever. These are my detailed instructions in the event that something happens to me. I’ve made you the executor of my estate.”

  I looked at him anxiously. “Why are you giving this to me now?”

  He read
the concern on my face and casually waved it off. “It’s nothing. You know me, measure twice and cut once. It’s better to err on the side of caution. We Crisps aren’t exactly known for longevity. I’m already two years older than my father was when he passed away and six years older than my grandfather was.”

  “I don’t like talking about this,” I said.

  “I know. And I’m just …” His expression lightened. “It’s like the flight attendants’ announcement, ‘In the unlikely event of a water landing …’ I’ve prepared all the documents on what I’d like done with my assets: life insurance policies, personal property, charities, etcetera, etcetera. Also, what I’d like to see happen to our top managers.” My father was always watching over those in the business. “Also, you should know that you have a trust fund that you are already of age to access.”

  “I have plenty,” I said. “You already pay for everything.”

  “I know, it’s just legal hogwash. But the trust fund is completely in your name so you need to be aware of it.” He knew I wouldn’t ask, so he offered. “There’s a million dollars in it.”

  I handed him back the binder. “How about we just agree that nothing ever happens to you.”

  He smiled. “Agreed. Want to play some chess?”

  “Bring it on,” I said. “You’re going down, old man.”

  “After all that money I’ve spent on your education, I certainly hope so.”

  I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed being with my father.

  CHAPTER

  Nine

  Everything human is evolving. Always.

  That includes our hearts and desires as well as our bodies.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  Christmas was gone in a blink and I was back in the cold of Philly. No matter what they say, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder—it makes it cooler, like an ember pulled from a fire. I could say that I had never experienced this phenomenon, but that wouldn’t really be true. My mother’s absence was all I thought about as a boy—now it rarely even crossed my mind.

  As I became fully engrossed in my new world and my father became overwhelmed by the requisite business of running a public corporation, our relationship changed. Cooled, you might say. It happened so gradually I don’t think I was even aware of it.

  I say that my father was “running” the company, but in actuality it was more like being dragged behind it. In the few emails from him that mentioned Crisp’s, his comments seemed more about obligation than passion—and my father had always been passionate about business. “Without passion, we are destined to mediocrity,” he taught. Truthfully, I was becoming less passionate about someday running Crisp’s as well.

  As my relationship with my father weakened, my relationship with Candace grew stronger. So did my friendship with Sean. When I wasn’t with Candace, I was usually with him. I suppose that both provided something I was looking for. Sean was a man who knew how to live. He worked as hard at playing as most people did at their careers. At the end of our spring semester he organized a trip to St. Barts in the French West Indies. I didn’t know anything about St. Barts, but Sean did and he painted a picture of the island better than any travel agent could—brilliant white sand beaches against an equally brilliant blue sea—upscale boutiques and an abundance of the finest French food and women this side of the Atlantic.

  Sean invited the Wharton 7 to join him. Marshall and Lucy were in, but Suzie had other plans and James didn’t have the money to go. Neither did Candace, but I didn’t want to go without her, so I offered to pay her way. She felt embarrassed about me footing her bill and resisted until I talked her into it.

  The morning of our departure, the five of us gathered at Sean’s place—Chez Sean, he called it: a small home he had rented about a mile from the campus. We were about to leave for the airport when the doorbell rang.

  “Somebody get that,” Sean said.

  “Got it,” I said. I answered the door to find my father standing on the front porch.

  For a moment I just looked at him in surprise. “Dad. What are you doing here?”

  He smiled. “I had a meeting in Philly and thought I’d drop by and surprise you.”

  “Wow. Yeah, you did. How did you know I was here?”

  “Luck. When I went to your room, one of the students told me you were here.”

  In light of our impending departure I wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment he said, “May I come in?”

  “Sorry. Of course. Actually, we were just getting ready to go to the airport. We’re flying to St. Barts.”

  “St. Barts. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

  “I should have told you. It was kind of last-minute.”

  He looked a little awkward. “Well, then maybe I should just go.”

  “No. We have a little time. Come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

  I led my father into the kitchen area, where our luggage and everyone but Sean was gathered. Candace and Marshall immediately stood.

  “Candace, this is my father.”

  She walked up to him. “I’m Candace,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  “My pleasure, Candace. Luke’s told me a lot about you.” “He’s told me a lot about you too,” she said. “I’m really happy to finally meet you.”

  I pointed to the others. “And that’s Marshall and Lucy.”

  My father waved. “Hello.”

  Lucy waved back. Marshall walked up to my father. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve read at least a half dozen articles about you.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” my father said lightly.

  Just then Sean walked into the room holding a beer. “Who was it?” When he saw my father, he set his beer down on the counter. “Mr. Crisp,” he said. “Welcome.”

  “This is Sean,” I said. “This is his place.”

  I’ve heard it said that some people have the gift of discernment—the ability to see through a person’s guises and pretenses right to their very soul. If anyone had that gift, it was my father. I once attended a business meeting between him and a potential investor. Just fifteen minutes into the meeting my father thanked the man for his time but told him that he wasn’t interested. After we were alone, I asked my father what was wrong with the deal. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t trust the dealer.” Two years later I read an article about that same businessman in our local newspaper. He had just been convicted of fraud.

  Knowing this, my father’s reaction to Sean should have meant something to me. My father’s brow furrowed and he tensed a little, the way he did when he was skeptical of what he was hearing. Still, my father was always polite. He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sean.”

  “Likewise,” Sean said. “It’s an honor.” I think it was the first time I had ever seen Sean look nervous.

  My father turned back to me. “Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can go.”

  “All right,” I said. I walked my father to the door. Everything about the situation was awkward. On the porch he turned back to me. “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sorry about this. If I had known …”

  “No, it’s my fault. I should have called first.”

  “Well, thanks for coming by.”

  “Be safe,” he said.

  “Okay. Good luck with your meeting.”

  He looked at me as if he were about to say something, then instead he turned away and walked to his car. I waved to him as he drove away. Then I went back inside to get my luggage. We had a plane to catch.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Someone should invent a pill for guilt.

  They’d make billions.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  In June the Wharton 7 fell to 6 when Suzie dropped out of school to work for her father’s trucking company. Around that same time I gave in to Sean’s repeated request to move off campus into Chez Sean. Candace was against the idea from the beginning.

  “You’re
really going to room with Sean?” she asked.

  “I take it you disapprove.”

  “Sean’s like radiation—okay only in small doses.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll start losing my hair?”

  “Your hair I can handle. It’s your soul I worry about.”

  “My soul,” I laughed.

  “You hang around Sean long enough and he’s bound to rub off on you.”

  “You’re making too much of this,” I said. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  She folded her arms. “You could become like Sean.”

  “It’s only a year,” I said. “How much could I change in a year?”

  “I don’t want to find out,” she replied.

  In spite of Candace’s disapproval, two weeks later I moved into Chez Sean. Living with Sean was a window to a whole new paradigm. Sean was naturally intelligent, maybe even a genius, but fundamentally lazy—a dangerous combination. He got good grades without ever studying. He was not ashamed of being lazy, rather, he wore it as a badge of honor, proclaiming himself ethically superior to the “poor working saps who sold their heartbeats to the devil of the marketplace.” On his refrigerator door was a sign which read,

  Life was meant to be lived—

  not feared, sold, nor sweated.

  Fear not death. Fear the unlived life.