by Geneva Lee
I don’t know if I want any of it, but there’s no way that I want my brother to decide that for me.
Felix appears by my side, his grey, striped trousers neatly pressed with a perfect crease running down each leg and brass cufflinks shining on his blazer. He no longer wears the white gloves like when I was a little girl, a concession to my insistence that he modernize a little. Today, though, it’s a comforting sight to see him dressed in his butler’s uniform.
“Miss MacLaine, how are you feeling this morning?”
I manage a tight smile. When my mother died, I’d gone to Felix for comfort. He’d been by my side when the doctor gave us the news. He’d held me as I cried. This time, I haven’t needed him. Has he noticed my lack of tears? What does he think of me?
I force myself to answer him, aware that Ginny is eavesdropping. “Tired.”
“Maybe you should get her some coffee,” she suggests.
Felix shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “Actually, I was asked to attend the reading.”
“Of course.” Ginny shakes her head. “Angus won’t have left you out. You’re part of this family.”
My eyes dart to Felix, who doesn’t look convinced. Ginny is right. The man practically raised us. A good man would reward his loyalty.
No one can claim Daddy was a good man.
When the door to my father’s private study finally opens, Harding looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He gestures for me to enter along with Ginny. She barely looks at me as we enter. That’s what I am to her in the presence of others: invisible. It wasn’t always like this. Not when she first started dating Malcolm. I was going to be a bridesmaid in their wedding until they eloped to avoid scandal before Ellie was born. Both our futures looked so different then. Unfortunately, the thing that brought us together—the thing we have in common still—is what drove us apart. It’s what destroyed my mother. It’s what’s kept me here in Valmont. I’m supposed to be proud of my family name. Instead, it hangs like an albatross around my neck—a burden I can never escape. There’s no avoiding the MacLaine family birthright. It’s not something we’re blessed with. It owns us.
My father’s study is a testament to appearance making the man. Oak panels polished daily to maintain their glossy luster run the perimeter of the room. Behind his generous executive desk, a picture window looks over the rolling hills behind our estate. The MacLaine name owns the world as far as the eye can see. It’s proof of our family’s wealth—proof of our unofficial reign over Valmont, Tennessee. For most men this kingdom would be enough, but not my daddy. He’d never been a fan of limitation. Not when it came to women, to liquor, or to power.
I take a chair near daddy’s desk, Ginny and Malcolm at my side. Felix squeezes my shoulder as he moves to the back of the room, fading into the shadows.
“If everyone is present,” Harding begins. He shuffles a stack of papers and looks around expectedly.
“We are.” Malcolm sounds exasperated like Harding has already worn him down.
Judd Harding is a man who sticks to the rules. It’s a wonder he held his job as my father’s attorney for so many years, given that Angus MacLaine wasn’t one to follow any rules. I suppose since my father didn’t have a conscience, he had to employ one. Now Harding is Malcolm’s censor, and my brother doesn’t look happy about it.
I shift in my chair, crossing my legs at the ankle. A perpetual, and seemingly inexhaustible, energy vibrates in my bones. It’s been buzzing through me for the last week, and I can’t seem to release it. Even now, moments before one of the most important events in my life, I can barely hold still. I want to believe it’s a symptom of grief, but it hadn’t started the day my father died. It began at his funeral. It began with an entirely different problem and that problem has a name—one I won’t allow myself to think, even though I can’t get him out of my head.
“Stop fidgeting,” Ginny hisses under her breath. “I swear you’re as bad as Ellie.”
“It’s a MacLaine thing,” I say sweetly, knowing she hates it when I remind her that she’s not an actual MacLaine.
“This is the last will and testament of Angus MacLaine,” Harding reads, oblivious to us. “To my son, Malcolm, I bequeath the following…”
My brother tenses with anticipation. In a way, this is the ultimate Christmas morning and we’ve been on the verge of it our entire lives. Every present my father bought himself is now up for grabs, including this house. We’ve spent our entire lives toeing the line, like most children do, in anticipation of Santa Claus. Better watch out. Better not cry. Our father was always watching. Now we would see which one of us did a better job. I hold no illusions about which of us held our father’s favor.
“My collection of cars except for the Roadster. I also leave to him the office in Nashville. A fifteen percent stake in MacLaine Media, and my membership at the following clubs…”
It’s not what any of us expect. Malcolm clutches the arms of his chair, white-knuckled and rigid waiting for Harding to finish the list of memberships. When the lawyer pauses, Malcolm asks in a strained voice, “Is that all?”
“There’s more, of course.” Harding uses his best stay-calm, lawyer voice, which only indicates Malcolm should worry.
Maybe it’s my father’s last test of patience. Dangle the ultimate carrot over our noses and see who snaps at it first.
“To Adair, I bequeath the 1956 Jaguar XK140 Roadster, the penthouse at The Nashville Eaton, Bluebird Press, and a fifteen percent stake in MacLaine Media.”
Some of my inheritance I expect. Some of it I only wished for. The question remains, though, what about the rest?
“What about the house?” Malcolm demands, sounding torn between anger and confusion. “You’ve only accounted for thirty percent of his holdings. What about the rest? What about the house in Tuscany? The flat in London?”
Harding’s lips turn down in a grim smile. He doesn’t sound nearly as calm this time. “There’s more.”
“Your father wished this to remain a secret until the reading of his will in the hopes that the situation would be resolved before his death. Most of his real estate assets were liquidated over the last few years to buy back as much of the company as he could. Unfortunately, death holds no respect for unfinished business.” He pauses, the silence ominous. “As of right now, forty-nine percent of MacLaine Media is in the hands of private investors.”
“What?” This finishes Malcolm. He jumps from his chair and begins to pace the room. “Forty-nine percent?”
“I told you that MacLaine Media divested itself of some of its holdings,” Harding explains. He slips off his reading glasses and stares at my brother.
“No one warned me how much he’d sold,” Malcolm seethes. “Who bought these shares?”
“I believe you met one of the parties at his funeral last week.”
Considering Malcolm’s obsession with the family business, I understand his shock. Who spoke with Malcolm at Daddy’s funeral? Why had he kept this from me? My father prided himself on retaining MacLaine Media for the family. It’s one of the reasons we remain privately owned.
“He said he’d never allow the family to go below a sixty percent stake in the company,” I say slowly. Fifty-one percent: that’s all we have left under our control. One wrong move and we’ll lose the majority share and, more importantly, the majority vote. We could lose control over the company entirely if that happens.
“Why would we sell any of the company?” Ginny asks.
Malcolm’s nostrils flair as though angry that she deigned to speak.
“It was the only way to survive in the wireless age,” I explain, recalling the journalism class I’d taken at Valmont University my first year. “Newspapers were never going to compete against social media. If we wanted to keep the company privately held we had to bring in venture capital so we could diversify. It was the only option.”
“You’re an expert on this now?” Malcolm says with disgust. “I don’t remember seeing you at any busines
s meetings.”
“Was I invited?” I ask coldly. “You and Daddy assumed I didn’t keep up with the family business.”
Realization registers on his face. His kid sister isn’t a total idiot. Apparently, he’d forgotten. “Did you know about this?”
He still manages to draw the wrong conclusion. “No. I haven’t been to any business meetings, remember?” I shake off the accusation. “What does this mean for our remaining interest?”
Dread digs a pit in my stomach. If we no longer hold the majority interest we can be outvoted. I’ve watched it happen to my father’s friends. I’ve seen empires crumble, brought down by one mistake.
“That our father gave away nearly half of our family’s remaining stake in the company.” Malcolm stands and searches the room. “Christ. Felix, where are you?”
Felix moves dutifully to the bar cart and pours Malcolm a drink. He always instinctively knows what we need. Is that why he needs to be here today? Are we going to need a steady supply of alcohol to cope with the damage?
Malcolm accepts the tumbler from him with a terse thanks.
“But the family controlled sixty percent of the company. Angus said so!” Ginny clearly isn’t following the math. I know she could, though, because I’ve seen the woman shop a sale at Saks. “I don’t understand where the forty-nine comes in.”
Malcolm flashes her a scorching look. She shrinks from it as if he’s actually burned her.
“It means we could lose everything.” He abandons his empty glass, pressing his index fingers to his temples.
“But—”
“He lied, Ginny,” I tell her bluntly. After all these years, I don’t know how she’s surprised by this.
“It’s possible another party could buy a majority share in MacLaine Media, but unlikely,” Harding confirms.
“But who would do that?” I ask. “Why would anyone want control over a struggling media conglomerate?”
Malcolm rounds on me, bending down to get in my face. “I know the MacLaine name doesn’t mean anything to you, but you could pretend to respect it.”
“Our father had to jeopardize the entire family’s stake in the company to keep it afloat,” I point out. “It’s obviously failing. This has nothing to do with me.”
I don’t shrink like Ginny. The men of this family allowed this to happen. I should have pushed harder to be in the boardroom, to be part of these decisions. How did I not see this coming? The number of closed-door meetings and business dinners my father held had increased exponentially during the last year of his life, even once hospice care had begun. Had Malcolm really been kept out of the loop, or did he not realize what was going on? I’d trusted him to have the best interests at heart for our family. Now I feel stupid for blindly believing anyone was looking out for the rest of us.
“It has everything to do with you,” Malcolm mutters.
Now I’m on my feet, level with him at last. “What does that mean?”
“I think you should tell me.”
We stare each other down, him trying to elicit a confession and me trying to figure out what the hell he’s yammering about. It’s not as though we have secrets in this room. We’ve all paid a price for this family. That bond, forged in blood and sacrifice, is supposed to protect us for our past sins. But my participation in the family’s perverse narcissism has never been enough for Malcolm. Why should it be now?
“I don’t think there’s cause for concern,” Harding interrupts us. “All my research on the buyers suggests multiple individuals purchasing. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”
“So, wait…” Malcolm turns to Harding, but if he thinks he can change the subject, he’s mistaken.
“Why would this be my fault?” I step between them. I’m not going to decipher his riddles. I hold more stake in the company than he does. I have more to lose. Knowing Malcolm, he didn’t fail to notice that.
He pretends not to hear me. “Did he leverage the house? He didn’t leave it to either of us.”
That possibility hasn’t occurred to me until now.
Harding looks briefly at each of us as if seeking an ally. When he doesn’t find one, he reaches for his briefcase. “The good news is that the house remains in the family.”
“That is good news,” Felix says. He waits for someone to agree with him. When they don’t, he manages to find his smile anyway. “Malcolm. Adair. The house is safe.”
He’s trying to be encouraging, but bad news always accompanies good news. Are we on the verge of losing it, too? Even worse, do we have to split it? I can almost imagine Ginny gleefully dividing every object and room in the estate down the middle with tape.
It’s worse than that. “To my only grandchild Elodie MacLaine…”
Ginny stiffens at the slight. None of us missed the subtle reminder that he’d only had one grandchild. She’d failed him in that regard.
“To be held in trust under the supervision of Felix Gabriel.”
“Felix?” Ginny gasps, clutching her seat as she sways in her chair to look at Felix.
He goes perfectly still, except for the smile falling from his lips. I search his face for a sign that he’d known about this but find nothing except confused detachment, as though he’s contemplating the same question. Was it something he did? Had daddy indicated this might happen? Felix can’t see the answer to those questions, but looking to him now I understand why my father put him in this impossible position. I see Felix through the eyes of Angus MacLaine.
Felix, the cheerleader.
Felix, the father figure.
Felix, the one everyone runs to for help.
And for my father’s eyes alone: a rival. It’s revenge plain and simple. With one cunning move, my father has turned him into something else entirely: Felix, the enemy.
I know why Daddy did it. It’s not going to work on me. Malcolm I have less faith in. I tear my eyes away from Felix to see how my brother reacts.
Malcolm’s stony scowl isn’t leveled at Felix. It’s aimed at me. “Did you know about this?”
“What?” I nearly falter under the weight of his accusation. “Why would I know about this?”
“You’ve always been closest to Felix,” Malcolm accuses, “and then there’s the fact—”
“But then Windfall is ours, right? If it belongs to Ellie?” Ginny interrupts.
A rage claws at me like poison attacking my blood. Neither of them cares about how Ellie fits into any of this. They only care about how her inheritance affects them. I should be surprised. I’m not. I am, however, plenty angry over it.
“There are a number of special instructions for Felix to follow,” Harding says.
“She can’t live here without her parents!” Malcolm storms back to the whiskey. For a moment, I don’t see him. I see my father standing before me in denial, reaching for the bottle to wash away any doubt he has about the control he holds over the situation. I blink away the memory. Malcolm isn’t him—but for how long will that be true?
“What kind of special instructions?” Ginny asks softly, tears well in her eyes. They spill over, cracking the polished veneer she clings to and revealing what lies beneath the facade of her perfect life. Gone is the trophy wife, the harried mother, the catty sister-in-law—the roles she’s played for years. In their place is a girl I knew once, but she’s no longer the same. I see Ginny MacLaine for the first time in that moment.
“I’m afraid only Mr. Gabriel is privy to that information,” Harding says. “Your father left explicit instructions as to a number of potential scenarios which could change his wishes before Elodie inherits the property on her twenty-fifth birthday.”
“She’s my daughter, I deserve to know about her inheritance.”
Harding doesn’t budge. He’s still working for Angus MacLaine. He’s always taken that job seriously. “All I am able to share with you, according to your father’s instructions, is that Windfall should pass to your daughter on her twenty-fifth birthday along with the remainin
g stake of the family holdings in MacLaine Media.”
“Twenty-one percent,” Malcolm says with a dull laugh. “More than we got.”
“He hoped it would be more if the financials resolved in the family’s favor before his death,” Harding says. “Twenty-one percent is something.”
“Twenty-one percent of nothing is nothing,” Malcolm seethes. “Is the house really secure until then? Can you tell us that?”
“It’s debatable,” Harding admits. He presses his lips into a thin line. He’s bound by his legal obligations to his client. Judd Harding doesn’t work for the family. He works for my father, even in death. It’s not a simple matter of refusing to tell us more—he can’t do it. He can’t tell us why Elodie got the house or why he divvied up the remaining holdings among us in this way.
This whole time, both Malcolm and I have been cautiously making our beds, knowing we’d have to sleep in them one day. The trouble is we were in the wrong room the whole time. Maybe even the wrong house.
Ginny gets to her feet but stumbles like her legs won’t work. Before she can fall, Felix catches her.
“Let’s get you a cup of tea,” Felix suggests.
Ginny stares at him, accusation etched on her face. Her eyes flash to Malcolm, but his attention is out the window—on the kingdom he’s lost. If he noticed her distress, he doesn’t care. Ginny’s gaze finds the floor and she allows Felix to lead her toward the kitchens.
Is this how things will be between us now? Will we question everything Felix does for us? I watch him guide her away, hand on the small of her back to steady her. She doesn’t deserve his kindness. None of us do. My father might have played us against one another, but there’s a critical error in his calculations. Felix might become the enemy to Malcolm and Ginny but he’ll always have Ellie’s best interests at heart.