by Lucy Hepburn
Craning his head toward the interior, he could hear the familiar sound of a manual typewriter clacking away in his father’s study. The sound, dredged from half-buried memories of long ago, pierced a protective membrane near his heart and he suddenly found himself fighting an urge to turn and run all the way back to Manhattan, where he could be a man again.
“May I come in?” he asked, keeping his voice as even as he could. “I’m sorry, Nina, but I need to see Dad urgently. He’s due a piece of my mind.”
Nina flicked a tiny glance over her shoulder and stood her ground. Will could see that this girl was no pushover. She was more protective than a hand-reared German shepherd.
Chapter Six
WILL
10:45 a.m.
“He’s, um, not here,” Nina muttered.
“He is here, Nina. Sorry to contradict.”
An old, familiar feeling of discomfort was creeping in on Will. Gently he eased past Nina and walked into his father’s house. Nina stood aside and, wordlessly, allowed him in.
Will rarely came up to New Brunswick if he could avoid it. Like his grandfather’s place three streets away, his father’s house looked and smelled exactly the same as it always had, only this house stirred altogether more troubling emotions.
All of the stuff in here! Carl Thompson was an enigma. He spent vast chunks of his time in an artistic bubble, writing poetry as though his very life depended upon it, caring little, and not buying enough of life’s so-called essentials. However, every couple of years, he would break from his reverie and go on fantastical spending sprees, picking up antiques and rugs, exotic curios and assorted pictures, never pausing to consider whether he needed them or even whether there was room for them in his house. Then he’d take them home and litter them randomly around, depending upon how the mood took him at the time. The result was heady, if haphazard. The tiger skin rug still crouched by the huge open fireplace, baring its teeth at the dark wooden table legs of the heavily carved Moroccan table, which groaned under the weight of books and writers’ magazines.
The walls were festooned with paintings of eclectic and mostly unspecified origin. Nudes and landscapes and abstracts sat in uneasy companionship, giving the hallway and sitting room an air of a gentlemen’s club that had somehow run irrevocably to seed.
Will stood just inside the doorway, trying to reconnect with his past. He detested all of this stuff as a child. Perhaps it was because his father had singled each item out, wanted it, chosen it, taken it home…he’d never felt singled out by his dad, not for one second.
He wondered whether to call out to him.
“Okay, so is that typing sound being made by an infinite number of monkeys, trying to recreate the complete works of Shakespeare?” he asked Nina.
Nina smiled mischievously. “Could be?”
“Okay, um, well,” Nina was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “He is at home, but he’s not really, well, at home, if you know what I mean,” Nina whispered.
The typing stopped.
Then Nina’s expression changed. It looked as though guilt had caught up with her. “I’m sorry, Will, but he said—”
“It’s okay, kid; I know when Daddy’s not at home. Trust me.”
“Less of the ‘kid’ thing, please. I’m twenty-six, same as you.”
“Well, I’m twenty-seven. Kid.”
She raised her eyebrows, then grinned. “Old timer.”
“You know, if I had a sister, Nina—”
“You’d want her to be just like me?”
“I’d want her to be nothing like you.” They narrowed their eyes at one another and giggled like four-year-olds.
All of a sudden the study door creaked open, and Will’s father and the pair froze. Carl Thomspon, dressed in brown corduroy trousers, a white open-necked shirt, and plaid slippers, shuffled out and, without even glancing in his son’s direction, made his way to the kitchen. Will instantly felt like calling out to his daddy, feeling even more like a four-year-old.
Instead he watched. He had seen this before, this…this trance his father went into when he was writing. Then he looked inquiringly at Nina, not angry with her for trying to cover for his dad, just curious as to what she proposed doing next.
“Um, I’ll go and see if he’s, um, in,” she suggested, beginning to reverse away from the doorway. “Do you mind? It’s just that he’s, well, he’s…”
“It’s fine,” Will answered softly. Even through his anger at his dad, he was beginning to feel a little touched by how eager this girl seemed to be to protect the man. His father lived his entire life on his own terms, doing his utmost to block out reality, everything from cleaning his house to acknowledging his own son.
“Hey, Dad!” he called out after a moment or two, as Nina shook her head and covered her ears. “Dad, over here!”
His father froze for an instant, then slowly turned around from the refrigerator, where he’d been rummaging for milk, and looked over at him.
“Will. It’s you.” His father’s voice was low and emotionless.
Will knew not to expect a warm welcome. They’d barely spoken at his grandfather’s funeral four weeks previously. But still, his father’s cool detachment at the sight of him caused a surge of gloom to well up and lodge in the pit of his stomach.
Today wasn’t going to be the day for magical transformations in their relationship. No hugs and tears and I love you son, forgive me. That much was obvious.
And Will hated the fact that he’d ever thought it might have been. “Hey, Dad.”
“You okay?”
“I guess.”
His father nodded. The short physical distance between them suddenly stretched out like a chasm. Will would no sooner go over to embrace his dad than fly to the moon. His father’s every sinew suggested the very same thing.
Carl Thompson jerked his head toward the refrigerator. “Get yourself a beer or something. I’m working, be out later. Or Nina, you do it for him. Kinda busy.”
Nina placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Whoa, wait right there, Carl—what did we say about Mr. Manners?”
A flicker of amusement crossed Will’s father’s face. “‘Time spent with Mr. Manners is always time well spent,’” he recited, as though he’d learned it by rote. He glanced at Nina and affectionately said, “Get. beer. Please. Nina. Thank. You.”
“Better.” Nina jabbed her finger at her employer’s retreating back. “Still not great, though.”
And with that, he began to return to his study.
“Stop right there!” The voice that came out was shouting. And it was Will’s.
Nina gasped.
Shocked to find that he was shaking, Will realized that he was pointing at his father. “Why don’t you cut the crap for a minute?”
“I said: I’m working.” Carl Thompson addressed the door of his study. He still didn’t turn around.
Nina had opened her mouth as if to say something in Will’s father’s defense, but then she clearly thought better of it and closed it again.
“Working, huh? Good for you! Y’know, Dad? I was working, too! Right up till this morning, when I had to stop working and come all the way up here!”
“Good for you, right back,” his father said in a low voice.
“I had no choice!”
Slowly his father turned around to look at him. His face, strong and pale, with Will’s eyes, was unreadable.
“Life is a series of choices, Will—”
“No, it isn’t!” Will shot back. “Life is a series of responsibilities, and at least I know how to face up to them!”
“Please,” Nina pleaded. “Both of you, calm down.”
“It’s okay, Nina,” said Carl. “Don’t worry.” He looked directly into his son’s eyes. “So you face up to responsibilities, do you?”
“Yes, I do, same as I’ve always faced up to them!” Furious now, he pulled Laura’s contract out of his
pocket. “What about this?”
“What about it?” His father’s voice was almost petulant. Will could tell that his father knew exactly what it was; his body language had grown defensive.
“Ronald Reagan, Dad? Ronald freaking Reagan?”
His father shrugged.
“You don’t even vote Republican!”
“What can I say? I liked his movies.”
“Is that the best you can do?”
“It’s only a piece of paper.”
“Dad…I have had to come all the way up here to deal with Grandpa’s house and sort this mess out—when you’re sitting here all day with your…your poems and your assistant. But instead you leave me to race up here to unravel everything and deal with the realtor. Did you put Ronald Reagan on all the other stuff, too? I bet the banks and insurers and lawyers just love that, Dad. You and your kooky humor.”
“Son, calm down.” His father took a step toward him, then stopped again. “It’s bureaucracy, that’s all.”
“No, Dad, it’s essential. It has to be done. Just because you’ve never had to do stuff like this—it’s always been me, ever since Mom died.”
He stopped, breathing heavily. Mentioning his mom gave him a sharp pang of grief. She had been dead for nearly fifteen years, and it would never stop hurting.
“I spent fifteen years managing every domestic aspect of your life so that you could focus on your work.”
“Oh yeah? Is that how you see it?” his father snapped back.
“How do you think the gardeners and cleaners and plumbers got paid? Huh? Do you think they did it for the love of your poetry? I knew how to order a staffing account when I was thirteen years old! And I was the one who took out the trash, too. Guess what, Dad, it wasn’t the fairies all along!”
“Okay, so you’re looking for gratitude, is that it?”
Will’s shoulders slumped. This wasn’t going anywhere. All of his expertise in people management came to nothing when faced with the one-man self-importance machine that was Carl Thompson.
“Dad,” he began again, “I don’t want gratitude. God knows I’m not going to get it anyhow. I just want you to step up and share this burden. I can take care of the details. I have spent my life doing that—”
“Details.” The word was hissed with venom. “And you never looked up to see the bigger picture, did you, Will?”
Will felt as though the breath had been sucked out of his body. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“Just that, son. Just that. Now, if you will excuse me.” He looked over at Nina. “Please. I am working on something very important.” He turned slowly back toward his study.
“For a change!” Will shot back. “And I suppose sorting out your own father’s estate is irrelevant to you?”
Carl Thompson stopped walking and stood stock-still for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he opened the door of his study and walked inside.
“Fine!” Will yelled. “Have it your way—why change the habit of a lifetime?”
The door shook on its hinges as his father slammed it shut behind him.
Will wanted to punch the wall.
“Um, how about I get you that beer now?” Nina’s voice had become tiny.
“What? No. Um—I mean—no, thank you,” Will replied, gathering up his composure as best he could, and remembering Mr. Manners in the nick of time. “To be honest, Nina, I don’t regularly drink before 11:00 a.m.”
“Oh, yes.” Nina looked at her watch. “Coffee?”
“Nothing. Thanks.”
He sank down onto the oak bench under the coat hooks by the door and rubbed his forehead, wondering whether the past few minutes may just have been their worst row ever. He felt beyond angry.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” Nina said in a small voice, crossing over and nervously sitting down at the other end of the bench.
Will looked at her, smiling ruefully. “Nina, how can I put this?—”
“Quietly, please,” she urged.
“He is a poet, Nina. A poet. Where on earth is the pressure in that? What on earth keeps a poet awake at night? Can he not find something to rhyme with ‘orange,’ is that it?”
Nina’s hands fluttered. “Well, it’s more—”
“Because I’ll tell him, if it’d help—there aren’t any words that rhyme with orange, and he can move on—maybe use pear instead! Pear, bear, stair—and there you’d have it—no more pressure!”
“You’re upset.”
“No sh—” he stopped the expletive in the nick of time. “No kidding, Sherlock.”
“Look, Will. You may not think it’s important, but I know he’s working on something big right now. I’ve never seen him so focused—”
“Oh, I have,” Will interrupted. “Like, almost every day of my childhood.”
Nina sighed. “He does wonderful work, Will. And he’s a good person. I don’t know what it is that’s making him so jumpy about this one in particular.”
“That’s how it’s always been with Dad.”
“Sure,” Nina agreed, “I can see that. But this is different. I mean, losing his father has had a real effect on him.”
“You think?” Will couldn’t keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. “Got a funny way of showing it.” He smiled and looked at her. “I’m impressed by your loyalty.”
She shrugged. “Like I said, we suit each other. Couple of old misfits.” She nudged his arm. “Say, I’ve got to go out and see to a couple of things in town. Do you want a lift? Did you come by car?”
Will shook his head. “Took the train. To get some work done.”
“Good idea. Kinder to the planet as well. Trains are a great place to focus, aren’t they?” Nina had reached above Will’s head and was lifting a pink floral backpack down from a hook.
Will thought back to his journey and smiled. “Usually, yeah, but today’s trip was, um…full of distractions.” He thought back to the girl on the train. She had such gorgeous hair. He’d just wanted to touch it. Well, maybe not touch just her hair.
“So?” Nina prompted. “That lift?”
Will, jolted back to reality, looked across at his father’s study door and exhaled loudly.
“Sure,” he replied, heaving himself to his feet. “There’s nothing for me here after all.”
CHRISTY
11:53 a.m.
Before noon Drop off check with Mr. Simpson – Mr. S not there.
“He said he’d wait till noon,” Christy said again, walking over to the gum-chewing girl and laying her hand beseechingly on her arm. “It’s 11:53. I’m ten minutes early.”
The girl stopped and glanced at her watch. “It’s 11:54, actually, but who’s counting?” She was looking Christy up and down, evidently not thinking much of what she saw. It was clear that the girl was taking her lunch break and wasn’t about to turn around and unlock the office for anyone. “He left about five minutes ago.”
Christy cursed her luck.
“You the Davies person?”
“That’s me,” Christy replied with as much dignity as she could salvage from the situation. “Christy Davies. Mr. Simpson is your uncle?”
The girl nodded, managing to look both bored and challenging at the same time.
“Well, he told me—”
“Yeah, I know what he told you,” the girl interrupted. “He was doing you a big favor; you do know that, don’t you?”
“I do know that. And I’m so grateful.”
“Well, why didn’t you show up at nine on the dot?”
“Sorry?” Christy stared at the girl, uncomprehending.
The girl cocked her head to one side. “That’s what a normal person would do, isn’t it? When Uncle Dan’s doing you, like, a huge favor, shouldn’t you have been here first thing to take him up on it? These things are important to him, you know.”
“It’s important to me, too. So important!”
“Just not 9:00 a.m. important.”
“But…but I had to work!” Christy stammered.
“Well, maybe Uncle Dan thought your priorities would be different, considering the allowance he was making for you. That’s the type of man he is.”
“Well…isn’t that a little harsh?” Christy faltered.
“You be careful when you talk about my family,” the girl warned.
“Oh, come on! I don’t blame your uncle for having high standards, obviously, but I did think we had an arrangement, and I had things that I really, really had to do this morning.”
“Well, honey, he had things he had to do this afternoon. And he’s gone to do them.”
Christy turned away, hot tears pricking the back of her eyes. How had this happened? And was this girl right—did she mess this one up herself? Should she have prioritized this assignment, and put her own life before anyone else’s? Huh, the very thought. Let Annie down? Run late all day? It would have been unthinkable. Wouldn’t it?
For the millionth time, she cursed not having her iPhone. If she’d had it with her, she would have dashed off somewhere quiet, rung Mr. Simpson, and worked her best charm offensive on him, flooding him with entreaties and pleadings until he’d have no option but to give in and agree that she could have the apartment after all. It was the least he could do when they had a deal! Was there no man on the planet she could trust?
She had no option but to throw herself upon the mercy of the young woman who appeared for all the world to have none. “Please, please can you let me have his number so I can call him?”
“You don’t even have his number?” the girl repeated, her eyes bulging in disbelief.
“I had his number. I lost my phone…”
But the girl wasn’t listening. She knew she had gained the advantage and was loving every second of it. “Uncle Dan’s gone out of town on family business,” she said firmly. “Important family business. He won’t have his work phone on. He never does with family.”