Share with Me: Seaside Chapel Book 1

by Thompson, Jan

  “She did?” Grandma smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. She’s growing as a Christian. Something we need to be thankful for.”

  Yeah, sure. But that doesn’t solve our financial mess.

  Ivan wondered how he was going to keep his promise to take Brinley out to a nice dinner. He couldn’t even afford cheap hot dogs on sale now, let alone take her to Saffron on Jekyll, which he had in mind. Saffron would be the type of restaurant that Brinley was used to. He wanted to show her that he could live that kind of lifestyle too. Eat in that kind of restaurant.

  But where was he going to get the money to pay for even that one dinner with Brinley? He regretted the impulsive invitation.

  Sigh.

  Ivan gathered up some mail and passed them on to Grandma. “Probably Christmas cards.”

  “I guess it takes a while for airmail to get here.” Grandma placed the stack on her lap and began to cut open the envelopes with a letter opener she always kept in her pencil stand on the table where her Bible was.

  Ivan went back to the rest of the mail. He pushed the box of checks to one side. He stacked the bills one on top of another to one side of the couch. They were about three inches tall. He started to rip up some of the junk mail, but it hurt his left hand to even hold it for his right hand to tear up the envelopes. So he tossed the pieces one by one to another part of the couch. Store flyers, cable service deals, postcards from dentists and churches he had never even heard of, credit card offers—

  Credit card offers.

  Maybe that was how he could take Brinley out to dinner. Well, not just dinner but also to make partial house payments and pay off some bills.

  Don’t forget God.

  Brinley’s words came to mind, but—

  It’s just for one dinner.

  Right?

  Chapter Forty

  On Monday morning, two days after Brinley had arrived home in Atlanta, she was back in the city, going to work at Brooks Investments for the last time.

  Peachtree Street was honking loud and its Midtown sidewalks crowded with pedestrians going here and there, completely oblivious to Brinley and the thousand things filing through her head as she rehearsed for her meeting with Dillon and Dad. She had prepared for this, and Dad had agreed to meet after his European trip. Now she had to remember what she wanted to say to them.

  Starbucks in her own travel mug in one hand and her laptop tote in the other arm, Brinley left the chilly January sunshine and entered Brooks Tower, a glassy twenty-one-floor salute to opulence and all that Ivan and Yun would be uncomfortable with, the bubble that lords of the manor were in and the peasants needed not apply.

  Yet Brinley saw things differently than before. Now everyone was equal at the foot of the cross of Christ, where wealth and birthright didn’t mean a more prominent place at the table.

  That birthday suit we all came in is the same suit we all go out in.

  Brinley didn’t remember who had said that, but it reminded her that her life had to count. Her Bible reading had gone well, but Yun had reminded her that she would learn more as a new Christian if she were in a teaching church and a good Bible Study regularly.

  Atlanta had many churches, and Seaside Chapel pastor’s wife, Olivia Gonzalez, had made some suggestions for her. For instance, Midtown Chapel was a sister church to Seaside Chapel. Maybe she’d check it out soon. Then again, Brinley wanted to be back on St. Simon’s Island as soon as possible.

  The elevator opened and disgorged Brinley on the penthouse level, where Dillon had staked his office claim. The hallway was rich with old burled walnut walls that Dad had salvaged from somewhere, a reminder of the past and things of old. Brinley passed by Mom’s touches to the decor, urns and pitchers and vessels.

  Above her, Dvořák’s Humoresque in G-Flat Major played through the speakers, its undertone a reminder of Ivan. When his wrist healed, could he play this? If not, then what was he going to do? Ivan’s entire career, and possibly life, was wrapped up in his violin.

  If she were in his shoes, what would she do? Would she be so attached to an instrument, a job, a career, that if it were taken away from her, she would be dysfunctional?

  Brinley found her brother in his throne room flanked by walls of glass. Outside were other tall office complexes and hotels, a veritable jungle of deals and transactions and sales and gold and money. Things that Brinley no longer found as important as they used to be when she was jetting around the world cutting deals for Brooks Investments. Been there, done that. To be sure, she’d been thinking it since before she met Jesus in December, but more so now that her perspective had changed.

  She studied Dillon.

  He was busy at his iPad, not looking up. But that’s Dillon for you. Always working, always pushing for that last sales figure. He had worked harder since Dad semi-retired to Sea Island, but all that could change with this meeting. It probably wouldn’t help Dillon make more time for his own kids, but perhaps it could remind him—ha!—that there was life outside of the family business.

  Life, like Ivan. For me.

  Brinley inched toward the custom glass table through which she could see Dillon’s shoeless feet in his favorite wool socks. She waved in front of Dillon. “Hey, Dillon Brooks.”

  “Did you see Jared a few weeks ago?” Dillon still didn’t look up. “Jared Urquhart?”

  “Has it been that long? Let me see.” Brinley checked her iPhone. “Oglethorpe Charity Dinner. December 15. Why?”

  “He wants Brooks Investments to invest in some new properties on St. Croix.”

  “So?”

  “He asked for you specifically. Could you go down there to assess what he’s got and see if we can be a part of it?”

  “No.”

  Dillon looked up. “You’re still working here through January.”

  “I’m transitioning out, remember?” Brinley sat down in one of the plush armchairs.

  “Fly there for a day of business, a day of R&R.”

  “No, Dill. Why don’t you send Kanisha? She’s taking over my position. Give the account to her.”

  Dillon sighed. “I guess you don’t get it that I don’t want you to leave.”

  “Well, I don’t want her to leave either.” Dad walked in. Took the other armchair. “But what you think is best might not be best for your sister.”

  Brinley greeted Dad and found herself staring at a new painting on the wall behind the chair he sat on. Another Picasso, Dillon’s favorite—

  The Dora Maar Au Chat?

  No way.

  “How much did you pay for that?” Brinley pointed to the unlikeness of Pablo Picasso’s mistress in vivid geometric blocks and curves.

  “A hundred. Why?”

  “A hundred million dollars?” How many Stradivarius violins can I buy with that?

  How many senior citizens can I feed and clothe and provide houses to stay in with that?

  “One of a kind.”

  “So you work yourself to death for stuff that will all burn up one day.”

  “I’m a collector like you, sis. Only I don’t collect white trash.”

  “You take that back, Dill. Ivan is not trash.” Brinley was on the verge of tears. She composed herself. Next to her, Dad said nothing.

  Dillon leaned back. “What’s your problem, Brin? Out with it. I don’t have all day. I have a company to run.”

  “That’s exactly it, Dill. You have a company to run. And you roll over everyone in your way. You don’t care who you hurt, whose lives you destroy, where they end up, whatever, as long as you get what you want.”

  Dillon stared at her.

  “I don’t know everything that you said to Ivan on Christmas Eve, but I can pretty much guess.”

  “What might I have said to him?”

  “You threw him down. Stepped on him. Spat at him. You think that if Ivan and I somehow end up together, he’ll take all my money and prevent me from selling my shares to you.”

  Dillon kept his poker face. “I’m trying to protect y
ou, sis.”

  “Protect me or protect your interests in Brooks Investments?”

  “She has a good point there.” Dad sounded amused. “If I could give you the entire company, Dill, I would, but I’ve already written the will and such as it is, your mother would pitch a fit if I give your sisters less than your shares.”

  “You want my third of the company, Dill? It’s only money.”

  Brinley saw the flicker in Dillon’s eyes. “You would give up nine billion dollars for that piece of garbage?”

  “It takes one to know one,” Brinley snapped.

  Dad raised an arm. “Children.”

  Brinley sighed. “I’m sorry, Dill. I didn’t mean to call you trash.”

  “You thought it.”

  Brinley’s shoulders slumped. “I wish Parker were here. He was always the peacemaker between us.”

  “We all miss him,” Dad said.

  Dillon’s voice was low. “Now it’s just you and me, Brin, duking it out.”

  “I don’t want us to fight.” Brinley padded around the executive desk and hugged her only living brother. “I love you, you pain in the neck.”

  Dillon patted her arms. “I love you too, sis.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “You have a low tolerance for pain,” Vittorio the occupational therapist said to Ivan one hour after a chainsaw-toting nurse practitioner from Rao Family Physicians ripped off the cast from his left arm and sent him down the street to his next stop of the day. “Have a seat.”

  Ivan sat across from him at the small table. He rubbed his swollen wrist gently, as if it were a puppy. That really, really hurt. Those exercises they did a minute ago—

  Oh boy.

  “Tolerate?” Ivan blurted, cringing at the lingering pain in his wrist. But this! This was so much more severe than his cracked ribs that had all but healed in the previous six weeks. “My wrist is swollen. When is this going to heal? I have to get back to work or someone else will take my job.”

  “They’ll understand. It takes time.”

  Time I don’t have.

  Ivan stared at his wrist and willed it to turn. He couldn’t do it. The wrist was stiff.

  “We’ll have to let the new bones get stronger, right?”

  “Right away,” Ivan snapped. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Let’s get an ice pack on that wrist. Get the swelling down. Then we’ll work on your mobility.” Vittorio waved to an orderly.

  “Then? Like when?” Ivan was breathing heavily now. Have. To. Get. Back. To. Work.

  “Tomorrow if you can come in. We’ll do it daily until—”

  “Daily? For how long? This was supposed to be my big day. Got the cast removed.”

  This was the last Wednesday in January he had been waiting for since the week before Christmas.

  And now this?

  Ivan had thanked God profusely on his drive to the doctor’s this morning. He had told Grandma not to wait for him at lunch because he would go from Dr. Rao’s office to the occupational therapy center for a few hours to get his mobility back.

  One hour after the cast had been removed, Ivan wasn’t thanking God anymore.

  Lord, why are You allowing this to happen to me?

  Vittorio looked at Ivan calmly. “It’s normal for you to feel like you can’t do anything right now, but work with me, and we’ll get you back to functionality in no time.”

  “Functionality? That’s not good enough. I need to get my wrist back to a hundred percent or my career is over.”

  Vittorio didn’t reply. He seemed to be waiting for Ivan to calm down.

  “I have to be able to play my violin again.” Whatever my violin is. The Strad is gone. The Vuillaume is also gone.

  “This is my livelihood.” Ivan tried again. “How long will it be before I can have a full range of motion in my wrist?”

  “You play in SISO?”

  “Yeah. First violin. Concertmaster.” Was.

  Vittorio didn’t seem impressed. “I think I’ve heard SISO play before sometime in the summer. Outdoor concert at Neptune Park?”

  “Yeah, I was there.”

  “You guys were pretty good.”

  Pretty good? Put us up against ASO any day. “Thank you. Now, how long will it be?”

  Vittorio swiped through Ivan’s records on his Galaxy tablet and pressed a few things that Ivan couldn’t see. “Not going to lie to you, Ivan. In your case, maybe two to six months, four if you work hard.”

  “Four months!”

  “If you work very hard. No one can guarantee you complete recovery, not even God.” Vittorio picked up a printout from the printer nearby and placed it on the table in front of Ivan. “This is our schedule for the next two weeks. We’re going to take it one session at a time. Baby steps.”

  Ivan stared at the schedule. Lord Jesus, help me.

  “Do you have something you can work toward?” Vittorio asked.

  “Like what?”

  “A more defined goal. I know you want to get back to work, but is there something specific you want so badly that you’ll do anything to get better so you can pick up that violin again?”

  All Ivan could see was Brinley’s face.

  I want to play Air for Brin again even if she never recovers her 1698 Strad.

  “Think about that carrot on a stick, and make your way toward it.” Vittorio stood up from his desk.

  Ivan folded the schedule of death, and pocketed it in his barn jacket.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Ivan.” Vittorio stood up. “Keep that splint on there so nobody touches your wrist.”

  “I will. Say, don’t I have a thirty-dollar copay?” Ivan wasn’t sure if he should ask, but it was done.

  “Nope. All taken care of. We’ll bill your insurance. You’re good to go.”

  “All right. Fair enough.” Yet it bothered him as he walked out of the East Beach Therapy Center where the cold January bit down on his head under an overcast sky.

  All taken care of.

  Again.

  * * *

  Against his better judgment, Ivan called Brinley when he got into his truck. He knew that his heart and mind were not in equilibrium right now, but he needed to hear her voice. He cranked up the Chevy.

  Outside his window, he could see the parking meter. He had ten minutes before he had to put more quarters in, but that wasn’t going to happen. He had no more coins in his pocket.

  “Four months, huh?” Brinley said on the phone.

  “Yeah. Long road ahead.”

  “We’ll do it together, Ivan.”

  “This pain is mine alone to bear.”

  “Not true. I’ll be back soon, and I’ll go with you to therapy.”

  “What can you do?” Ivan backed the truck out of the parking spot.

  “I’ll pray. Keep you company.”

  Ivan would like that but… “I don’t want you to see me in therapy.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Pain all the way. Dr. Rao said the new bones are in, but the OT gave me some exercises and it about killed me. And we haven’t even started. Torture begins at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  Ivan drove through the green light.

  “Get some rest,” Brinley suggested. “Prepare yourself.”

  “Why are you always positive?” Ivan asked.

  “Why are you always negative?” Brinley shot back.

  “We make quite a pair.”

  “We may never reconcile our differences, Ivan.”

  Ivan didn’t want to hear that. “Tell me that’s a joke, Brin. I can’t take any more bad news.”

  “Bad news? I look forward to seeing you again. That’s good news, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. What are you doing now?”

  “Packing.”

  “I wish I were there to help you pack.” Ivan turned onto Ocean Boulevard.

  “Well, nothing to it,” Brinley said. “I’ve been living out of suitcases the last few years. I pack light. The movers are
going to handle everything else.”

  “Is your new house move-in ready?”

  “Not really. Next week I’ll call Toby about it. See where they’re at. Give them a push if I have to. I think they’re painting now.”

  “I haven’t seen it.”

  “You will. But it’s merely a house, Ivan. A roof over our head. Nothing like heaven.”

  Nothing like heaven.

  “By the way, can you wait a few extra days?” Brinley paused. “I have to go to Savannah for a few days with my VP-in-training.”

  “Sorry to hear that. I was looking forward to seeing you.”

  “Me too. So I’ll see you the second week of February?”

  “Just in time for Valentine’s Day.” Ivan began planning in his head. What could he give Brinley that she didn’t already have?

  “Oh, I have to go. The movers are here. Call me anytime. See you in two weeks.”

  “All right, Brin. Thank you for talking with me. I love hearing your voice.”

  Did I say love?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “What about a left-hand violin?”

  Ivan couldn’t answer Vittorio the torturer. Ivan the victim was writhing in pain, thank you very much. His left wrist hurt with searing bolts of acute pain zipping back and forth between his elbow and his left radius and ulna bones, then leaping to his thumb and a few fingers. It happened every time he flexed his wrist or contracted his fingers.

  “Don’t they have violins that you can put on your right shoulder?” the occupational therapist asked again.

  “Yeah, but not the Strad—aaarrrggghhh!” He couldn’t lift his left arm, couldn’t turn his hand, couldn’t clench his fingers, couldn’t do much of anything Vittorio tried to help him with.

  His mobility was zilch. Almost.

  Perhaps seven on a Monday morning was way too early for therapy.

  Perhaps he should’ve taken more painkillers before he left the house.

  Just cut off my wrist already!

  “We’re a nonviolent facility, Ivan.” Vittorio’s facial muscles didn’t contort.

  “I didn’t say that out loud.”