Loved You Once (The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers Book 1)

by Claudia Burgoa

  Maybe when I learn to stop loving Blaire.

  She chuckles. “There go my hopes of having grandchildren.”

  Her statement makes my heart ache because, twelve years ago, I was scared when Blaire said, ‘I missed my period.’ Today, I yearn to have her back, to have the family we always wanted. The future we planned. What I would give to repeat the last few months we spent together.

  Now if she told me “I think I’m pregnant,” I’d hug her and twirl her around, telling her how much I love her.

  I close my eyes, pain burning me all the way to my bones. When I open them, I look again to the dark sky and touch the window, trying to reach for the stars. Wanting to make a wish, to see her one more time.

  “It’s Saturday on your side of the world,” I say, trying to move the conversation forward. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to enjoy the weekend with your husband. He has grandchildren. I’m sure he can share one or two with you.”

  “I see that I’m not getting anywhere with this,” she says, with a resigned tone. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, too, dear.”

  After I hang up, a notification pops on my screen, indicating I have a new voicemail. I’m tempted to leave it for tomorrow, but I don’t, since it could be an emergency.

  “Mr. Aldridge, it’s Edmund Smith. I’m calling to remind you that you are scheduled to bring in your Lykan Hypersport tomorrow for service. We’ll have a loaner car ready for you when you drop it off.”

  I sigh because I barely use that car. Maybe I should sell it and donate the money to some cause that might help make the world better, instead of having it in the garage with the rest of my cars. Mom might be onto something; my life is empty, and no amount of surgeries or hours spent in the emergency room teaching residents can help me fill the void inside me.

  Since I have nothing better to do, I check the rest of my unheard messages, deleting each one as I listen and scribbling notes if they’re important. Then there’s one that freezes my blood. I check the time stamp on the screen, indicating that they called yesterday at nine in the morning.

  How did I miss it?

  I play it again.

  “This message is for Hayes Aldridge. This is Jerome Parrish. I’m part of the legal team that handles the estate for William Tower Aldridge. Your father is requesting your presence. He has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and his doctor just recommended at home hospice care. Due to your father’s condition, your father is requesting your presence. Please call me at this number at your earliest convenience.”

  It’s been years since the last time I saw William. Hospice care. He’s dying. I can’t believe it. We weren’t close, but … I’m confused as to what or how to feel. Am I supposed to visit him and make peace with him?

  I think about Carter and how I ignored his illness, until it was too late. My relationship with my father is different; still, I don’t want to regret not seeing him for the last time.

  Two

  Hayes

  I only knew my father by his absence. He was an entrepreneur. The Aldridge name is synonymous with businessman.

  Back in the 1800s, the Aldridge family was part of the Gold Rush. At some point, they settled in Oregon, close to Mt. Hood. They founded a small town called Baker’s Creek where they—now he—own most of the town. I’m not familiar with the entire Aldridge history, but the sum of everything is that they’re filthy rich.

  William Aldridge always wanted to be number one. His dedication to his businesses is impressive. If only he had tried to do the same as a father and a husband. If the man tells me that he owns the world, I wouldn’t be surprised. Still, when I arrive at his penthouse, I’m blown away by its extravagance.

  I’m not sure what I expected to find, but this luxurious penthouse, in the heart of Manhattan, is impressive. The place sits atop a small, private, and highly coveted, white glove, pre-war building. As the doors of the elevator slide wide open, I step into a room perched high above the city, the floor-to-ceiling window providing a view of Central Park and the Hudson river. There are dramatic high ceilings and an impressive staircase that goes up five floors.

  Too busy admiring the magnificence of this place, I don’t notice the man standing in front of me. He’s a half foot shorter than me, with salt and peppered hair and a slim frame.

  “Welcome, Mr. Aldridge,” a man greets me. “I’m Jerome Parrish.”

  “My father’s lawyer,” I confirm. He nods. “I’m Hayes. How is he doing?”

  He lowers and shakes his head. “The nurse called me about an hour ago, when he died.”

  I close my eyes as the confusion remains. My stomach feels inside out, and it’s not because of the loss of William Aldridge, but the lack of reaction.

  Shouldn’t I be sad and grieving?

  In my private practice, I’ve never lost anyone. I just set bones and perform ambulant surgeries for the most part. The days I work in the emergency room is when I have to deal with death. I don’t do it often, but when a patient dies I have to tell their loved ones that we did everything possible, but we lost them. I can feel their sadness and pain seeping through their pores.

  Right now, I’m … not even numbed.

  For fuck’s sake, my father died. I should be sad. But, how can I? I barely spent any time with him while growing up, because he was busy running his empire—and having other children. I’ve held too much resentment to even let him into my life—not that he ever tried to reach out to me.

  Anger, that’s something I can handle. Sadly, this isn’t the first time someone related to me has died and I’m mad. In this case, it must be because my father never cared, and yet, here I am, having to deal with him one more time.

  “Did you call his other children?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach all of you,” he answers, walking toward a different elevator. “I only heard back from you. If you could please follow me.”

  Of course, none of them gave a fuck either.

  Why am I here?

  I should leave, but before I do, I ask, “Does he have a wife or some other child who we might not know about?” I’m trying to find a way out of this situation.

  “He only had one wife—Cassandra Huerta. That’s your mother, right?” He answers. “Technically, I could call her.”

  “No, don’t bother her,” I bellowed, my voice echoing through the penthouse. “We will take care of him.”

  As I follow Mr. Parrish, I dial Henry’s number—hoping he hasn’t changed it. The last time I spoke to him was when Carter died. We’ve never been close, but since he lives here, I think it’d be best if he steps up and oversees my father’s estate and funeral.

  “Aldridge here,” he answers on the first ring.

  “Do you know our father died?”

  “Fuck, it’s you,” he says on a loud exhale.

  Well, I’m not happy to hear your voice either, but we have shit to deal with, fucker.

  “Where are you?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation civil.

  “None of your damn business. What do you want, Hayes?”

  “Our father died,” I repeat.

  “I heard he is … I mean was sick,” he says casually.

  “Shouldn’t you be looking after him?”

  “I asked him the same question on my birthday each year while growing up. At least, you had him for a few years,” he says bitterly.

  “The grass wasn’t greener on my side,” I tell him.

  There’s a long silence, and I wonder if he feels like me. Our father doesn’t deserve us, but we always tried so hard to get his attention. We should be sad, but this situation brings up the resentment we’ve carried since we were young.

  Finally, he speaks, “Ultimately, I don’t give a fuck if he’s alive or not.”

  “Well, he died,” I say, in a monotone voice. “We’re his only living relatives, and you live in the same city as he does. Would you mind dragging your ass by his penthouse
, now?”

  The doors of the elevator open on the third floor to a big library. It’s an open floor with wall to wall bookcases and large windows facing the park. It might be an office because there’s a desk in the middle.

  “You’re in town?” he asks in a surprised voice.

  I walk to the window, staring at the park. Mom, Carter, and I didn’t visit Dad often when he used to stay for work, but he lived in a different building. The place was on Park Avenue, and it faced another building.

  “Of course, I’m here,” I answer his stupid question. I’m exactly where he should be—maybe where all of us should be. “That’s what you do when someone calls you to let you know that your father is sick. In his case, terminal. You at least check on him.”

  “Look, I’m currently busy, and later tonight, I have a date,” he states.

  “How about tomorrow?” I try to hide the rage.

  “I have an early meeting,” he says absently. I hear the keyboard on the other side of the line. He’s either searching for a time to see me or working.

  “We have to meet,” I say dryly.

  He sighs. “I’ll send you my assistant’s information. You might be able to squeeze in tomorrow between meetings.”

  “Could you just meet me for brunch instead of making up shit to avoid what’s happening? It’s Sunday, for fuck’s sake,” I say angrily.

  “I’m aware of the days,” he barks the words. “It’s also Monday in Australia. Not that you need to know my schedule. Just know that I am a busy man.”

  His condescending tone makes my blood boil. He’s not the only busy person. I have patients to check on tomorrow and appointments on Monday. A surgery scheduled for Tuesday. I had to find a doctor to cover for me at the hospital.

  “People depend on me, and yet, here I am.”

  “Is it because you’re waiting for Daddy’s money?” He asks, and the bitterness in his voice doesn’t go unnoticed. “Finally, the rightful son is getting everything he deserves.”

  If he were here, I’d punch him in the face. “How could I forget you’re a fucking asshole?”

  “Well, this is your reminder. See you in a few years or—never,” he says, before the phone goes silent.

  Henry: My assistant is Sophia Aragon. I copied her to this text. Set up a meeting with her.

  Hayes: I need to be home by tomorrow night. I have a practice to run and patients who depend on me. Our father died. The least you could do is listen to me, so we can make some arrangements.

  Sophia: I’ll take care of the issue, Mr. Aldridge.

  Sophia: I can squeeze you in tomorrow at one. I’ll send you the address and a car if you need it.

  I realize that she sent me that last text outside the group chat, and I think I like his assistant a lot more than I hate him. After I put my phone away, I finally pay attention to the lawyer who is by the desk, waiting for me.

  “It seems like it’s just going to be me today,” I state.

  If Henry, who lives here, is not going to come along, I doubt that the rest would join me on such short notice. I don’t even know where they live.

  “What is it that you need from me?” I ask, because if he called just to hand me my father’s estate, I don’t want it or give a shit about it.

  “Since you’re the only one here, you’re going to have to take care of your father’s remains,” he states, matter-of-factly. “There’s a final will and testament. But I can’t read it until all his sons are in the same room—and it has to happen in Baker’s Creek.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that? Shouldn’t it be at your office?”

  “That’s part of his last wishes. My firm is paid to execute it.”

  “I can’t speak for my brothers, but I don’t want anything that belongs to my father,” I explain calmly.

  He spreads some documents on the desk. A power of attorney is the first one I see. It’s under my name.

  “Why me?”

  “Actually, he signed one for each of his sons, but since you’re the first one here…”

  I look at the other papers, they’re also POAs, but they each have a different name.

  “So, I’m fucked,” I finish his sentence.

  “Look, I don’t know anything about your family dynamic,” he says. “All I know is that you’re officially responsible for his remains. Now, we need to discuss his will. There are a few elements that affect not only his descendants but the town of Baker’s Creek.”

  “Try Henry,” I suggest. “He likes money.”

  He gives me another paper to sign. “Look, this affects the town and whoever lives there. I can’t disclose the terms of the will until all the interested parties are in the same room. Do you think you can have them in Baker’s Creek in a couple of weeks?”

  I rub my temples a couple of times. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Here’s the number for your father’s assistant.” He gives me a card. “She might be able to help you take care of everything.”

  Jerome Parrish leaves promptly. I climb up the stairs, heading to the fifth floor where I assume the master suite is, but I stop at the fourth level when I spot a hospital bed. There’s a person standing next to the bed, her back to me.

  “Was he conscious?” I ask, as I walk toward her.

  “No,” she answers. “Are you one of his sons?”

  I nod in response.

  She gives me a sad smile. “Last night he asked if his children had come to visit. It was the first time since I came that he requested water or more morphine. He chatted with me for a few minutes. He was a very pleasant man.”

  Staring at my father, I realize that he was, for the most part, kind and friendly, but only in small doses. Complete strangers got more of his good side than any of his sons ever have.

  “He was … charming,” I agree, finally looking at the bed, staring at the small, fragile man who lays peacefully in front of me.

  In all my life, I’ve never seen him in bed lounging—or even sleeping. He woke up early and went to bed late. He doesn’t look like the William Aldridge I knew. I am as tall as my father was, six three. I remember he’d fill an entire room with his presence. Everyone around him respected him. Some even feared him.

  Now, he looks so small, so different from the man who exuded power and total control. The doctor in me wants to know what happened. How long has he been sick? He could’ve contacted us before things got so bad.

  Why didn’t he?

  “Where is his chart?”

  She hands me over a binder; there’s nothing important other than his vitals, which were taken hourly, and the doses of morphine they administered.

  “May I?” I ask her, as she’s about to remove the needles attached to his arms.

  Carefully, I do it. Just the same way I did it when I was a resident with patients who were about to get discharged.

  Why couldn’t he call before?

  I might not like him, but I would’ve been here. Fuck, I am here.

  “Is this what you wanted?” I ask. “To die alone without anyone to give a fuck about you?”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Yes, in San Francisco,” I answer. “Did he leave any instructions about…?”

  “His assistant already made the arrangements for his cremation,” she informs me. “You can call her to see where you can pick up the ashes.”

  When I’m done disconnecting him from the machines and the IV, I caress his forehead and kiss it. “I’m sorry. I hope you rest in peace.”

  The employees from the crematorium arrive only a few minutes after I say goodbye. After them, the hospice employees show up to pack and move the medical equipment.

  “Are you going to be okay?” The nurse asks while picking up her things.

  I pull out my wallet and give her all the cash that I have with me. They don’t get paid enough for what they do. At least, this should help her in some way.

  “Thank you for staying with him during his last days.” />
  “Money doesn’t absolve you from not being here,” she says. “No one deserves to die the way he did.”

  The money isn’t a way to ask for absolution, just an extra payment for everything she does. I don’t care what she thinks about me. Still, I say, “I tried to make it on time. Not because he deserves better, but because even he should’ve had someone to hold his hand during those last minutes.”

  She looks at me, trying to understand how I can seem so callous. But what she doesn’t know is that there’s always another side to the story. My brothers and I loved our father; he’s the one who couldn’t love us back.

  Once she leaves, I’m left in a big, cold, empty house that looks pristine, and yet, it feels cold and haunted. His bedroom is at the top of the penthouse as I predicted. It has a big four poster bed, and on the nightstand there’s a picture of him with the seven of us. Beacon, the baby, is just a toddler. There’s also a copy of the one photograph that I have in my office. It’s the one Mom took of the two of us when I was a kid.

  It’s of just the two of us, while we were visiting Baker’s Creek. He’s teaching me how to fish by the lake. It’s one of the few memories I have of him. He looks so much like me. Actually, I look so much like him at that age. The guy might’ve died alone, but once, he had a wife—a family. I’m as successful as he was, and all my life I’ve fought to be nothing like him. That’s taken me nowhere. I’m really not that different than him, am I?

  The pang in my chest has nothing to do with the man in the picture, but the fact that, if I die right now, there’ll just be a nurse shutting down the machines and unhooking me before they haul me away. There’s no one who would care about me, except my mother, of course, but she has a life in another country.

  My mind automatically brings up the memories of Blaire. I can’t get her out of my mind. It was long ago, but it feels like everything happened just yesterday. That’s a fucking loss I will never recover from. I crave her, but the best way to quench the thirst is with alcohol. I go back to the library, hoping Dad continued storing his scotch in the bottom drawer of his desk.