Mended
Page 32
She looks up at me from over her reading glasses. She opens her mouth to say something, but I’ve already crossed the room and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I love you, Mom,” I tell her, because I know I don’t let her know this often enough.
She stares at me, squeezing the hand I leave on her shoulder.
“I’m okay, Mom. I am. But I need some help.”
“I know all about Ivy and Damon,” she says.
“Mom, I need to understand him. What makes him tick?”
“Power and money.” She looks at me and then picks up a letter on her desk. Running her finger over the edges, she hands it to me and says, “I think this is what you’re looking for.”
I take a shaky breath. My hand grips the envelope tightly for a few seconds. “What is it?”
“It’s your inheritance.”
My mind is running in circles. “What do you mean, my inheritance?”
“Josh Wolf was a good man. He never knew Dylan was your biological father until Damon blurted it out one night in the heat of anger. He came to see me afterward. You were around seven. I made him promise to leave you alone, and he did as I asked. His only request was that I send a photo of you once a year on your birthday with a few words about you written on the back. He wanted to know you even if he couldn’t really know you.”
She looks at me, studying my reaction before continuing. “This came this morning. It’s a letter from Josh’s attorney telling me it was Josh’s wish for me to use my best judgment in determining if you are ready for this. Ironic that his son couldn’t even let him die in peace. He had to tell the world about you before his father could. I’m really sorry for that.”
“Mom, I told you I’m okay. And I am.” I take the letter and have a seat. I open it and a number of pictures fall out onto the thick carpet. I bend to pick them up—they’re of me, with words written on the back. A picture of me in a Poison T-shirt at eight years old with the words “Loves Ninja Turtles” on the back. Another of me with my new guitar, the words “Loves to jam” scripted on the reverse side. I pile them all together and sit back in my chair.
“I stopped sending them when you turned eighteen. At that point I figured you were a man and I couldn’t stop him from telling you if he wanted. I thought about telling you so many times after Daddy’s death because I was afraid Josh or Damon would, but I couldn’t get the words out. Like I said, Josh was a good man and he respected my wishes.”
I understand why she couldn’t tell me. I don’t have to ask. She knew how much I hated Nick then. And she didn’t want me to hate him. She wanted me to love him like she loved me. She was right not to tell me because I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I shuffle the stuffed envelope between my hands until I decide to pull the letter out. The note itself is a short handwritten one . . .
I’ve watched you grow into a young man. I’ve watched you take control of your life. I wish I could have been a part of your life, but you have a family that loves you more than anything, so it’s only in my death that I’m able to tell you how proud of you I am. By all rights what I’m giving you is yours. Take care and never forget who you are.
Love, Your Grandfather
I unfold the thickly folded pieces of paper and read the bottom line—he’s left me half of Sheep Industries. I stare in disbelief. I stand up with a huge grin on my face.
“Xander, where are you going?” my mother asks.
I look at her. “To take back what’s mine. Do you know where the funeral is taking place?”
• • •
The afternoon sun is warm on my face. I take a left turn and slam right into the congested part of the city. I quickly change lanes, wishing I had my own car because every time I accelerate, this little putt-putt car goes nowhere. Exiting the highway, I see a steady line of cars pulling into Evergreen Cemetery. The media are following right behind, but a police barricade turns them away. I turn on my headlights and slip into the funeral procession without a problem. Once I’m in, I ease off toward the east side of the cemetery with the processional cars heading south. I park and watch as men in suits and women in dresses spill from their automobiles. They’re all engaged in their own conversations as they walk through the cemetery to Josh Wolf’s final resting place. I watch the pallbearers pull the casket from the black hearse and an uneasiness creeps through me. I didn’t know the man lying in the long rectangular box, but he was my grandfather and he left me half of his company.
I sit in the car and watch until everyone assembles for the burial ceremony. Once everyone has gathered, I see him. He stands front and center—smug, black suit, sunglasses, and a rose in his hand. Fuck, a rose. I laugh to myself, thinking Roses are so cliché. Getting out of the car, I lean against the door and just watch. The sound of his muffled voice courses through my body and lures me closer. From a distance I watch as people with tearstained faces throw roses on top of the casket. The ceremony is soon over and everyone seems to disperse quickly. I take the opportunity to blend into the crowd and make my way toward Damon. His bodyguard is a few feet away and I wonder why he has one—I thought he had hired the ninja for Ivy.
Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.
He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.
My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”
“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.
“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”
He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”
Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”
• • •
Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.
Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”
She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”
“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.
My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”
She opens his door and holds it open for me to enter. I walk into his over-the-top office—a huge mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view, four large-screen TVs on a red wall, a sheepskin rug with a large leather sofa on top of it. All very designer chic, all very impersonal. He’s standing at the bar, pouring himself what looks to be a scotch. He raises his glass. “I’d offer you one, but you won’t be here long enough to drink it and I hate to waste hundred-year-old Balvenie.”
Striding across the room in two seconds flat, I decide I’ve had enough of him. I snatch his shirt, but stay in complete control of my actions. I push him roughly, slamming his back up against the wall. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his cold brown eyes and repeat myself. “You disgust me . . .”
He struggles to free himself from my hold. “You’re just like your father,” he hisses.
I flinch and let go of him. “You’re right. I am. Nick was a decent man. Nothing like you.”
He gives a sad laugh. “You’re wrong. He was weak. Easily manipulated. But what I meant is that you’re like Dylan, my brother. He wasn’t so easily fooled, but he was easily feathered. It’s been fun watching you get so riled up. I could do it to my brother with a simple word, and I looked forward to perfecting my technique on you. It’s a shame everything came to an end sooner than I had hoped, but now I can show you what a great uncle I can be. And I’ll start by telling you how well I can take care of my wife.”
He gives me a cocky grin and although I want to knock it off his face, I’m choking, shuddering at his audacity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind his bar and rein my temper in. For Ivy, I keep reminding myself. Keep your cool for your girl.
“But before we discuss my wife, let me start by telling you a little bit about the man that owned this company—the great Josh Wolf, my father, your grandfather. He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, always logic and numbers, never any emotion. So getting Nick Wilde fired was easy. I knew all I had to do was show poor performance—no matter how much my father liked Nick, he was a businessman through and through and nothing but performance mattered in both his personal and professional life. Oh, wait—there was one tiny exception to that rule—Dylan, my brother, your father. The great Josh Wolf loved that boy in a way he loved no one else—Dylan could do no wrong. Ironic, since he was a user, a drug addict who couldn’t keep clean. I always tried to help my brother. I lived with him, I took care of him, I picked him up off the floor numerous times. And how did he repay me—by dating the woman I worked so hard to get. I deserved your mother . . . he didn’t. Do you know that when he overdosed, my father blamed me? Me!” he screams. “And then your mother—she went back to Nick.”
I don’t move. I’m caught in the web of the story he’s spinning.
“My father never forgave me for Dylan’s death and for years I had to prove to him I was worthy to be a part of his business. I had to make my way up the ladder and even after I landed Zeak Perry as a client, that wasn’t enough. Only when he took ill did I earn my rightful place. And then in his death I learn the bastard didn’t leave me the company—he left me half. I’d been under the impression my inheritance had a marriage clause. I never thought it had you in it. Never saw it coming. He didn’t seem to care about you. The night I told him you existed he didn’t even blink an eye. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the anniversary of Dylan’s death and he was putting my brother on a pedestal again. I couldn’t take it, so I just blurted out that at least I didn’t have an illegitimate son out there. You see, he knew about you for years and never did anything, never cared—not until he died anyway. How does that make you feel?”
I don’t bother to tell him Josh Wolf sought out my mother—that he knew about me and that he did care. He cared enough to do as my mother wished. His knowing the facts wouldn’t change anything. The man in front of me is vile, evil to the core, and I want to rid my life of him as soon as I can. I reach in my pocket and pull out the documents showing my fifty percent ownership.
“Ahhh . . . so you’re not here to meet your dear old uncle. I was wondering when you’d get to the point. How long it would take. But finally!” Damon says, walking to his desk. “The reason you’re here.” He claps his hands together as if congratulating himself. “You’re here for your half of the company. What do you think? Should we share desk space? Make decisions together? How do you think my dear old dad saw this going? Did he think we’d make an excellent team?”
I stare at him. He is so cold that I freeze. Falter. Words can’t explain how this man makes me feel. Finally I find my voice. “Why did you go see my father the day he killed himself?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for so long, unconcerned as to what position that puts me in in his eyes—because I know without a doubt that when this meeting is over I will be the winner.
She stares at me, squeezing the hand I leave on her shoulder.
“I’m okay, Mom. I am. But I need some help.”
“I know all about Ivy and Damon,” she says.
“Mom, I need to understand him. What makes him tick?”
“Power and money.” She looks at me and then picks up a letter on her desk. Running her finger over the edges, she hands it to me and says, “I think this is what you’re looking for.”
I take a shaky breath. My hand grips the envelope tightly for a few seconds. “What is it?”
“It’s your inheritance.”
My mind is running in circles. “What do you mean, my inheritance?”
“Josh Wolf was a good man. He never knew Dylan was your biological father until Damon blurted it out one night in the heat of anger. He came to see me afterward. You were around seven. I made him promise to leave you alone, and he did as I asked. His only request was that I send a photo of you once a year on your birthday with a few words about you written on the back. He wanted to know you even if he couldn’t really know you.”
She looks at me, studying my reaction before continuing. “This came this morning. It’s a letter from Josh’s attorney telling me it was Josh’s wish for me to use my best judgment in determining if you are ready for this. Ironic that his son couldn’t even let him die in peace. He had to tell the world about you before his father could. I’m really sorry for that.”
“Mom, I told you I’m okay. And I am.” I take the letter and have a seat. I open it and a number of pictures fall out onto the thick carpet. I bend to pick them up—they’re of me, with words written on the back. A picture of me in a Poison T-shirt at eight years old with the words “Loves Ninja Turtles” on the back. Another of me with my new guitar, the words “Loves to jam” scripted on the reverse side. I pile them all together and sit back in my chair.
“I stopped sending them when you turned eighteen. At that point I figured you were a man and I couldn’t stop him from telling you if he wanted. I thought about telling you so many times after Daddy’s death because I was afraid Josh or Damon would, but I couldn’t get the words out. Like I said, Josh was a good man and he respected my wishes.”
I understand why she couldn’t tell me. I don’t have to ask. She knew how much I hated Nick then. And she didn’t want me to hate him. She wanted me to love him like she loved me. She was right not to tell me because I’m not sure how I would have reacted back then. I shuffle the stuffed envelope between my hands until I decide to pull the letter out. The note itself is a short handwritten one . . .
I’ve watched you grow into a young man. I’ve watched you take control of your life. I wish I could have been a part of your life, but you have a family that loves you more than anything, so it’s only in my death that I’m able to tell you how proud of you I am. By all rights what I’m giving you is yours. Take care and never forget who you are.
Love, Your Grandfather
I unfold the thickly folded pieces of paper and read the bottom line—he’s left me half of Sheep Industries. I stare in disbelief. I stand up with a huge grin on my face.
“Xander, where are you going?” my mother asks.
I look at her. “To take back what’s mine. Do you know where the funeral is taking place?”
• • •
The afternoon sun is warm on my face. I take a left turn and slam right into the congested part of the city. I quickly change lanes, wishing I had my own car because every time I accelerate, this little putt-putt car goes nowhere. Exiting the highway, I see a steady line of cars pulling into Evergreen Cemetery. The media are following right behind, but a police barricade turns them away. I turn on my headlights and slip into the funeral procession without a problem. Once I’m in, I ease off toward the east side of the cemetery with the processional cars heading south. I park and watch as men in suits and women in dresses spill from their automobiles. They’re all engaged in their own conversations as they walk through the cemetery to Josh Wolf’s final resting place. I watch the pallbearers pull the casket from the black hearse and an uneasiness creeps through me. I didn’t know the man lying in the long rectangular box, but he was my grandfather and he left me half of his company.
I sit in the car and watch until everyone assembles for the burial ceremony. Once everyone has gathered, I see him. He stands front and center—smug, black suit, sunglasses, and a rose in his hand. Fuck, a rose. I laugh to myself, thinking Roses are so cliché. Getting out of the car, I lean against the door and just watch. The sound of his muffled voice courses through my body and lures me closer. From a distance I watch as people with tearstained faces throw roses on top of the casket. The ceremony is soon over and everyone seems to disperse quickly. I take the opportunity to blend into the crowd and make my way toward Damon. His bodyguard is a few feet away and I wonder why he has one—I thought he had hired the ninja for Ivy.
Weaving through the tombstones that will last far longer than the lives they mark, I near the gravesite. The casket is resting in the hollowed-out earth and Damon stands next to it talking to a silver-haired woman dabbing her eyes with a white handkerchief. As soon as I approach, the ninja is on me. Damon excuses himself and with a staggered gait that can only be for show, he confronts me. Through gritted teeth he says, “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.” There’s a calm control to my voice that I’m surprised by, considering I want to pound the shit out of him and bury him in the hole.
He’s glaring at me through his sunglasses. His hate for me is so apparent. “This is my father’s funeral. How dare you show up here!” His blood pressure must be out of control because his face turns beet red.
My eyes hold his. “Meet me in your office in one hour. Alone.”
“Why would I do that?” He flinches, trying to find his composure.
“Because you and I,” I tell him, anger coursing through my veins at an uncontrollable speed, “have business to discuss.”
He works his jaw. “Go to hell.”
Before walking away, I sneer and say, “That’s where you’ll be if you don’t meet me.”
• • •
Rush hour is barely beginning as I approach the city. With one hand I grip the wheel; with the other, I verify the address. I know where I’m going, but I want to be sure. Taking the next left, I pull into an underground garage but decide not to take the elevator leading straight into the building. I want to see it from the outside. I take my time entering the large black marble building with gilded doors. The number reads “1619” and the words above the door spell out SHEEP INDUSTRIES in big block letters. Entering the lobby of the building that is home to most of Sheep Industries’ holdings—Little Red, Front Line Management, and House Records, I’m not surprised at what I see. The lobby is nothing less than posh. Several seating areas span the vast area in color variations on the building itself—golds, whites, and blacks. Plaques, certificates, and various recognitions cover an entire lobby wall. The reception desk in the middle of the jet-black marble floor is the home to three women, all with headphones hooked over their ears. I approach them with a strange trepidation—this building, these furnishings, the businesses under this roof are half mine. I’m connected to them by a bloodline I never knew flowed through my veins.
Approaching the oldest of the women, who’s wearing a black blouse and has short gray hair, I smile and say, “Hi, I’m Xander Wilde, and I’m here to see Damon Wolf.”
She almost cracks a smile but keeps her businesslike demeanor. “Yes, Mr. Wilde, he’s expecting you. Take the elevator to the twelfth floor and his receptionist will show you the way from there.”
“Thank you,” I reply and then make my way to the elevator. My nerves start to pop and my legs seem to be shaking—what the hell am I nervous about? Stepping into the elevator, I can only think, Keep your poker face on, mean what you say, and own it. The doors close and I close my eyes. The doors open and I’m not even paying attention until the bell dings. I snap my eyes open and hustle out of there. Game on.
My fingertips tap the dark wood of the reception desk and a cute redheaded girl smiles at me. “You must be Mr. Wilde. Flo told me you were on your way to see Mr. Wolf. Let me show you in. I’ve already told him you had arrived.”
She opens his door and holds it open for me to enter. I walk into his over-the-top office—a huge mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view, four large-screen TVs on a red wall, a sheepskin rug with a large leather sofa on top of it. All very designer chic, all very impersonal. He’s standing at the bar, pouring himself what looks to be a scotch. He raises his glass. “I’d offer you one, but you won’t be here long enough to drink it and I hate to waste hundred-year-old Balvenie.”
Striding across the room in two seconds flat, I decide I’ve had enough of him. I snatch his shirt, but stay in complete control of my actions. I push him roughly, slamming his back up against the wall. “You disgust me.” I stare hard into his cold brown eyes and repeat myself. “You disgust me . . .”
He struggles to free himself from my hold. “You’re just like your father,” he hisses.
I flinch and let go of him. “You’re right. I am. Nick was a decent man. Nothing like you.”
He gives a sad laugh. “You’re wrong. He was weak. Easily manipulated. But what I meant is that you’re like Dylan, my brother. He wasn’t so easily fooled, but he was easily feathered. It’s been fun watching you get so riled up. I could do it to my brother with a simple word, and I looked forward to perfecting my technique on you. It’s a shame everything came to an end sooner than I had hoped, but now I can show you what a great uncle I can be. And I’ll start by telling you how well I can take care of my wife.”
He gives me a cocky grin and although I want to knock it off his face, I’m choking, shuddering at his audacity. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind his bar and rein my temper in. For Ivy, I keep reminding myself. Keep your cool for your girl.
“But before we discuss my wife, let me start by telling you a little bit about the man that owned this company—the great Josh Wolf, my father, your grandfather. He was a man who ruled with an iron fist, always logic and numbers, never any emotion. So getting Nick Wilde fired was easy. I knew all I had to do was show poor performance—no matter how much my father liked Nick, he was a businessman through and through and nothing but performance mattered in both his personal and professional life. Oh, wait—there was one tiny exception to that rule—Dylan, my brother, your father. The great Josh Wolf loved that boy in a way he loved no one else—Dylan could do no wrong. Ironic, since he was a user, a drug addict who couldn’t keep clean. I always tried to help my brother. I lived with him, I took care of him, I picked him up off the floor numerous times. And how did he repay me—by dating the woman I worked so hard to get. I deserved your mother . . . he didn’t. Do you know that when he overdosed, my father blamed me? Me!” he screams. “And then your mother—she went back to Nick.”
I don’t move. I’m caught in the web of the story he’s spinning.
“My father never forgave me for Dylan’s death and for years I had to prove to him I was worthy to be a part of his business. I had to make my way up the ladder and even after I landed Zeak Perry as a client, that wasn’t enough. Only when he took ill did I earn my rightful place. And then in his death I learn the bastard didn’t leave me the company—he left me half. I’d been under the impression my inheritance had a marriage clause. I never thought it had you in it. Never saw it coming. He didn’t seem to care about you. The night I told him you existed he didn’t even blink an eye. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was the anniversary of Dylan’s death and he was putting my brother on a pedestal again. I couldn’t take it, so I just blurted out that at least I didn’t have an illegitimate son out there. You see, he knew about you for years and never did anything, never cared—not until he died anyway. How does that make you feel?”
I don’t bother to tell him Josh Wolf sought out my mother—that he knew about me and that he did care. He cared enough to do as my mother wished. His knowing the facts wouldn’t change anything. The man in front of me is vile, evil to the core, and I want to rid my life of him as soon as I can. I reach in my pocket and pull out the documents showing my fifty percent ownership.
“Ahhh . . . so you’re not here to meet your dear old uncle. I was wondering when you’d get to the point. How long it would take. But finally!” Damon says, walking to his desk. “The reason you’re here.” He claps his hands together as if congratulating himself. “You’re here for your half of the company. What do you think? Should we share desk space? Make decisions together? How do you think my dear old dad saw this going? Did he think we’d make an excellent team?”
I stare at him. He is so cold that I freeze. Falter. Words can’t explain how this man makes me feel. Finally I find my voice. “Why did you go see my father the day he killed himself?” I ask the question I’ve wanted to know the answer to for so long, unconcerned as to what position that puts me in in his eyes—because I know without a doubt that when this meeting is over I will be the winner.
