by Alisha Rai
He shrugged that off. “I was fine.”
Maile hadn’t given her any details, and Tani had been stone-faced in front of her grandson’s excitement, but Sadia had the feeling everything hadn’t been fine.
“Is that for me?” He pointed at the bag she carried.
She started when she realized she’d forgotten her errand in favor of staring at his ink and abs. “Oh, yes. Yesterday, I ran into . . .” she hesitated, loathe to even mention John. She’d never dared around Paul. Her husband hated any reminder of the company he’d lost. “John Chandler. He asked me to give this to you and to tell you he would love to see you sometime.”
As always, Jackson’s face was expressionless. He accepted the bag from her. “Thanks.”
“I haven’t seen him before this,” she felt compelled to explain. “Not since . . . you know.”
“I wouldn’t judge you if you had.”
“Paul would have been mad.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
“I’m not Paul. I never cared about losing the company as much as he did.” Jackson’s eyes grew flinty. “I cared about Nicholas making Livvy miserable, but John had nothing to do with that.”
She swallowed. “For what it’s worth, Livvy said John had nothing to do with stealing the company either.”
He shrugged, and she believed him. He’d never really cared about the C&O.
She rocked back on her heels. “Well, I have to run.”
His gaze trailed over her body, so quickly she might have missed it if she hadn’t been attuned to him. “Working at the bar tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Have fun.”
She paused, feeling vaguely guilty. He couldn’t know what kind of fun she was planning on having tonight, right? No, of course not. And even if he did, she had no reason to feel guilty. She nodded, and made her escape.
Have fun?
Why had he said that? Now he was going to be consumed with thoughts of all the things that could fall under the banner of fun she could be engaging in all night.
Would she flirt with someone the way she’d flirted with him that first night, when she hadn’t known who he was? Would she do more than flirt?
Goddamn it. All of the careful speeches he’d rehearsed had flown out of his brain when he’d opened the door to find her dressed in those tight black clothes.
I was worried about you yesterday.
More worried than I thought I would be for someone I don’t love.
Let’s dissect what that means.
Jackson grimaced. He sat down on the bed and weighed the cloth bag Sadia had handed him.
He pulled out the book inside, recognizing it instantly. Jackson’s grandpa Kane had been a decent, robust guy, but he’d never met his maternal grandfather, Sam Oka. Sam and John were the ones who had cobbled together the beginnings of an empire, literally digging the first hole for what would become the C&O. Until it had burned down.
John had kept his best friend alive for Sam’s grandchildren, telling them stories and passing down the man’s traditions. It had been the only way they’d learned of the heritage from that side of their family, since Tani had never wanted to discuss her late parents. Paul and Livvy hadn’t been as curious about Sam as Jackson had been, so naturally he and John had forged a solid relationship.
He traced the front of the journal. The leather was cracking in a few places, but John had kept it in great condition. Sam hadn’t been the type of guy to keep journals, John had told him. There was this one, sporadically written in, and the letters John had meticulously saved.
He opened to a page at random. He’d read these entries so many times he could recite them in his sleep.
Tani was born today. I don’t think anyone is more excited than John. He said we should betroth Brendan and her right now, so we can unite the families. I told him, not a chance. What if that boy grows up to be an asshole? He already has trouble sharing his toys.
Smart man, Grandpa Sam.
He flipped backward, to the entry about their first store.
Week four after our opening. Everyone’s telling me to be happy with the one store, to stop working so hard, to figure out how to make this one a success and stop thinking of growing our business, but I’m seeing a chain. A nationwide one, a place where people come from miles just for the privilege of shopping with us.
John thinks it’s about the money, and maybe it is, but no matter how much John says he understands, he can’t. I want my family to be rich and powerful enough that they can fight the entire federal government if they ever need to. Money talks. Power talks. Nothing else can make the world sit up and take notice, not kindness or love or being good. I want my children to have every advantage I can buy for them. Enough so they’re equal to John’s children in the eyes of the law.
We help ourselves now. I can’t quit, or rest. If I quit, it could all be over.
An undefinable swell of emotion filled Jackson’s chest. Whenever John had done an interview after Sam’s death, he’d been careful to stress that Sam had been the powerhouse behind the store, that without him, they wouldn’t have thought big enough or grand enough to create the empire they did.
Jackson had sat next to John, wide eyed, while the man had told him the exact same thing, but these words directly from his grandfather, had always left him in awe, hammering home the measure of the man whose blood ran through his veins.
Harsh, proud, realistic.
All qualities Sam must have had to have to create a successful empire in an overcrowded market.
Nothing’s over until you quit. He’d been six in John’s kitchen when the man had first passed on Sam’s favorite saying, then laughed, telling Jackson Sam had been considered quite the rebel in his family for being so headstrong and ruthless in his attitude.
Jackson turned the page, and something fell into his hands. A piece of paper this time. It looked like it had been read and read often, was almost as delicate as the paper in the journals.
He opened the paper and smoothed it out, but the handwriting here wasn’t his grandfather’s. It took him until the third or fourth sentence before recognition struck him.
His gaze flew to the bottom of the page and he inhaled sharply at Paul’s signature.
He should put it away. This wasn’t his to read.
But he couldn’t. He braced his hand on the bed and bent his head.
Dear Grandpa John,
I may have given up the right to call you grandpa by now—but it felt odd to address this letter as Mr. or only John, so bear with me. I’m not trying to soften you up.
I’ll keep this short. I was the one who set the fire at the C&O. I was angry and furious. I blamed you for my father’s death, and my mother’s grief. I blamed Nicholas for Livvy’s pain. And finally, maybe mostly, I blamed all of you for taking the business away from me. The C&O was mine, and I felt robbed.
This isn’t meant to be an explanation, or even an excuse. I have no excuse for what I did. I have even less of an excuse for what I did after that fire.
When I realized there was a witness who had mistaken me for my brother, I convinced Jackson to keep quiet and allow them to arrest him. I assured him I would get him out quickly, that the charges were false. I manipulated him. The hows and whys aren’t important, but rest assured, it happened. And I knew he would do what I asked, because beyond anything, Jackson was a sweet kid with a heart bigger than his body.
It is pure dumb luck that witness recanted his story and Jackson’s attorney—an attorney my aunt and sister got for him, because I was too blinded by panic and anger to even do that much—got him off. Or maybe it’s not luck. If you were the one who persuaded that witness to recant, I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for taking action when I could not.
I’m telling you all of this because I’m sitting in the hospital, watching my baby boy sleep on my wife’s chest. They are so beautiful together my heart aches. I want nothing more for my son than the opportunity
I had—to grow up with a father who is fierce and brave and loving and strong, and to maybe have siblings who are equally as strong and brave and protective.
I am not that strong, which is why I threw that Molotov all those years ago. I am not courageous, or I’d send this to the police.
But I’m telling you, now, for two reasons. One, I want you to know that your son wasn’t totally wrong to take the business. I can see now that I would have been a piss-poor person to run things by your side. Two, I want you to be able to take this letter to the authorities as a confession if you wish to.
I love my brother, and I used him, and I regret nothing more. I’ll never forgive myself for that. I’ll never forgive myself for the fire. It could have hurt someone. It seems like a just punishment that I have the threat of what you’ll do with this letter hanging over my head.
Don’t try to contact me. I won’t respond, as usual. But I do love you. Thank you for everything you ever did for me, and my siblings.
Best,
Paul
I love my brother.
I used him.
I regret nothing more.
Jackson didn’t realize how tight his grip had gotten until the paper crinkled in his hands. He breathed deeply and released his hold.
Fuck.
He sat there for God knew how long, turning the words over and over in his head. They made such little sense to him. Over the past ten years he’d imagined Paul gloating or stubbornly oblivious. He hadn’t realized the man had actually hurt. He hadn’t imagined he’d regretted things.
He hadn’t imagined Paul still loved him.
In his head, he was back in their parents’ bedroom of their old mansion, staring at Paul as the other man frantically paced the floor. Tell me you didn’t really set that fire, he’d whispered, as if the police were actually in the house already. They weren’t. They were on their way with a search warrant. Rumors were swirling of a witness who had placed Jackson at the scene.
Jackson’s alibi was his family. He’d been holding his sister at the time. He hadn’t left the house in weeks.
Paul had run his hands through his hair. It’s not what you think.
I think you set the fire.
Their mother had been staring dumbly at the wall, but finally spoke up. Jackson, if the police try to arrest you, go with them. You’re innocent.
But, Mom—
You’re innocent. Paul is not. You have to protect your brother. We’ll get you out quickly, I promise. And if we can’t, then Paul will take responsibility for what he did.
He’d looked into his mother’s eyes and believed her. And then Paul had uttered the sentence that had ensured Jackson would do whatever it took to shield his brother.
Jackson had sat quietly in a jail cell while reporters smeared his name and the district attorney gloated that they were going to hold a son of one of the two richest families in the county accountable. He watched circumstantial evidence pile up against him and held silent even with his own attorney, who while clever and competent, was also certain of Jackson’s guilt.
He hadn’t caved. He’d had to stay tough. He’d had to cover for his brother.
He carefully folded the letter up and held it in his hands. What was he supposed to do with this? He didn’t doubt John had purposefully given it to him.
Paul was dead. If he wanted to, Jackson could go public. Clear his name in the court of public opinion, where it had, no doubt, been damaged. Maybe he might get punished for obstruction, but no one would think he was an arsonist.
He could stay here without fearing that every person he passed assumed he was a villain. But then everyone would know Sadia had married an arsonist who had thrown his brother under the bus.
He wanted to go see John, right this minute. But that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t drive up to the man’s mansion and demand an explanation for why John had given this letter to Sadia—
His blood ran cold. Jesus Christ. Sadia could have read this.
Jackson didn’t have to think about where he was going. He’d driven up to John Chandler’s home too many times for him to recall. His own home had been right next door, separated by a small forest. Sam and John had been two peas in a pod and had built their homes close enough for their kids and grandkids to easily mingle.
Jackson pulled into John’s circular drive. It was about seven, so later than most people would probably feel comfortable visiting someone, but Jackson couldn’t wait. He needed to confront the man.
He rang the doorbell and waited, then rang it again, uncharacteristic impatience running through him. After another minute or so, the door opened and Jackson flinched. It was like looking at a ghost of Maria Chandler. Same round face, petite, chubby form, same dark hair and eyes. But this girl’s hair was straight, not curly, and she had a form of self-possessed quietness Nicholas’s mother had lacked.
Jackson tried not to think too hard about the night his father had died. He could only remember snatches of it. The sound of the policeman’s radio squawking, his mother’s screams, his sister’s sobbing, his brother’s raised voice.
At the same time the policeman had been at his door, another cruiser had been at the Chandler’s door, to explain Maria was also dead.
No one knew why the two of them had been together in that car that winter night, and it didn’t matter to Jackson. The last time Jackson had seen Eve Chandler had been before he’d gone to jail. Nicholas’s sister had been thirteen then, younger than even Sadia’s sisters. He braced himself. “Eve.”
Eve looked far less surprised to see him than Jackson was to see her. “Hello there, Jackson. What brings you here?”
His fingers tightened around the book in his hand. “I’d like to see your grandfather.”
She inclined her head, smooth as silk. “Let me see if he’s receiving visitors. Why don’t you wait in the library? I trust you know where it is?”
He nodded, feeling more than a little bit like he’d slipped into a surreal dreamscape. He waited for Eve to walk away, then drifted through the hallways of the home. The library had been his favorite room. He stepped inside and looked up and up at the stacks. There were a lot of books in here, but the place felt smaller than it had when he was young.
A framed photo on the wall caught his attention and he drew in a deep breath, prowling closer. Footsteps had him pausing when he was about to touch the frame.
“He’ll be right with you,” Eve said from inside the door, her tone neutral. “Can I get you—oh.”
“This burned down.” He knew his tone was harsh, but he couldn’t help it. He looked at Eve, one hand touching the frame, the other holding his grandfather’s journal. “What is it doing here?”
Her gaze went to the photo. It was old and black and white, of both of their grandfathers when they were little more than boys. It had been taken in front of the Oka’s old supermarket in San Francisco, not long before Sam had been sent to an internment camp in Utah. “Grandpa tracked down the original photographer. There’s a copy hanging in the flagship C&O again. Nicholas insisted before he left with Livvy that it be restored.”
Jackson’s chest felt tight. In all the days he’d been working at the café, he’d never once had the thought of going back inside the supermarket.
It was impossible for him to unlink what had happened with Paul and the fire to the company. He had no desire to set foot in that store, not for a minute. But if he had . . . Eve was saying if he had, he would have seen his grandpa. This picture he’d grown up looking at. His past, the man he’d come from.
His fingers tightened on the journal.
Eve cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
He turned back to her, the foreign emotions leaking past his defenses, making him sharper than he would have otherwise been. “I had to make sure your brother didn’t hurt my sister again.”
Her smile was reserved. Jackson had the feeling most things this girl did were as muted as her tasteful neutral pink pressed sheath dr
ess. “Ah. You hate Nicholas.”
“Very much so.”
“Probably as much as I thought I hated Livvy.”
His eyes narrowed. “How could you possibly hate Livvy? She didn’t do anything to you. Nicholas is the one who fucked her over.”
She raised a finely arched brow. “So it’s my family that was the villain in every case?”
He opened his mouth, about to agree, and then he remembered what he was holding.
Paul’s goddamn confession.
“My brother is a good person,” she continued softly. “And so is your sister. I think it’s time for both of our families to lay down our arms, hmm? There’s been enough blood shed on every side.”
His jaw tightened. “We’ll see how good he is.”
“I suppose we will. They’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Nicholas called me this morning.” A smile touched her lips. “Mostly to make sure the business is struggling without him, which I’m sure is exactly what he wanted our father to see.”
Nicholas had been in contact with his sister, though Livvy hadn’t been in touch with him, beyond that damned voicemail.
Jackson tried to banish his unwarranted sense of jealousy. “Good.”
“I hope it’s good, and that everyone makes their transition back into the real world a smooth one.” She raised her rounded chin and regarded him coolly. “You know what I mean?”
How old was this girl? Twenty-three, twenty-four? She was remarkably good at conveying a threat with only a look. “Do you work at the business?” She’d make a killer corporate type.
Her smile was sardonic. “No. I worked at the foundation, but I recently quit.”
Maria’s foundation. He’d donated money to the thing over the years. Just because he disliked the men of this family didn’t mean he didn’t like giving underprivileged kids a chance to go to college. Besides, Maria had always been kind to him.
