Jim Rubart Trilogy

by James L. Rubart

  “So you weren’t this way from birth?”

  Not always. Only since he was nine.

  He looked down as he gave his head a tiny shake.

  “Zero! Zilch! Nada! That’s what you’ll always be, kid!” The rest of the scene—the torn jersey, the humiliation, the message—tried to surface, but Micah slammed the vault to his heart shut and the memory vanished.

  By the time he arrived at his office, his breathing steadied and his focus shifted to the letter from his great-uncle that sat on his teak desk. Micah picked it up and flopped into his black leather chair. The yellowed paper was probably white once, though the fluid script looked as crisp as if it had been scrawled yesterday.

  The envelope it came in had been sealed with wax, the outline of a lion’s head distinct in the dark-blue paraffin. Micah leaned back and stared at the name above the return address. Archie Taylor. Definitely strange.

  Archie was his great-uncle whom he knew less than a paragraph about. He’d been dead since the mid-nineties, and Micah had never met him. Archie had made quite a bit of money and hadn’t married, but the rest had always been a mystery. Until Micah’s late teens, he hadn’t known Archie existed. When Micah had asked, his dad only said Archie was odd, a man to stay away from.

  Micah opened the letter and wondered once more if it was real.

  September 27, 1990

  Dear Micah,

  You are likely shocked to have received this letter as we never had the opportunity to know each other. The reason for the letter will surprise you more.

  I have asked a friend to mail it when you turn thirty-five or when you acquire enough financial resources that you no longer need to labor. Consequently, if you are reading this letter before reaching your thirty-fifth birthday, you have already made a significant amount of money, which is sometimes a beneficial occurrence at a young age but usually is not.

  If my instructions have been carried out, a home was built during the past five months on the Oregon Coast, four miles south of Cannon Beach. I designed it for you. I assume by this point you’ve asked yourself why I would choose to build this house in Cannon Beach of all places.

  You likely already know why.

  Because it is time to face your past.

  It is time to deal with it.

  My great desire is that the home brings you resolution and restoration, and if the builder followed my directives, I believe it will. It will certainly—if you’ll forgive the cliché—upset your applecart if you allow it. The home is all you.

  Your great-uncle,

  Archie

  P.S. There should be a key enclosed with this letter as well as a card with the address.

  Micah reread the last line and frowned. “The home is all you”? Typo. Must mean all yours. He leaned his head back till it hit the back of his chair. His dad was right. This guy was a whacko.

  Face his past? His past was dead. Buried. Forgotten.

  And it would stay that way.

  ||||||||

  A noise in the hall made Micah look up. Julie. Good. Back to real life. Julie was the perfect business partner. Tenacious skiing partner. Recent romantic partner.

  Her shoulder-length blonde hair bounced as she pranced through the door of his office, her crisp beige suit complementing her gleaming pearly whites.

  “Hey!” Micah rose from his desk and opened his arms.

  When she reached him, she ruffled his dark brown hair and kissed him softly.

  The faint scent of Safari floated up to him. She never wore too much, almost not enough. Julie. Powerful yet tender at times. Driven and radiant. It was nice to have her back.

  “How was the trip, Jules?”

  “We’re richer, but I’m so glad it’s over.” She slid out of her blazer, flicked a piece of lint off the lapel, laid the coat across the back of Micah’s chair, and patted it once. “I did find the perfect SLR digital camera to add to my collection. You’ll model for me, please? Your baby-blue eyes are worth taking up two or three hundred megs on my laptop.”

  When they’d started RimSoft six years ago, he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course, he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship would bud into romance, either.

  Micah sat down and stared at Archie’s letter. He had to get down there. And if the house existed, get rid of it. Now.

  “You with me here?” Julie leaned against Micah’s desk.

  “Huh?”

  “I asked about Monday’s board meeting, and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough.” She laughed.

  “Sorry, didn’t hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long-lost relative. In fact, this weekend I might have to go—”

  Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”

  “What thoughts?”

  “Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and me and snow and spring skiing and fireplaces and old, old bottles of cabernet. Ring any bells?”

  “Hmm.” He grinned, raised his eyebrows, and hoped Julie would understand a change in plans.

  “If you’re canceling, you’d better have a really, really good reason.” She straightened the collar of his olive green polo shirt.

  “Apparently I’ve inherited a house right on the ocean, just south of Cannon Beach.”

  “Cannon Beach?” A scowl flashed across her face. “Didn’t you once tell me you hated Cannon Beach?”

  “I used to love it.”

  “What? You did?”

  “Forget it.” Sorry, Archie. The emotions that stupid letter wanted him to face would never see daylight.

  Julie stared at him, but he ignored it.

  “Let me see something.” Julie leaned over him as her red fingernails danced over his keyboard until a sampling of Cannon Beach oceanfront homes for sale flashed on-screen. “Take a look at these prices.” She tapped his monitor. “Your little gift could be worth $3 million plus. Throw a sign on it and make some quick cash.”

  “Exactly. The quicker the better.”

  “That’s why I love you, Micah. Cha-ching. Where did this mystery house come from?”

  He picked up the letter and drew it across his hand like a blade. “My great-uncle, whom I’ve never met, had it built for me.”

  “You never met him and he gives you a house?”

  “Weird, huh?” Micah snapped his fingers. “So this weekend, let’s head for the sand, see if it’s real, and if it is, put a For Sale sign on it and make some money.”

  “Instead of Whistler?” Her shoulders sagged.

  “You’re right.” He ran his finger over the surface of the letter. “Let’s go skiing.”

  “Wow. You really need to get this taken care of, don’t you?”

  Julie didn’t wait for an answer. A few seconds later, Google Earth splashed onto Micah’s monitor. “Address?”

  Micah read it to her off the letter. In moments they gazed at a patch of dirt overlooking the ocean.

  “Not even a pile of concrete,” Julie said.

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Micah punched a few keys. “Look. That satellite image is seven months old. Archie’s letter says the home was built by somebody during the past five months.” Micah’s gaze stayed riveted on his screen. “There could be—”

  “How ’bout I make you a deal so you can go to the beach, Mr. Break-My-Heart.”

  “Hey, it’s not that important for—”

  “No, no, stay with me here. I know that look. You have to go. If you switch out our weekend at Whistler for a week in the Alps, we have a deal.”

  “Then you’ll come with me this weekend?”

  “No.”

  “What? I’m not sure I want to do this by myself.”


  Julie slid her finger across Micah’s cheek and turned his head toward her. “Something tells me you need to do this alone.”

  It would be his first time in Cannon Beach in more than twenty years. And his last. Without question the last.

  CHAPTER 2

  Too late to head for Cannon Beach to see if the place was real? Probably. Micah walked through his penthouse doorway that evening the moment the numbers on his digital clock snapped from 8:59 to 9:00.

  He tapped his phone to get his messages and slumped onto his couch, hoping one would be from his dad—dreading one of them would be from his dad.

  “Hello, son,” his dad’s deep voice trundled out from the machine. “Received your call today. No need to call back. The only response for anything having to do with Archie Taylor is to run in the opposite direction. I don’t need to know what the letter says. Burn it and forget it. That’s what I’d do. What I expect you to do.”

  Micah sighed. Joy. That’d be a fun call to return.

  He got up to pour himself a glass of Diet Coke and stopped on the way to the kitchen in front of a framed picture of Julie and him on the cover of Inc. magazine hanging in the hallway. Their first cover story. A lifetime ago. He kissed his fingers and touched the glass. He’d popped the cork on a bottle of champagne that day. They’d made it.

  Too bad the champagne of success seemed to be losing its bubbles.

  After getting the Diet Coke, he clicked on his Panasonic big screen and glanced at the wall on either side of it. Blank. Last time Julie was over, they’d had the same conversation they had ten times before about his penthouse’s lack of decor.

  “Why don’t you put some art on the walls, Micah? Some paintings? Or pictures? At least something.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Well, buy some, or put up those drawings and paintings you did back in high school and early college. The ones stacked in the closet. They’re pretty decent if you ask me.”

  “They’re horrible.” His high school counselor had encouraged him to major in art in college. No way. No money in it. A shot too long to seriously consider. That part of his life was over.

  “Then why have you hung on to them for the past twelve years?”

  “Yeah, I will. Soon.”

  “Which? Toss or hang?”

  Micah didn’t reply. He didn’t know the answer.

  That was a month ago. He took a sip of his Diet Coke and glanced over at the closet door, cracked open just enough to see the edge of the stack. He still didn’t know the answer.

  Micah turned back to the TV and watched ESPN with the mute button on and thought about Cannon Beach. He loved the annual sand castle contest. His brother and he came in second place in the seven-to-eleven age group the year they built the dragon. That was their last trip. Two days after the contest . . . He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

  He looked over at The Fellowship of the Ring novel on his end table. He’d been meaning to read it for two years. “I’m taking you with me.”

  Saturday morning he rolled out of bed at seven, whipped up a bacon-bits-and-kalamata-olive omelet, and called his dad. Talking to him more than twice a year was too often, but if anyone had a clue why Archie had left him a house, it would be his father.

  The phone rang three times. “Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”

  His dad had answered the phone that way for as long as Micah could remember. Sounded like it was straight out of a 1950s textbook on manners. Probably was.

  Micah rubbed his forehead. He had to stay focused. Get the info and get off the phone. And try not to loathe the man more when he hung up than when he started.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “You’re eating while you’re talking to me, son.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you eating?”

  Micah pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. As usual his dad was in fine drive-you-crazy form. “Why does it matter?”

  “What are you eating?”

  “Just my special scrambled eggs and toast, coffee. Nothing fancy.”

  “Get some fruit in your diet, son.”

  Micah rubbed the scar on his left hand. “I want to talk to you about Archie’s letter.”

  “I thought I explained my position in my message last night.”

  “You did.” Micah rubbed his neck. “But I hoped I could get you to—”

  “Fine. Read me the letter.”

  Micah read it and waited. Three seconds. Five. His dad broke the silence at seven.

  “Stay away from Cannon Beach. Why would you consider going back there even for one second?” Micah knew he’d have a reaction to where the house was located. Just as he knew his dad would fail to address the accident in any direct way. And Archie was a character straight out of Looney Tunes. How do you know the letter is real? It’s probably from a competitor trying to distract you.” His dad coughed. “You’ve accomplished a tremendous amount in the business world.”

  “Thanks,” he sputtered. It was the first time his dad had mentioned RimSoft’s success. Ever. Micah looked at the Inc. picture of Julie and him on his wall. He’d sent a copy to his dad when it came out. His dad never acknowledged it.

  “Also, what makes you think a house is really there? If there is, it’s probably no bigger than an outhouse and doesn’t smell much better. Leave it alone, son.”

  His dad rarely called him anything but son, and Micah had grown up longing to hear his name spoken every now and then. “Thanks for the thoughts. I’ll think about ’em.”

  “They’re not just thoughts; they are facts. What are you going to do?”

  “Think about it!” Micah instantly regretted raising his voice. But every conversation with his dad was like talking to Spock. All he wanted was a little emotion from the man.

  “I’ve obviously said too much. I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life. But you asked for my opinion and—”

  “I’m sorry. I just want—”

  “—I know I’m not good at these . . . um . . . and in the past I’ve done . . . I’m just not . . . You’ll make a good choice, I’m sure.”

  Micah hung up and looked out the window of his twenty-first-floor penthouse overlooking Seattle’s Elliott Bay. It was a radiant spring day, the sun in full bloom, casting long morning shadows on the tiny grass park just north of Pike Place Market. A man lay in the center of the emerald carpet. His arms and legs were spread out, as if he’d stopped in the middle of making a snow angel.

  The scene sparked a memory of himself when he was seventeen, eyes closed, lying in the center of a park near home.

  “Hey, Micah, what are you doing?” a friend from his basketball team had asked, interrupting his daydream.

  “Not thinking.” Micah opened his eyes. “Do you ever have so many thoughts of what you have to get done that you want to escape from your own mind?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “I do. Never want to be one of those fame or power players so wiped out from racing through life and trying to keep what they have that they never get a chance to enjoy it. I’m going to enjoy being alive every day.”

  “You’re weird, Micah.”

  A conversation from another lifetime. Micah opened his eyes as the memory faded. He was a pretty naive kid back then. The life he’d created had perks he never dreamed of. But when you get to the top of Everest and it’s not all that great, what do you climb next?

  The guy sprawled out on the lawn was still there, undoubtedly thinking about nothing. Or more likely stoned out of his mind. Whatever the case, the guy wasn’t trying to climb a molehill, let alone a mountain. Micah shook his head and tried to smile.

  Resistance is futile. Life changes people. It changed his dad. Turned him into . . . something else.

 
And it seemed life had turned Micah into Sir Edmund Hillary. Accept it. Twenty minutes later he stood at his front door, black leather Vaqueta briefcase in one hand, a Nike gym bag in the other. Anything else?

  Yeah. Grab some sunflower seeds for the trip down to the beach. He set his bags down just inside his front door, then trotted down the hall toward the kitchen. Wait. Something was wrong. Out of place in the hallway. Micah stopped and did a slow spin. Not out of place. Missing.

  Where was it? He looked down, expecting to see it lying on the ginger-colored carpet. Nothing.

  Waves of heat washed over him. Impossible. He’d glanced at it forty minutes ago while talking to his dad.

  The framed Inc. magazine cover on his wall had vanished.

  CHAPTER 3

  Showtime. Time to find out how fully his great-uncle Archie had abandoned his rocker.

  Just after three o’clock Saturday afternoon, Micah took the first Cannon Beach exit, lowered his window, and breathed deep. The tang of the ocean air filled him. In it he tasted gut-wrenching memories and, for reasons he didn’t understand, hope.

  The odds of the house being real were zero, but he had to see the dirt. It was the fastest way to get Archie’s letter out of his head. Micah had pulled up the satellite photo once more before leaving Seattle, hoping to answer the question before he left. It still showed the outdated patch of open land where Archie’s house now supposedly sat.

  If it did exist, the place would be four miles south of Cannon Beach so he didn’t need to go through town; but since he hadn’t been there in more than twenty years, he wanted to see the changes.

  It wasn’t the real reason he pulled off Highway 101.

  Part of him desperately wanted a house to be standing at the address on the card. He wanted to believe someone was crazy enough—or maybe cared enough about him—to build him a home on the Oregon Coast. But a bigger part didn’t believe, and driving through town would delay the inevitable disappointment.

  He turned onto Main Street, and a few seconds later Osburn’s Ice Creamery filled his vision. Still there! His family used to camp up and down the Oregon Coast every summer. And every trip ended at Osburn’s for two scoops of whatever flavor his brother and he wanted. The two scoops were never sweet enough because they meant a summer of adventures had ended, and the bittersweet taste of fall and a new school year would settle on his tongue during the cheerless drive back to Seattle.