by Sarah Jio
“Everything,” she replies. “Trents are never any good. They’re either really boring accountant types with bangs that are cut evenly across their forehead, or they’re heavy-metal, thrasher-rock dudes.”
I smile. “So it sounds like you found the world’s best Trent.”
“Exactly,” Tracy exclaims. “He’s got to be in the Trent Hall of Fame. He’s cute, smart, and, oh, he has a boat, and we’re very compatible from an astrological perspective.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say, smiling big. “Are you bringing him to the engagement party on Saturday?”
“Yeah,” Tracy says. “You’ll get to meet him. And can you actually believe I was able to get that night off work? I mean, I may or may not have had to kill for it.”
I grin. “I expect no less from my best friend.”
I fill her in on Cade—well, everything but what happened at his apartment yesterday.
“So it sounds like Ryan is easing into all of this,” she says. “He’s such a good guy; he’s always so understanding.”
“He is,” I say wistfully.
I tell her about Cade’s recollection of being on a boat.
“Is he sure?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “His doctor said that his memory could ebb and flow. That not all of the details would connect or even match.”
“Right,” Tracy says. “I had an amnesia patient once. Her memory was fluid in the same way Cade’s doctor describes. She kept insisting that what was clearly a childhood incident happened on her forty-third birthday.”
“Did she ever recover?” I ask, a little afraid to hear the answer.
“She had a remarkably patient husband. He went over the time line with her until she closed the gap,” Tracy says.
“In this case,” I say, “we might not have time for that approach. I wasn’t there that night, but even if Cade doesn’t remember what happened, there must be someone who does. I’m going to try to piece it all together if I can.”
—
I find Cade in the common area of the apartment building when I arrive. He’s playing a game of chess with another resident and looks up and smiles when he sees me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he replies.
I sit beside him as he finishes the game with a winning move.
“Nice,” I say, smiling as the other resident, an older man, stands up and leaves.
“It’s funny how stuff like this can just come back to you,” he says.
“You’re making amazing progress,” I say.
He smiles.
“I was thinking,” I say. “It’s almost Christmas, and you need a tree in your apartment.”
His face brightens.
“Would you like to go pick one out with me?”
“I would,” he says.
After signing Cade out, together we walk to my car and drive to a tree lot on Capitol Hill with a blow-up Frosty the Snowman.
“How about this one?” I say to Cade, pointing to a little tree at the back of the lot.
He studies it carefully, then nods. All around us are families and couples. A little girl with blond pigtails and pink rubber rain boots races up and down the rows of Christmas trees.
“Grace!” her father calls playfully. “I can see you!”
Cade looks at me when he hears her name. He remembers, just as I do. The skin on my arms erupts in goosebumps.
I pay for the tree and a worker offers to rope it to the top of my car, but Cade holds up his hand. “I’ve got it,” he says.
I watch as he lifts the tree up and secures it on the top of the car. He isn’t as strong as he used to be, but he’s just as determined. I watch, beaming with pride, as his arms thread the rope to the roof rack. “This baby better not fall,” he says with a laugh, then turns to me. “What do you think?”
But I’m not thinking about the tree. I don’t care if it falls into a ditch on the side of the road. All I care about is this man before me and how, in this moment, his injury, like a suit of armor, appears to be falling off him before my very eyes.
“Should I put some more rope by the trunk?” he asks. The Christmas lights strung above us make his eyes twinkle, and I will away the tears that are flirting with the edges of my lids.
“No,” I say. “It’s perfect. You’ve done a perfect job.”
We drive to the local drugstore and find our way to the holiday aisle, where I stack our cart with my favorite multicolored lights, boxes of red and silver ornaments, and a tree stand. On a whim, I throw in a pack of silver tinsel.
“Merry Christmas,” the clerk says, handing me my change at the register. I stuff it into the Salvation Army bell ringer’s red bucket on our way out.
Back at Cade’s building, we carry the tree and decorations to the elevator, then up to his apartment. He sets the tree in the stand, and I fiddle with the radio I brought over for him a few weeks ago. It isn’t anything near the level of sound system Cade once owned, but it plays music, and that’s good enough.
At the sound of Bing Crosby’s voice singing “White Christmas,” I stop the dial. Cade has set the little tree up by the window, and together we unwind the lights and string them around the branches. Cade is quietly focused as we hang the ornaments, then finish with the tinsel.
When it’s complete, we turn the lights off and sit on the love seat, admiring our little tree. I lean my head on Cade’s shoulder. It feels natural, like it’s a resting place made just for me, always for me.
My mind churns. Ryan. The wedding. Cade’s healing. There is so much to do, so much to figure out. A world of decisions to make. But for now, this is enough. The Christmas tree, like life, isn’t perfect. It leans to the left a little, and it’s missing a star. There are no presents underneath, no tree skirt. But even so, it’s just right.
DECEMBER 20, 2008
“Ryan,” I say from the bathroom while I’m getting ready for our engagement party. I can barely focus on my dress, which needs to be ironed, or my hair, which I suppose I should curl. “Do you know any forensic accountants?”
“Sure, why?” he replies, poking his head in the doorway while tying his tie.
“It’s just some stuff that came up with Cade.”
His expression changes momentarily. “Oh,” he says.
“The thing is,” I continue, “I think there’s a very good chance that his business partner took everything from him.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well, it could be worth looking into, but, Kailey, those guys aren’t cheap.”
I know it’s not fair to expect Ryan to pay any more out of pocket for Cade’s well-being. He’s already aware of the Harborview costs but hasn’t questioned them, and for that I am grateful. “You might find someone to work on commission, based on what they could find and recover.”
“Good idea,” I say, selecting the pair of diamond stud earrings that Ryan gave me for Valentine’s Day last year.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through his contacts. “Here,” he says. “Davis, Emmerson, and Barrett. Talk to Bruce Barrett. He’s an attorney but works closely with a team of forensic accountants who do that sort of work all the time. Maybe you could work something out with them.” He shrugs. “I’ll text you their info.”
“Thanks,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, and if I could crawl into his mind, I know I’d see how much he wishes I would just let Cade be. Let the system take care of him. Stop worrying about him and instead focus on my life, our life. And yet I can’t. He knows that. I know that.
“You look beautiful,” he says, beaming at me after I’ve slipped on my dress, black with a lace bodice.
“And you look very handsome,” I reply. The truth is, Ryan always looks handsome.
When we arrive at Serafina for the party, at least a dozen of our friends are already there. I see Tracy across the room with an attractive gray-haired man. I wave and walk over. Ryan stays by the entrance of the restaurant to talk to a colleague from his office who has a
chic-looking brunette on his arm.
“Look at you,” she says. “Love the dress!”
“Thanks,” I reply, smiling. “This must be Trent.”
“Yes,” she says, turning to her date. “Trent, this is my best friend, Kailey.”
“We finally meet,” he says, extending his hand. His grip is firm, his eyes kind. I like him instantly.
“I hear you have a boat,” I say. “A sailboat?”
“I used to sail,” he says. “But then I turned forty and got lazy.”
“Trent is being modest,” Tracy says. “He has a beautiful yacht.”
“Oh, fun,” I say.
“If you have a free day before the wedding, I’ll take you and your fiancé out on it to celebrate.”
“We’d love that,” I say, just as Ryan nestles beside me, wrapping his arm around my waist.
“I’m Ryan,” he says to Trent. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Trent,” he says.
“We were just talking about his yacht,” I say to Ryan. “He invited us to come out sometime.”
“Wonderful,” Ryan replies. “I grew up on boats. Someday I hope to talk this one into buying one of our own. Until then we’ll live vicariously through you.”
“Trent,” I say, “do you happen to know the brand Princess?”
“Princess Yachts? Sure. That’s a quality line. I have a Sunseeker, but Princess is just as well regarded.”
Ryan waves at a work colleague who has just arrived and kisses my cheek. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. “Trent, so nice to meet you.”
After he’s gone, I continue. “If someone owned a Princess Yacht back in 1998, is there any way to track it?”
“Tracy told me you work for the newspaper,” he says. “Investigative reporter?”
“Yes, but I’m more into social issues than aquatics,” I say with a smile. “This is a personal project.”
“Well,” he says, “if the person bought it new, you could definitely find purchase data on it. I have a buddy who used to work in yacht sales. I could ask him.”
“That would be wonderful,” I say. “Thank you.”
—
It’s a lovely party, and all around people are smiling, drinking, laughing—the trifecta of joy. And for a moment, I sort of forget that it’s my engagement party instead of a gathering of old friends. But then I hear the tap of a microphone, and the room silences.
“Is this thing on?” Ryan says.
Everyone laughs, and one of his work friends makes a wisecrack that I don’t quite understand.
“Okay, now that I have your attention, you rowdy crew,” Ryan jokes, “I’d like to make a toast: to my beautiful bride-to-be, Kailey.”
I feel my cheeks get warm as the room’s collective gaze turns to me. I smile, but it feels forced, and my cheeks feel tight, as if I’m straining my muscles.
“My beautiful girl,” he says. “The day I met you, I was done. Arrow through the heart. I was yours. And I knew for a million reasons—your smile, your kindness, the way your nose crinkles a little when you’re laughing, the way you know the difference between tarragon and thyme and any spice from A to Z.”
I smile, remembering one of our first dates, when I made him dinner at my old apartment in Belltown and gave him a lesson on herbs and spices.
“I love more things about you than I could ever recite here. And mostly and especially, I love your spirit and your heart. And I’m so honored that you’ve agreed to spend your life with me.” He clears his throat. “The road to this moment hasn’t always been perfect. And you’ve endured more hardship than I have, hands down.” He raises his glass. “So this toast is for you, Kailey, and to all the plans that didn’t work out, all the perceived failures and falters and detours in the road. Because without them, this life we’re living, this love we’re feeling wouldn’t be possible. Disappointment is really just a stepping stone on the path to better things, to the best thing.” He pauses and wipes a tear from his eyes, then turns to me. “And, Kailey, for all the detours you have had, and I have had, you are the best destination. And I am so grateful that my path led me to you.”
Everyone claps, and the room parts so that I can find my way up to Ryan. I give him a kiss, and I hope he doesn’t notice that my lip is trembling. “Thank you,” I say. “That was so beautiful.”
“I meant every word,” Ryan says before his brother walks up to him and pats him on the back.
I see Tracy ahead and I weave through the crowd to her, waving at Jan and one of my coworkers from the Herald across the room.
“Trent had to leave early to pick up his daughter,” she says.
I tug at my dress, unable to look her in the eye.
“Kailey, I watched you during Ryan’s speech. He was speaking from the heart tonight, but his words went right through you.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, trying to quell the quiver of my chin and lower lip.
“You’re not, and I know it.” She reaches for my arm. “Please, I’m your best friend. If you can’t be honest with me, who can you be honest with? Kailey, you don’t need to do this alone.”
I nod.
“You can’t marry him, Kailey.”
“But I’m going to,” I say, holding my head up higher and turning to look at Ryan in the distance: so handsome, so confident, so…everything. “Tracy, I love him. I really do.”
“Yes,” she says. “But, honey, you know as well as I do that sometimes love is not enough.”
When I look up, Ryan is walking toward me. If he was ever worried about Cade, he’s successfully dealt with his fears and chosen to trust me, and my inability to settle my feelings leaves my stomach in knots.
“Hi,” he says to me, kissing my cheek before smiling at Tracy.
“We were just talking about how great your toast was,” Tracy says, coming to my rescue.
“It was wonderful,” I say, finding my voice.
The jazz band we hired returns to their instruments and begins playing. I don’t recognize the tune at first, but then it hits me: “All of Me,” that old song my grandmother used to love.
All of me, why not take all of me?
I blink back tears as Ryan pulls me closer. And I know, in that moment, that as hard as I have tried, I’ll never be able to give him all of me.
DECEMBER 22, 2008
Due to a lucky cancellation, I’m able to get an appointment to meet with Bruce Barrett, the attorney Ryan suggested, and at nine he greets Cade and me in the reception area of his office. He’s a large man with gray hair and a Cheshire-cat smile. He wears a tweed suit and navy-blue tie, and when he shakes my hand his grip is so firm that it hurts a little. I assume this is why Cade seems uneasy.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” I say.
“The pleasure is ours,” he says, leading us down a small hallway to a conference room. On the table is a breakfast spread: stale bagels, sad-looking grapes and melon. The eggs look somewhat petrified.
“Help yourself,” he says as another man, a bit younger and more serious-looking, walks in.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We already ate.”
He nods. “This is Tom Lawton, one of our best forensic accountants. Tom leaves no stone unturned, I assure you.
“Now,” he says, clasping his hands together, “you have quite a case on your hands. I’ve taken the liberty of briefing Tom, and he’s done a little digging this morning—well, with what little time he had. We think you’ll be pleased with what he’s already been able to find.” He opens a folder and slides a piece of paper toward us, and I lean forward to take it. Cade looks over, as if the words and numbers on the page are in hieroglyphics.
“Mr. McAllister,” Bruce says, “when you disappeared, you were a rather rich man.”
Cade looks at me, then back at Bruce skeptically.
“You owned half of Element Records,” Bruce explained, “a car, your condo in Pioneer Square, and you had equity in two buildings downtown.”
I nod. “But
Element Records was on the verge of bankruptcy,” I say. “The company was struggling.”
He shakes his head, flashing his Cheshire smile again. “Maybe it was then. But that company went on to gross millions, all of which appears to have been folded into a newer company, belonging to a certain Mr. Keatley.”
I shake my head. “So what happened, then? Where are Cade’s savings? His share of the company—surely he can still access it.”
“As it stands, no,” he replies. “Mr. McAllister’s savings are wiped out. His condo was absorbed by Element Records LLC, which was dissolved some time ago.”
My heart beats faster. “So somebody took everything?”
“Everything,” he says. “Plain and simple.”
I shake my head again. “But how could they?”
“Easy,” Bruce says. “Was Mr. Keatley’s name on all the deeds, all the contracts? Did he have power of attorney? Could he withdraw funds?”
“Yes, I think so,” I say. “He managed the company’s finances. Cade was more of the creative side.”
Bruce smiles again. “Then there you have it.”
Tom, the ninja accountant, produces another document and shares a copy with us. “Mr. McAllister, we believe you are owed at least eight million dollars, possibly more, once we factor in the current market value of the condo and your personal possessions.”
Cade’s eyes are big. And I squeeze his hand under the table.
“I say this all with a caveat,” he continues. “You are owed this money, but whether or not it exists anymore is anyone’s guess. And it will be harder to prove criminal intent here, as this is a complex case. Cade’s assets, including his condo and car, were intertwined with Element Records’. But there are people behind all of that, and I believe they need to be held accountable.”
I hang on his every word.
“It took a little sleuthing,” Tom continues, “but I found a series of transfers from the business account of Element Records to a private account.”
“Any idea of the name on it?”
“Not yet, but we’re committed to getting to the bottom of this.”
“As are we,” I say. “And I understand, based on our phone conversation, that you take twenty percent of whatever you can recover?”
