Fletcher stared at her then said: ‘He’s sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted.’
Sol dropped her gaze down to the benchtop.
‘He’s your neighbour,’ she said.
‘Right. Well, I’m going to bed,’ said Fletcher. He left his empty glass where he’d put it down on the bench and marched up the staircase. You can’t slam a door in the Glass Pavilion – they soft-close, on pivots – but we all got the point.
Tim stepped in to apologise for him. ‘The deal means a lot to the boys. It will set them up for life.’
Sol, sitting quietly, said: ‘But money isn’t everything.’
* * *
I woke the next morning to find Penelope back in the kitchen scraping something burnt off the base of a pan, saying, ‘Why does Austin insist on cooking? I was up with your pop and came down to find this.’
I asked, ‘How is Pop?’
Penelope sighed and said, ‘He’s not great.’ She was scrubbing the pot in circles. ‘I had to shave him. He hates that. I couldn’t get him to eat anything. How much he understands I don’t even know anymore.’
‘I might go up to see him.’
‘I suppose that’s okay,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can get him to eat something?’
‘I’ll try.’
I went up the glass staircase, bare feet sucking on each of the steps and pressed my hands against the polished door. Pop was sitting up in bed but his eyes were closed. I stepped closer. Six deep lines shot out from the corner of each of his eyes, stretching almost to his temples. His old head was flat against his vertical pillow, with mad white tufts of hair sticking out at all angles.
‘Hey, Pop,’ I said softly, but he didn’t answer. He was fast asleep.
He looked thinner than even the night he’d come down to dinner. The skin on his arms was loose and his nails were flat and yellow, but he was pink around his cheeks and chin, from where Penelope had shaved him. I looked around the room for his breakfast tray and located it on the card table, beside Pop’s plastic pill case with the thirty-one different pockets – one for each day of the month – each of them filled with pills in many different colours. Next to the pills was a copy of USA Today, folded three times, with a magnifying glass and a yellow neon highlighter on top.
Pop had been reading. I hadn’t known that he could still do that.
There was an armchair in the corner of the room, but I wanted to be closer to him than that. The bed had high steel sides along most of its length but I found a spot near Pop’s feet and eased myself down, as quietly and as close to the edge as I could manage, not meaning to disturb him but he woke.
‘Eden,’ he said, eyes focusing.
‘Hey, Pop,’ I said, smiling as I reached out to touch the back of his blotchy hand.
‘People think I’m losing my mind. I’m not. Why do some girls want to be ugly?’
Perplexed, I asked: ‘You mean me?’
‘Your mother.’
‘Mom’s not ugly, Pop.’
He turned his hand so it was holding mine.
‘My grandson, Fletcher, he’s ugly. He comes up here, talking about putting me in a home.’
‘That’s not right,’ I said, confused. ‘You’re going to stay right here, Pop. We were just talking about how much you love it here.’
‘No. He’s going to make me move. Unless you marry me.’
‘I can’t marry you, Pop. I’m Eden. I’m your granddaughter.’
‘Of course you are.’
We sat for a while. I tried to talk about things that Pop might remember – how he taught me gin rummy, and how he let me ride on the front of the tractor when I was a kid – before he allowed his eyes to close again. I waited for him to drop back to sleep, but he was suddenly alert again and said: ‘Wait. Where is that young man who used to live here?’
‘Which young man?’
‘You know the one.’
‘Earl?’
‘Earl. What happened to Earl?’
‘He’s still here, Pop. He’s probably at home.’
‘I would rather give this place to him,’ said Pop. ‘I don’t want to leave it to that egg-breaking boy.’
‘You mean Fletcher?’
‘Him. He doesn’t have the name. I don’t count the ones who don’t have the name. Alden-Stowe. You have the name. Why don’t you be the boss? And what about your brother? Where’s he gone?’
‘I don’t have a brother, Pop.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘Fiona had a brother,’ I said. ‘My dad. Your son. Jack.’
‘Yes. Jack,’ said Pop, quietly. A tear formed on the pink of his lower lid and slid slowly down his pale cheek. ‘I miss Jack.’
‘I miss him too.’
I stood up and for a few seconds tried to figure out how to bring the sides of the bed down, before giving up and crawling through a narrow gap at the end, and lying down with my head against Pop’s hard and bony chest.
I said, ‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘You don’t need to miss me,’ said Pop. ‘I’m not going anywhere, am I? No. You just said – I’m staying right here.’
* * *
‘He doesn’t want to go.’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘Pop.’
I hadn’t been planning on mentioning what he’d said, but Mom had recovered from her despondency after the Town Hall meeting and was going on about how great the sale would be, and I couldn’t help myself. If I thought she’d be sympathetic, I’d misjudged the mood. Mom put both hands flat on the granite bench in the kitchen and let out a long, low sigh.
‘He doesn’t have to go,’ she said, evenly.
‘I know that. But even the idea of selling this place … you know he wouldn’t approve.’
‘He wouldn’t approve! He wouldn’t approve!!’
It was like something had snapped inside her. Like years of frustration and anger had suddenly boiled to the surface. She was wild-eyed and snarling as she came out from behind the bench and took my upper arm into her sharp grip.
‘You! Come with me,’ she snapped.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, alarmed. But her grip was fierce and her manner frightening, so I allowed her to half-march and half-drag me out of the pavilion, onto the deck, down the gravel drive to the castle – a place she never wanted to visit.
She shoved me over the drawbridge and pushed on the massive timber doors.
‘They’re locked,’ I said, twisting. ‘Can you let me go?’
But they weren’t locked because Fletcher had been inside with Sol looking for things to photograph. Mom shoved and the doors gave way.
‘Why are we going in here?’ I said, but Mom was determined and yanked me across the threshold.
‘Look at this place,’ she said. We were in the hallway, near where the suit of armour once stood, beneath the cord that had held up the antler chandelier. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘Stop it!’ I cried, still trying to twist free.
‘No. I won’t stop it. I want you to tell me what you see. Or, no – I’ll tell you what I see.’
‘Please let me go!’ I said, my wrist writhing in Mom’s bony grip.
‘You see some kind of fantasy castle. I see stress,’ said Mom. ‘You see a happy childhood and I see debt. I see how much money this place has cost us over the years, and I see how much money we can get if we can sell it. I see money for you, and for me. Do you have any idea how much money is tied up in this ridiculous old mansion, Eden? Millions. And yet we don’t have any money. We are living on a shoestring. Does that honestly sound fair to you?’
‘Let go of me,’ I repeated, finally twisting free. I didn’t see debt when I looked at Alden Castle. I had good memories and Earl had good plans.
I went to stand by the carved staircase, rubbing my wrist. But Mom wasn’t done.
‘We have no money, Eden. No money,’ she said. Her words were banging around the timber panels and off the decorative ceiling. No money, no money,
no money.
‘This is the only deal we’ll ever get from these people,’ she went on. Her lip was curled, and she had one manicured pink nail pointed in my direction. ‘From your so-called family. They left us penniless. As good as penniless. We have to get this deal done. It’s this or we’re back to having nothing.’
‘What have I done wrong?’
‘What have you done? First you’re complaining about Penelope. Then about Earl. Now Pop. But what about me?’
She was standing with one hand on a jutted hip.
‘I haven’t done anything,’ I said.
She had been furious, but as fast as she’d flown into a rage, Mom came out of it. Her voice softened.
‘Oh, Eden. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so tense. I’ve got so much riding on this. I want you to be able to do what you want with your life. I want you to be able to travel. To live abroad. All the things I can’t give you now that I want to be able to give you.’
She stepped across the room and brought me into her embrace.
‘Oh, baby,’ she said, stroking my hair. ‘I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s just I have been fighting for a better deal for you for years now. And we’re so close. We are going to get this done, Eden. We’re going to get this done.’
* * *
Austin stepped into the dining area, swinging a set of car keys.
‘I was going to drive out,’ he said, ‘if anyone needs a lift?’
Three weeks had now passed since I’d arrived on the estate, and the contract of sale was ready. Pinkhound had negotiated directly with Liz Patterson and a delegation of local environmentalists over the conditions they wished to have attached to the sale. They had also spoken to Don Burnbank. At his suggestion, Pinkhound had made a small donation to his pet project – the annual cattle drive – and to the Paso High School for the best essay on an environmental theme. They had promised, in writing, not to interfere with the oaks, or with the ground water; to preserve Alden Castle even as they planted around it; and to respect the dead already in the cemetery.
Now my family was due back in Paso to sign the paperwork. The mood was tense. Negotiations had taken longer than anyone expected. Briar Ridge had broken for a mid-term vacation, and my friends had all gone back again; Fletcher and Austin had missed two weeks of their classes; and Fletcher was tetchy because Sol had taken flight, asking to be dropped in Paso for a train ride back to LA and from there, a plane trip to New York, on the grounds that her followers ‘needed her’.
‘I think you blew it,’ Austin had said, after his brother came in from dropping her off.
‘I think you should shut up,’ said Fletcher, because Austin wasn’t wrong. Sol had been unhappy since the City Hall meeting.
Mom was like a cat on a hot tin roof. Even on the morning of the signing, she said: ‘If somebody can think of a way to stick their nose in, they’ll usually do it. I won’t feel completely confident until we’ve got the money in our hands.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ I said to Austin, and we headed out together. Once clear of the estate, he opened the driver’s window so he could smoke. He turned down the radio and looked at me. ‘Big day,’ he said. ‘Does it feel weird?’
‘I guess.’
We drove on, into the township, where Austin pulled the truck up directly in front of a timber building in the oldest part of Paso, a place that dated back to the gold rush, featuring old-style lettering, done in gold: the offices of Walsh and Weymouth.
‘Come on,’ said Austin, squeaking the driver’s-side door open. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better when you’ve got your share of a million dollars in your pocket.’
Mr Weymouth himself came out to greet us. He wore a three-piece suit with a vest and pocket chain, and he had a short white beard like Colonel Sanders. Apparently we had met before when Dad brought me into town as a little girl. I couldn’t remember but Mr Weymouth said the usual things: ‘You’re so grown up’ and ‘How’s school?’ and ‘You look so much like Jack, it’s spooky.’
‘Ms Moyes is already here,’ he said, guiding us inside. Beyond the timber facade was a new extension, with meeting rooms done in a modern style. We gathered around an oval table. There weren’t enough seats for all of us, so Mr Weymouth asked his assistant to wheel in a few more. Caroline, who had already been seated, stood up and shook everyone’s hand. Mr Walsh, in a candy-striped shirt clashing like crazy with a pinstriped jacket, came through the door and began handing out bound copies of the contract. Mr Weymouth took an enamel pen from an inside jacket pocket, and twisted it to bring the nib down. Caroline Moyes unzipped her document folder and produced her own silver-coloured pen.
Mr Walsh took his seat next to Mr Weymouth. Mom reached out to put her hand on mine.
‘Alrighty. Now, we are here to formalise the sale of the property known as the Alden-Stowe Estate to the Pinkhound Company,’ Mr Weymouth intoned.
‘Yes indeed we are!’ said Mom, excitedly. She had come to the meeting in a party-style outfit: a sequined skirt that stopped short of her knees, with a scooped halter top, a pink cashmere cardigan with tiny ladybird buttons, and a new pair of wedge heels.
‘Very good,’ said Mr Weymouth. He glanced in her direction, almost straight down her top.
Mr Walsh opened a laptop.
‘As you know,’ Mr Weymouth continued, ‘the estate is currently owned by the Alden-Stowe Family Trust, and this contract for sale can’t be enacted without the agreement of all the people named as beneficiaries of that trust. Owen, as we know, has no decision-making capacity. Power of attorney that was held by Jack Alden-Stowe is now held by Fiona McBride, nee Alden-Stowe. And the way it works, as I’m sure you know, is that Mrs McBride holds a one-half share, which will be divided amongst her family, including her husband, Tim, and her children, Fletcher and Austin; and then we have Mrs Alden-Stowe – Jesalyn – who holds what was Jack’s share, which will be shared with Eden, once she comes of age.’
‘Yes. We understand, and we have secured the agreement of all the heirs,’ said Fiona. She was looking around at her family and nodding.
‘We certainly have,’ said Mom.
‘Very well,’ said Mr Walsh. ‘And of course you all understand that Pinkhound, represented by Ms Moyes here, has also agreed to a number of environmental conditions to be observed once they take full possession of the property known as the Alden-Stowe Estate. In order to secure this sale they have agreed to pay a deposit of ten per cent of the purchase price, that deposit being one million dollars to be paid by bank cheque made payable to the Alden-Stowe Family Trust.’
‘Yes, we understand,’ said Mom eagerly.
‘Pinkhound will pay the balance – nine million dollars – as soon as you all agree to vacate. And you can do that anytime up until the death of Mr Owen Alden-Stowe, after which, you have four weeks.’
Fiona asked for clarity on that, saying: ‘So, to be clear, we can go anytime before my father dies, but otherwise we can stay until he passes, and then we’ve got a month?’
‘That’s correct,’ said Mr Weymouth.
‘That’s how I understood it,’ said Fiona, nodding earnestly. ‘We want to stay until Dad passes but if something happens – if he needs to go into a home for any reason, which I really don’t want to do – we can go earlier.’
Mr Weymouth cleared his throat. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now, if you all wouldn’t mind turning to page one of your contracts so we can get the process underway?’
‘Yee-ha!’ said Fletcher.
It took less than thirty minutes to get through the contract. Fiona busied her hands by opening and closing the ring binder on her copy. Mom was radiating happiness. Caroline was business as usual. Fletcher kept flicking the collar of his polo shirt up, and Austin scratched his ginger beard.
Then it was time to sign.
‘Is it very hot in here?’ Fiona used a finger to stretch out the collar on her blouse.
‘It’s not hot, my love,’ said Tim.
‘It’s a lit
tle warm, but we’re almost done,’ Mr Walsh said. ‘I only need – let me see – you, Mrs Alden-Stowe, on behalf of yourself and Eden; and Mrs McBride, on behalf of your family; and then Ms Moyes, if you’re signing for Pinkhound?’
‘I am,’ said Caroline.
They all bent over the paperwork, and began signing where the neon pink stickers pointed, passing the piles back and forth, so everyone’s signature was obtained.
Mr Weymouth said: ‘I think we’re done.’
‘What a day,’ said Tim, rising to shake Caroline’s hand.
‘A momentous day,’ said Fiona.
‘We’re gonna be rich!’ said Austin, laughing.
‘Well, not straightaway,’ said Fiona.
Mr Walsh said it would take at least a week, maybe even ten days for the first cheque, representing the deposit, to clear.
‘Well, that’s excellent,’ said Mom. She had her hands crossed in front of her, on the conference table. She was beaming.
I glanced around. They all looked so satisfied with themselves.
‘It may well be a done deal,’ said Fiona, ‘but I’m looking forward to a few more years on the estate, before we have to give it up. Looking after Dad. Reading books. Sorting through the stuff in the castle. But it’s true, when the inevitable happens, we have the security of knowing that the buyer stands ready.’
‘Bring it on,’ said Fletcher.
* * *
I was leaving for Briar Ridge the next day. I guess I had no choice other than to go back. Mid-term break was over. I’d already missed so much. And so we set about packing up, all except for Mom, who was going to stay, she said, for at least another week. At first I didn’t get why. She said she had some boxes of stuff stored in the castle that she wanted to sort through, but that didn’t really ring true. There was nothing in the castle to interest Mom. My best guess was that she intended to stay for as long as it might take to see the cheque cleared. She wanted our share, of course, but she also wanted to make absolutely sure that nothing could go wrong. That Fiona wouldn’t bend to pressure from old friends in Paso; or that an environmental group wouldn’t launch some kind of legal manoeuvre to prevent the sale going through.
The Lucky One Page 14
