“I will arrange for you to be offered your father’s positions on nonprofit boards, particularly the opera. Those boards have a great deal of influence.”
He was talking fast, to get it all in before I had a chance to stop him. “Your father also had a large minority share of First Media, which owns the newspaper and Channel Six. Stanley Morton is the chief executive and he will be very anxious to meet you.”
“I know him. I dated his daughter at Yale.”
Katie squeezed my hand. What was she thinking? That it was a done deal? We were talking specifics, the course of action. Katie could relate to this. Or maybe she just wanted me to remember that she’d won her own war against Natalie Morton.
Fred was still listing names, but I held up my hand. “That’s enough. I understand. I’ll think about it for a while.”
“Of course, of course.” It was jarring, how he suddenly turned back into Uncle Fred.
“I don’t think I’ll change my mind.”
“I know it’s difficult. I know it’s not what you had expected. I am sorry, Jason. I truly am. But we do not always control our own destiny.”
And I’d always hated the one who controlled mine. “I was never close to him,” I said. “But I thought he knew me better.”
“I think he knew you quite well. Better than you know yourself.”
I’ve never really wanted to. My question has always been Why? not Who?
“It’ll be tough,” Eric said. “But you can do it, Jason. You can, really.”
Big brother can do anything. “So what’s in it for you?”
He beamed. “Everything I’d ever want. Right?”
“And what if I refuse it all?”
Eric laughed. “I’d kill you.” He looked at Fred. “Would I get the money then?”
“I would,” Katie said.
3
I didn’t want Eric riding his motorcycle on this planet while his mind was on another one, so we stuffed him into our car and got home for lunch. I’d told Fred I’d think about it, so I did. I was over the emotional reaction, just down to annoyance and bewilderment and being tired of it all.
Fifty million. I knew at least enough about Melvin’s business to know that Eric was wrong about that. My guess was five or six times as much, maybe. It didn’t make any difference, except the more it was, the less I wanted it.
I was curious—that was all. But ask any cat about curiosity.
With what we had now, we still managed to pay the mortgage each month. As we pulled up to the house of that mortgage, I wondered what Katie would do with real money. Our little French Provincial cottage with six bedrooms, two formal and three casual living rooms, a dining room that could seat twenty—plus the few informal areas that I actually liked—all on two acres, would only be practice.
We chose the sunny dining nook overlooking the gardens for our lunch. Rosita did a great job.
Eric revived fine, or even too much, until he was excited and babbling, overpowered by too many massive issues in too short a time. I finally kicked him out of the room so Katie could get a few words in.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Stop being foolish.” She’d been worn raw by the tension of the morning and by the funeral yesterday, and now by her own hopes.
“Stop acting this way.”
“I’m not being foolish. I don’t want the money.”
“I do.”
“Then you’re being foolish,” I said.
“It’s right there, right in your hand. Just think!”
“I am!” I said. “Don’t you understand?”
“I do understand. You’re so twisted by how you hated him that you can’t see anything else.”
“I didn’t hate him.” We both knew I hated him.
“Then what do you call it?”
Why were we talking about him? “It’s not hate,” I said. It was being overshadowed by a mountain.
Katie backed down. “I’m sorry. It’s too much to deal with.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“It’s just that I want it,” she said. It was almost a sigh. “I want the life we’d have together.”
“We wouldn’t be together. I wouldn’t be here. Angela didn’t have Melvin, just his houses and money.”
“We’d make time for each other. It just wouldn’t be as much.”
“And it wouldn’t be me, anyway. I’d be some other person.” Maybe she wouldn’t mind that too much.
“You’ll always wonder what it would have been like,” she said.
It was true. How did she know that? I hadn’t realized it yet.
What a marksman she was to find that chink. “I think I know.”
“You haven’t had time to think.”
“I told Fred I’d think, so I’ll think.”
“What will you say to everyone?”
“Just that it’ll take a couple days. It’s a lot to deal with.”
And that was enough to revive her hope. She hugged me, and I knew we were still in it together.
I found Eric in my office, playing a Grand Prix game on the Ferrari Web site. I’d have to remember to lock the door when he was in the house.
“Have you already ordered a new car,” I said, “or are you going to at least take a day to pick a color?”
“Red, of course.”
“What number are we up to?”
“About eighty,” he said.
“Rule number 80. Don’t buy anything for one month after your father dies.”
He grinned. “I was just looking.”
Katie and I had one full-time employee, our cook and maid, Rosita. Eric had one part-time employee, his mechanic. That person was part time and Rosita was full time because Eric did a lot more of his own repairs than Katie cooked or cleaned. We also had a landscaping company to keep our grounds nice, and he has maid service, but the real priorities were clear—cars for him, food for us.
“Fred was right. Now that you’ve got money, you need to act like you’ve got a brain.”
“I know.” He closed the game. “But we’ve got millions now.”
“Pretend like you don’t.”
“But we do.” He stared at me. “Would you really turn it down?”
“I really would.”
He looked straight at me. “I have never figured you out, Jason.”
“You won’t, either.” Eric knew me better than anyone in the world, even than Katie, but it did him no good because he had no brain. Acting like he had one would be hard work.
“I’d like to. You’re all I’ve got.”
That’s why I had always felt so sorry for him. “Then grow up.
You won’t understand an adult until you are one.”
“Give me one clue, at least.”
“Money is not everything.”
“What else is there?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m hoping there’s something.”
“You always make it so hard.” He leaned back in my chair. “I figured it out a long time ago. Just maximize pleasure and minimize pain.”
“It’s the minimize pain part. Melvin’s cash comes with a high pain factor.”
“I still don’t see it.”
“Maybe you will. Now get out of here. I need to make some calls.”
He closed the door behind him, and I was alone. I don’t like other people in my office. It’s the only room in the house that Katie didn’t furnish, and she could have done a better job than I did, but then it wouldn’t have been what it was for me. It’s mostly bookshelves filled with books I’ve read and walls filled with pictures I like looking at. They’re prints of old sailing boats and the men on them fighting the weather and sea. I soaked in their struggles for a moment and then picked up my phone.
I only had one call to make, to Pamela, the late Melvin’s never-late secretary.
“Jason, sweetie, how nice to hear your voice. I didn’t get to talk to you yesterday morning. How are you doing?”
“
Sort of struggling,” I said. “I could use your help.”
“Of course, dear. What do you need?”
She hadn’t been at family gatherings like Fred had, but she was the one who’d always called to tell us when to come. She was the one we’d called to make an appointment if we had to see him. When we were young, she was the one we called when we had a problem or, once in a while, just for some advice.
“Pamela, I just spent the morning with Fred. He tells me the foundation is not getting the estate. I am.”
The pause was only a microsecond. “I see.” It was a different voice, disconcerting to me—first the real Fred, and now the real Pamela.
“I may want you to set up some meetings,” I said. “Could you do that for me?”
“Give me the list, dear, and your schedule, when you’re ready.”
And that was that. The only person in my life who’d ever call me “sweetie.”
That was Thursday. I decided to let the world wonder for three more days. Fred started executing that afternoon, filing papers and transferring stock ownership, and the world saw, and it did wonder. It picked up its telephone and called me.
Sometimes I answer the phone, but once was enough that day. The first time it rang was about three o’clock, and I didn’t recognize the name or number. It was a woman’s voice, hard and polished as a marble floor.
“I’m calling for Jason Boyer, please. Mr. Grainger of the governor’s staff would like to speak with him.”
Number one on Fred’s list. My survival instinct took over. “I’m sorry,” I said in some kind of deep British accent. “Mr. Boyer is not available. May I take a message?”
“When will he be available?”
It was apparently unacceptable to be unavailable. I had a sudden image of my third-grade teacher at the boarding school, glaring at my homework page with monumental disapproval. I couldn’t do annoyance and British together, so I dropped the British.
“He hasn’t decided yet. Maybe you could try again Monday.”
“I will give you a number if he could call before then.”
She did, and I wrote it down.
I thought about turning the phone off, but instead I told Rosita to take messages. She did for a while, and then Katie took over while Rosita fixed spaghetti.
There were three places set when I sat down to eat, so I figured Eric must still be around. He came into the dining room after we started, and flicked on the television.
“Check it out.”
It was the local news, Channel Five, the one I didn’t own. I don’t like television when I’m eating, and I don’t like news any time.
A head was talking. “. . . our special report on the family of Melvin Boyer. Freda?”
“Turn it off,” I said.
“No,” Eric said. “I want to see it.”
Freda appeared, and I could only imagine what her salon bills must be. “Thanks, Hugh. We have an update in our coverage of the death of former senator Melvin Boyer. In a surprise development, Channel Five has learned, the anticipated transfer of the wealthy industrialist’s estate to the Boyer Foundation will not occur.” She articulated every syllable so carefully, it was painful to watch her speak. “Melvin Boyer died last Saturday in an automobile accident. According to interviews with Channel Five, those associated with his many business and political interests had long understood that he planned to leave his estate to his Melvin H. Boyer Charitable Foundation, bringing an end to family control of his business empire. However, according to documents filed today with the Securities and Exchange Commission, his son Jason Boyer has been given complete control . . .”
“Turn it off now,” I said.
“It’s you, man.”
“Really? I thought maybe he was talking about somebody else. Turn it off so I can eat.”
He ignored me, and so did Freda. She just kept enunciating. “. . . twenty-eight-year-old son as the state’s, and one of the nation’s, wealthiest men.” Freda had disappeared, and another face, handsome, with straight dark hair, green eyes and perfect teeth—the same face I see every morning in the mirror—peered at us. Freda got her looks from two hours a day with an army of professionals, but there was nothing fake about this face.
It stared out of the screen, and the eyes were a mirror of that soul. I could see the driving thought behind them.
Why am I here?
“It’s you! It’s from our wedding!” Katie said, swamped with joy. “You’re famous now, Jason.”
I was out of my chair and halfway to the box to turn it off.
“And sorry, ladies, he’s married,” Freda joked in the same monotone. She would have smiled, but her face was too brittle. All she could do was show more teeth, and she had plenty.
I’ll admit my teeth are also the product of an army of professionals, but that was so long ago even the emotional scars have healed. And nothing else is fake. I lunged for the power button.
“But his younger brother, Eric, is still unattached.” I hit the button, but the damage had been done.
Eric dropped into his chair, his eyes vacant and as wide open as his mouth. “Yes.” He breathed out slowly. “I’m young, I’m beautiful, I’m unattached. I’m incredibly rich! Come get me!”
This was the wrong day for him to say that. It was time to get his attention, and I wasn’t in the mood for quiet, brother-to-brother conversation. I took his plate of spaghetti and pushed it hard enough into his face that he and his chair crashed back onto the floor.
I had his attention.
“What was that for?” He was pretty stunned.
“What do you think?” I said, sitting back down. Katie just watched.
He picked himself up. The sauce looked wretched on his bright yellow-green shirt. “Okay.” His disposition was also no longer bright. “But you could just say something, you don’t have to knock me over.”
“You want another shirt? I can get you one upstairs.”
“I’ll get it.” He was mad, but it was more that he was hurt. I’d underestimated how much of a little kid he really was.
“You can return it with my suit,” I said. “And I’ll be glad to throw that shirt away for you.” I stood up to look him straight on. “I’m sorry, Eric.”
“Next time, just tell me if you’re mad.”
“You’re acting stupid, and that always makes me mad.” We stared at each other. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”
He was cooled off, and Katie started eating again. “Don’t throw my shirt away. I like it.”
“It’s putrid. Let Katie take you shopping sometime.”
“Then I’ll look like you!” That was almost worth another plate of spaghetti.
“I’d be glad to,” Katie said, calming the turbulent waters. “It would be fun. We could try something different.”
The prospect of some attention and nurturing appealed to him. “Okay. I could try it.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I said. “And it’ll give Katie something to do.”
We took the phone off the hook, and I called the phone company to change our number. No one had found my cell number yet.
Friday morning I went running. When I got back, Katie had gone out with friends, and I settled in my office and read. Bleak House, by Charles Dickens. It’s about a rich man’s death and what happens to his money.
I sailed that weekend. I spent Friday night on the boat in the marina, and Katie came down Saturday, and we went out into Long Island Sound. There was plenty of wind but the waves were short and choppy, and I faced into them to keep the boat from rocking.We read while the sky was clear, and talked about her friends and a little about maybe taking a trip to Europe later in the fall. She tried to stay away from anything to do with money, which limited the subjects.
I merely enjoyed the breeze and motion and hearing her voice and watching the waves. There are so many colors in the water.
When the weather shifted and clouds started piling up in the southwest, I abandoned my torpor and t
acked south across the wind toward Block Island. We watched the rain from across the water.
I could have as easily gone north toward home. “Let’s find somewhere to stay tonight,” I said.
Everywhere, sails were scattering, fat sheep in a blue field escaping a pack of hungry squalls. The boat picked up speed, and the storm had no chance of catching us.
When it finally reached us we were ashore, behind a huge window, eating shellfish and drinking wine, with the marina churning below us. Then we went back on the water, just a little way out, for the sunset and the stars, and finally we slept in the boat rocking quietly beside the pier.
4
Sunday morning I cleared the harbor, heading for home, and there was no way to delay it. The breeze was directly behind us.
Katie had been breathtakingly patient, but now she finally inhaled. “Rosita said there have been twenty more calls since yesterday.”
“I thought we were leaving the phone off the hook.”
“I told her to start taking messages again.”
The weekend had been filled with all the happiness money could buy, which was the kind I liked best. Avoiding Monday was something money couldn’t buy.
“I told the phone company to change our number.”
“It takes three days. You can run, Jason, but you can’t hide.”
“They’re not after me. They’re after my wallet.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do when we get home?”
“Yes. I’ll take a shower, have lunch, and call Fred.”
“What will you tell him?”
“I don’t have that part figured out yet.”
“Let me know when you do.” Fred was inescapable, and she wasn’t worried. It was another gorgeous day, and if I’d taken the boat on another tangent somewhere, she wouldn’t have minded. Instead I cut a straight gash through the waves.
I knew a third of the names on Rosita’s list, I knew of another third, and from the messages the last third left, I knew their type.
“I want to meet Melvin’s board members,” I said to Fred on the phone after lunch. “The officers, or whatever. Pick five names to give to Pamela, and she’ll arrange it.”
The Heir Page 3
