Stiff Suit: A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy

by Tawna Fenske

  Too late for so many things as my father clambers out from under my desk, dusting his hands on his pants. “Shit, sorry about the cock-blocking.” He doesn’t look sorry. Just annoyed. “No offense, but I couldn’t fucking handle that. You getting a hummer while I crouched under that desk like a goddamn pervert? Jesus fucking Christ.”

  He swaggers around the desk as Lily gapes at him, mouth open. For an instant, I think she won’t recognize him. His hair color is different, the glasses and fake forehead help with the disguise. Maybe I can pass him off as a handyman or a butler or a really lousy burglar.

  But I watch her eyes flick to the photo frame and then back to his face, and I know it’s all over.

  “Oh my God.” Her hands fly to her mouth and she looks from him to me.

  Understanding flashes slowly through her eyes like a movie in slow-mo. Shock, then confusion, then the slow realization that I’m not responding the way I should to my father’s sudden, miraculous return from the dead.

  My father steps forward and grabs Lily’s hand. “Great to meet you, Dollface.”

  Dollface, he seriously says that. He also lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles before dropping it back to her side. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  I drag my hands through my hair, upset about a helluva lot more than coitus interruptus. “Son of a bitch.”

  I fight to come up with something else, to seize control of a situation that’s so far gone, I can’t see the shoreline. I fumble through my brain for words, something besides a string of profanity punctuated by screams.

  That’s when another voice echoes through the house. “James? Come talk to us, buddy.”

  Jonathan.

  And he’s not alone.

  He’s also not outside, having made full use of that goddamn master key. Footsteps thunder through the foyer and down the hall, pounding like my heartbeat in my ears.

  “James?” It’s Bree’s voice this time, just a few feet from my office door. “I’m sorry I was so shocked. Please, let’s talk this through.”

  The heaviest thud of bootsteps tells me Mark is right behind her, that Sean’s coming, too.

  And that everything I’ve built is about to come crashing down.

  Hands clenching into fists, I pivot toward the door, turning my back on Lily, on my father, on my life as I know it forever.

  Chapter 15

  LILY

  I can’t find my voice, which is just as well since there are at least four others echoing in the hallway.

  James stands frozen in front of me like a general braced to fight off an approaching army. Desperate to help, I shove at his father. “Get back under the desk,” I hiss.

  I may not know what’s going on here, but James’s stricken expression told me enough. The secret sister isn’t the only thing James has been hiding from his siblings.

  Shoving Cort Bracelyn is like pushing against a brick wall. For a sixty-something dead guy, he’s impressively solid. “Fuck me,” he mutters, but he moves anyway. He starts to round the desk, but he’s not quick enough.

  “James, buddy, let’s keep talking.” Jonathan’s voice precedes him by half a second as he ambles into the room.

  Everyone else is close behind. Bree, Sean, Mark, and some gray-haired woman who looks like my elementary school librarian.

  I stare at Jonathan, who still hasn’t spotted his father. Cort’s standing beside the desk like a snowman zapped by a laser, but all of Jonathan’s focus is his brother. He’s looking at James with a gaze filled with equal parts sympathy and frustration.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, he addresses James in a voice that’s achingly kind. “Look, bro. I don’t know what you think it accomplishes to—holy fucking shit.”

  Jon’s face drains to the approximate hue of bathtub caulk as he gapes at his father. It’s the first time in my life I’ve understood the phrase like he’d seen a ghost.

  Mark and Sean swivel toward their dad, and the same thing happens. It’s Bree who gasps loudest, Bree who grips the doorframe like her knees are about to buckle. I start to step forward, but Mark catches her arm, steadying her.

  Sean’s the first to blink through his shock and realize this is no hallucination. That his dead father is very much alive and standing in his brother’s office. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Bree finds her voice next, but it’s so shaky I don’t recognize it. “Daddy?” Tears flood her eyes, but they’re not happy ones. She stares at her father like she’s torn between hugging him or beating him to death with a paperweight.

  Slowly, she turns to face James, realization dawning. “You fucking knew about this?”

  “I—”

  That’s all he gets out. His throat is filled with sawdust, and his expression is so much more horrified than it was that first morning he woke up in my bedroom. That seems like a million years ago, a million miles from what’s unfolding right now, right here, in this office. My heart aches for every single Bracelyn in this room, but I’m as frozen as Cort.

  Bree regains her equilibrium and marches forward, color flooding her face as she strides toward James. Her hand flies back before any of us realize what’s happening and her palm cracks hard against his cheek.

  “You bastard.” Tears spill down her cheeks as James stands stoic and unflinching. Like he knew that was coming. “Our goddamn father is alive and well, and you didn’t fucking think to mention it?”

  Cort decides this is a good time to play the father card. “Come on, Princess,” he chides. “You’re almost a mother now. That sort of language—”

  “Fuck you, too!” She whirls on him with blood in her eyes, and I feel a strange surge of relief that it’s Cort and not James on the other end of that look. “Are you serious right now?” She gives a bitter little laugh. “If any woman has the right to curse, it’s moms.”

  Jonathan folds his arms over his chest and stares his father down. “Especially our moms.”

  Mark’s brow is furrowed, like he’s still trying to make sense of everything. “What the actual fuck?”

  Which pretty much sums it up. Cort looks like he’s flipping through his mental notecards, trying to find the right lie for the occasion. The silence stretches out, like we’re all holding our breath and waiting for an explanation.

  The burst of laughter erupting from the family patriarch is not what we expect. “Shit, I can explain.” Cort saunters around the desk, slapping a palm against the zebra’s ass. Bree jumps, but everyone else just stares. “Kids, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding?” Sean cocks his head. “You mean you accidentally forgot to get in the casket before we had your funeral?”

  “Son of a bitch.” Jonathan shakes his head and turns to James. “Did you really know about this?”

  James doesn’t speak. Just clenches his jaw and stares straight ahead like he’s gone mute. I want to grab him, shake him, tell him this isn’t helping at all. That his siblings need his words, not his stoicism.

  It’s Bree who fills the silence. “Of course he knew.” Another tear slips down her face, and she dashes it away with an angry fist. “Who knows what else he’s hiding from us?”

  A muscle ticks in James’s jaw. He’s in pain, I can see that plain as day, but to anyone else, it might look like anger. His next words are forced out through gritted teeth. “I did what I had to do.”

  Bree’s eyes flash with fury. “What the fuck does that even mean? You held me up all through the funeral. You sat with all of us after the memorial when we got drunk and told stories about him. You helped me convert those old home movies to DVD, and then you stayed up all night watching them with me. Was it all a joke to you?”

  The rigidness of James’s jaw forms a mask it’s tough to read, but I can make out his heart plain as day. He’s struggling to find something bland and professional to say. He’s considering how quickly he could make it to the door, whether he could take off running and never come back.

  I can�
��t let that happen. My urge to help overwhelms me, and I reach out and rest a hand on his arm. “Maybe if we all just—”

  “No!” He jerks his arm back so hard he sways on his feet.

  Righting himself, he marches around the desk. Physical barrier in place between him and the rest of us, he plants his palms on the smooth surface of the desk. “No.”

  I have no idea what he’s responding to—my touch or his siblings’ accusations? Either way, it stings. I pull my hand against my chest like a broken bird, though I’m not actually hurt. Not physically, anyway.

  James takes a few deep breaths, collecting himself. Bree’s eyes dart to me, and there’s a glint of sympathy there.

  “I didn’t know.” James’s words pull us all back to face him. “I didn’t know about this when he died. Or didn’t die.” The laugh that slips out of him is brittle and hollow, not really a laugh at all.

  Missing the point, Cort claps his son on the shoulder. “Smart motherfucker figured it out.”

  James doesn’t move, doesn’t shake off his father’s hand. He just stands there looking more haunted than I’ve ever seen a living human look. His gaze swings from Bree to Sean to Mark to Jonathan. “You weren’t supposed to find out.”

  It’s the exact wrong thing to say.

  This man who won accolades for his coolness in the courtroom has been rendered a blathering moron by the sight of his own family’s pain. It hurts to watch, but I don’t know what to do.

  The gray-haired woman chooses that moment to step forward and shoulder her way between Cort and his children. “Bracelyns, this is all very good.” She puts her hands together like she’s praying or having a difficult bowel movement. “You’re doing a great job letting your emotions out. I think if we just—”

  “Who the fuck are you?” Cort Bracelyn tilts his head, somehow making the curse sound both cheerful and flirtatious.

  “Dr. Harriet Hooter.” She puts out her hand, but instead of shaking it, Cort catches her fingertips and draws her hand to his lips.

  “Delighted to meet you.” He plants a courtly kiss across her knuckles. “That’s a lovely blouse you’re wearing.”

  The good doc’s features soften for just a second before James breaks the spell. “For the love of Christ.” He pushes his father back, breaking the hold. “Are you serious right now?”

  Mark snorts and reaches out to steady Dr. Hooter. “Bet that’s a first, huh, Doc? Dead father of a patient hitting on you?”

  Dr. Hooter straightens her skirt and adjusts her glasses on the end of her nose. “If we could just get back on track with expressing emotion in a constructive way—”

  “I’ll express some emotion,” Bree snaps. “I’m hurt and stunned and angry.” She faces James with all those emotions naked in her eyes. “And right now, I don’t know which of you I’m angrier with—you or Dad. We all expect him to be an asshole—”

  “Hey—” Cort frowns.

  “Shut up.” Mark glares at his father, who has the good sense to comply.

  Bree doesn’t take her eyes off James. “I thought you were different from him. I trusted you.”

  James doesn’t recoil, doesn’t move a muscle. I don’t even think he’s breathing.

  But the hurt in his eyes is as naked as Bree’s. When he speaks, his voice sounds like it’s being pushed through a rusty sieve. “I’m sorry.”

  I honestly can’t tell who he’s addressing. His siblings? His father?

  Me?

  But no, he doesn’t make eye contact with me at all. It’s like he’s forgotten I’m here, and maybe that’s just as well.

  “What did you mean earlier?” Jonathan’s voice is the calmest of all of them, a sailor’s practiced patience. “You said ‘you weren’t supposed to find out.’ Do you mean you planned to keep this from us forever?”

  James doesn’t answer. At first, I think he’s just gathering his thoughts. But no, he’s really not going to answer. He’s shut down completely, his speech abilities zapped from his body by his father’s presence.

  I hesitate to say anything, but I can’t stand seeing him like this. “I think what he meant was—”

  “Don’t, Lily.” James shakes his head slowly, but he won’t look at me.

  In that moment, I know he’s too far gone for me to reach him.

  The next moment confirms it beyond all doubt. Cort claps his hands together, a patriarch commanding order. “I think everyone who’s not family should get the fuck out.” His tone is jovial, but there’s ice in his eyes.

  They’re so much colder than James’s eyes, matching orbs of icy green. The sight of it sends chills down my arms. Goosebumps rise as Cort flashes a smile at me and Dr. Hooter. “No offense, Sweetheart. Gorgeous.”

  Dr. Hooter and I glance at each other, puzzling out which of us is Sweetheart and which of us is Gorgeous.

  But when James speaks, all of that stops mattering. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  I turn to look at him. He won’t meet my eyes. He’s fixated on his father, his spine fused straight as an iron rod.

  “James.” I use my softest voice, blinking back the sting of tears. “Let me help—”

  “I don’t want your help, Lily.” His gaze finally swings to mine, and the coldness there makes my heart seize. “I want you to go.”

  I’m too stunned to speak. Too stunned to move. If it weren’t for Dr. Hooter grabbing my hand, I might stay frozen here forever.

  “All right.” Her voice is gentle as she squeezes my fingers, but I barely feel it. It’s like my hand’s not connected to my body, and my heart’s not connected to anything at all. “Certainly, your family has a right to deal with things as you see fit.” Dr. Hooter grips my hand tighter.

  Cort Bracelyn smiles and tilts his head at her. “What are you doing later, Sweetheart?”

  Mark growls. “Jesus Christ.”

  The rest of the siblings start speaking at once, but I can’t hear a word of it. I’ve slipped my hand from Dr. Hooter’s, and I’m already stumbling out of the room. I have to get out of here.

  No one notices as I stagger out the door and out into the hall. I don’t know if Dr. Hooter’s behind me or staying to offer last-second tips for constructive communication. I don’t care. I don’t hear anything as I weave through the foyer and out the front door.

  And then I’m alone with my heart in my throat and my tears sticky in the fading sunlight. No one comes after me, and I don’t expect them to. I’m by myself, exactly the way I always wanted it.

  This. This right here, this aching burn in the center of my chest is why I’ve avoided being here at all costs. Love, relationships, this pulsing, living tie to another person.

  In one fell swoop, James took a lightsaber to that delicate tether.

  My chest feels hollow, and my hands tremble as I slide my phone from my dress pocket and dial the phone number. My grandma answers on the first ring, her voice sweet and smooth as maple syrup.

  “What is it, Baby?” She knows instantly something’s not right. “What happened?”

  I can’t keep the quiver out of my voice, so I don’t bother trying. “I need you to come get me,” I whisper. “I was wrong.”

  About everything, I add silently as I hang up the phone and sink to my knees on the front steps.

  Chapter 16

  JAMES

  Angry shouts echo from my office down the hall, but for the first time in hours, they’re not directed at me.

  “Of all the selfish, dickhead moves…”

  That’s Bree, but only because Sean’s taking a break. Emotions are running high, as my siblings cycle from grief to confusion to betrayal and back up the spectrum again.

  I know, I’ve been there.

  I remember the day I stumbled over the clue that set my wheels turning. It was a few months after our father’s funeral, and I was sorting through decades-old banking information. That’s when I spotted it.

  Caribbean Bank and Trust, Cayman Ltd.

  Which wasn’t that w
eird, really. My father had accounts all over the world, and this wasn’t his only offshore one. It shouldn’t have triggered any warning bells.

  But then I checked travel records for his private jet. There’d been lots of trips for golf, and more for business meetings. A few scattered trips I suspected were for affairs, and then—

  There.

  A trip to the Cayman Islands a year before he died. And another three months later. And another.

  No one else would have found it weird. Cort Bracelyn visited the Caribbean all the time. He’d even had a mistress in Jamaica.

  Blame it on the fact that I’d just won an embezzlement case hinging on offshore banking. I knew more than the average idiot about how to hide money. About hidden identities.

  Once I started digging, I couldn’t stop. For weeks, I had a lead ball in my gut and a sick feeling there was more to my father’s death than I’d thought. I learned about faked death certificates in third-world countries. I learned about the legal nuances of pseudocide.

  Three weeks later, I was on a plane bound for Grand Cayman. It took me less than a day to track him to a surprisingly modest villa on the north shore.

  He hardly looked surprised as I strolled up the beach and walked straight through the gate of his private deck.

  That’s the thing I remember most, his utter lack of surprise.

  “What gave me away?” We were sitting on his fenced patio an hour later, sipping Glenlivet as the sun dissolved slowly into the ocean. He seemed more impressed than upset.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I told him.

  Even then, I knew enough to be cagey.

  “Atta boy.” He knocked back another shot of Glenlivet and grinned. “I trust you’ve already covered the trail?”

  It irritated me that he assumed this.

  It irritated me more that I had.

  I chose not to answer.

  “Why did you do it?” I demanded.

  He gazed out over the ocean, looking thoughtful. “Lotta reasons. The Duke put a price on my head after he found out about my thing with Duchess Francesca.”