Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“You’re not giving the collection away.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes you are just like your father. He didn’t want me to donate it, either. Did you know that?”
“No. I didn’t…but I can understand why.”
“It’s funny that you understand so much. You understand why your father wanted to hold on to a bunch of stuff, but you can’t understand why he didn’t tell you he was dying.”
That was a bodyblow I wasn’t ready for.
“Is there something you’d like to say to me, Scott? Because you look upset and I think you need to talk about it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!”
“Because he asked me not to. Because he was my husband and I loved him despite his many, many faults. Because you make concessions and agreements, you incur debt and carry credit when you’re married for forty years. It was his business, his decision to make, and I owed it to him to carry out his wishes. Your father was used to winning, but you can’t beat death, and he couldn’t stomach looking weak. Not in front of his children. Not in front of anyone.”
“What about Sydney?”
“He trusted her to understand him. And she did.”
I fell into the wing chair across what used to be my father’s chair, all the fight draining out of me.
“All you see is how Sydney betrayed you. What you can’t see is her loyalty to your father. She made a promise and she kept it knowing she’d lose you and probably lose the job she loved. That’s character,” my mother eyeballed me pointedly, “and there’s not a lot of it to go around these days.”
Walking over, she pushed the hair off my forehead, something she hadn’t done since I was a teenager. Taking her hand in mine, I kissed her palm.
“What are you doing here, Scott? Are you happy?”
I couldn’t get a single word out. Only thing I could do was shake my head.
“He’s gone. Hopefully to a better place. Stop trying to get the upper hand. It’s already yours. I’m taking the painting. I’m selling the townhouse. If there’s anything you want, let Bernice know and she’ll pack it up for you. Or come by and take me to lunch. I could use the company.” She kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, bubby. But you don’t belong here any more than that painting does.”
“Miller. This is Scott Blackstone. Please call me back.”
A day later…
“I haven’t heard from you. I’m trying to find Sydney and her number keeps going straight to voicemail. I need to speak to her, and Human Resources doesn’t have a forwarding address or number. Please call me.”
A day later…
“I get that you hate me. Fine. But I really need to talk to my wife. I need to make sure she’s alright and…*sigh*…can you please return this phone call.”
A day later…
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“Who is it?” came from the other side of the steel industrial sliding door. I glanced around impatiently, amped from the need to act. The Smiths lived in Chelsea in a converted loft that cost a mint by the looks of it.
“Pizza delivery,” I said lowering my voice. And almost laughed for the first time in months.
The door slid open. “We didn’t…ah fuuuck.”
Sydney’s little friend scowled. I gave him the most supplicating look I could muster. “You didn’t return any of my calls. You left me no choice.”
“How did you get into the building?” he shot back, looking more than a little suspicious. “You didn’t buy it, did you?”
I schooled the urge to smile. “Chick in 2E was walking in at the same time. She let me in.”
“Giullermo, that mutherfucker––”
“Look, I get that you’re mad at me––”
“Mad at you? Nah, man. I’m not mad, bro. I was just in the middle of making a wax figurine of you and sacrificing a chicken in your name. If your balls start to itch, you’ll know why––”
“I’m trying to fix this, damn it.” Teeth gritted, I forced out, “I’m trying to make amends if you would only give me a clue where she is. I’m begging you. I know I fucked up. I know I have and…I…I just need to try…please.”
He studied me for a minute. “She’s out of the country.” A begrudging admission.
I exhaled in relief. I was finally getting through to him. “Where?”
“Blackstone tried to buy a residential property in Singapore last year and got outbid by a Chinese quadrillionaire or some shit. He was impressed––she’s interviewing with him. She’s staying at the Ritz.”
I was running before he’d finished the sentence.
Sydney
Hitting the security keypad, I unlocked the front door and walked into my brand-new townhouse, heading straight for the kitchen. On the way, I walked past the painting I’d seen all those months ago––the grey female form floating in the midst of all that color. I bought it to remind myself not to settle for grey anymore, to let the color in even if the last attempt hadn’t gone so well.