Page 23 of Just for Tonight

Richard chuckles. “He was, and has quite the car. A vehicle like that is a mistress, if not a full-time vocation.” He nods. “Beautiful machine.”

“Expensive?” It’s a reasonable guess as everything about Jake Cavendish is expensive.

“In every way,” Richard agrees easily. “But then, why not indulge yourself when you’re working hard?”

“Do you think Jake works hard?”

“I’m sure of it, and I’m also sure he takes little comfort in it.”

That comment surprises me. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m glad you don’t. It means none of the men in your family were like Patrick Cavendish.”

“Oh, I don’t think they are or were.”

“No.” Richard sips his coffee, clearly deciding whether to say more. I wait, hoping he will. “There are certainly monsters in our world, Mackenzie, by which I mean people who don’t care about anyone other than themselves. They’re indifferent to the desires or needs of others. The whole endeavor is about them, and they can’t understand when other people fail to see that.”

“I’m not sure that Jake Cavendish is a monster.”

“Nor am I! I wouldn’t have you think so. In fact, I suspect just the opposite.”

“How so?” This is interesting.

“There are also people who fear they may be monsters, probably due to their own experience with monsters. But their inclination is the exact opposite to that of a monster. They close themselves away, protecting others from the damage they fear they might do.” He meets my gaze. “They care more about others than themselves. They fear they might be monsters, but they are the very opposite, taking on the protection of everyone else at their own expense.”

I find this a very compelling character study, though it’s not my concern. It makes sense that a man like Patrick would leave a permanent mark on his children. “You think Jake Cavendish is one of those people,” I guess.

Richard nods. “I think Patrick was hardest on his oldest son. The very fact that Jake fled Empire as soon as possible and never returned is a sign that I’m right. So is the fact that he’s single, and that his one true love may be a German sports car or maybe his bank account. It’s a shame, because I think he’s a man with a great deal to offer to anyone, if he ever chose to do as much.”

“Well, that’s up to him, though, isn’t it?” I finish my coffee, intrigued by what I’ve heard and trying to hide it.

“Maybe. Or maybe he’ll meet a woman who doesn’t let him protect her from himself.” Richard chuckles. “That would be worth seeing, don’t you think?”

I laugh along with Richard and head for home, intrigued even though there’s no point.

That woman isn’t going to be me. I don’t want a relationship with anyone, much less Jake, though I could see that might be a challenge I’d enjoy.

Maybe that’s a warning that I should keep an eye on what I want, and forget a distraction like Jake.

7

Jake

After stopping at Richard Bradshaw’s office, it’s back to my father’s legal residence.

Once there, I sit for a heartbeat in my car, trying to decide what I hate most about the house. (Actually, I’m trying to push Richard’s observations out of my thoughts. I need focus right now, and will deal with all that later.)

It’s not that the house is big. I don’t mind generous proportions. It’s not that it’s taupe, although a little colour never broke anyone’s heart. It’s not that it’s landscaped with surgical precision, exactly the same species of each chosen plant placed at measured intervals with all the spontaneity of an SOS signal in Morse code. It’s not the elaborate gates or the gold lions standing sentinel on the gateposts. I have to confess that it’s not even the turrets, of which there are three.

The whole thing is just excessive. It’s overdone and out of place, plus every surface looks like fake something-or-other. It reminds me of those castles in theme parks, the ones that are actually made of concrete with a faux stone surface. It could be made of foam, extruded to look like a house. It could be a huge birthday cake. It could be a bouncy castle in disguise. There’s not one authentic or honest thing about it.

Inside, of course, it’s about ten million times worse.

My father’s study is a kind of a refuge. Still overdone. Still reeking of fake wood panelling and what look to be Persian carpets but are really acrylic rugs machine-woven in a sweatshop somewhere. It’s supposed to be a ye olde English kind of room, the lord of the manor’s smoking room – not the library as there aren’t any books – but it smells like plastic, the fire on the hearth is electric, and the mullions on the windows are made of coloured tape. The chairs look like they’re upholstered in oxblood leather, but the surfaces are smooth, undoubtedly vinyl.

It lacks sincerity and integrity. The thing is, I don’t think they saved any money by these compromises in materials. Everything has a designer name on it, a hint that someone paid a premium for junk.

That just makes my heart hurt. Money spent on nothing violates my every principle.