Page 5 of Just for Tonight

I have no quibbles with anyone being an asshole. It keeps the needy at bay and diminishes expectations all around. I love it as a lifestyle choice. But just cutting people down, deliberately destroying their dreams, is petty and tedious. It’s mean. But then Austin was always the one who would do you dirty, any chance he could. Haven’t heard from him in years or seen him in more, and that’s just fine.

Crap. There will probably be a funeral. Maybe I can catch a communicable disease in time and miss the festivities.

Finally, there’s our sister, Abbie, because Mom saved the best to last. I think all three of us brothers would do anything for her. The incredible thing is that she barely even met Mom, who died shortly after Abbie was born. Maybe that’s part of the reason we all dote on her. The other is that she was always the fragile one. If there was a bug going around, Abbie caught it. She was small and vulnerable, and in need of our protection. She also fled Empire as soon as she could, which shows good sense, and now runs a florist shop in Vancouver.

I’d be glad to see Abbie again. Maybe I’ll hold off on contracting the communicable disease.

I think about my mom as I roll west, toward doom and drama. The drive to Empire takes over four hours one way, down the north side of Lake Ontario and then Lake Erie, almost all the way to Windsor. Good for the car engine, I guess.

I fully expect to arrive and find that my father is home and fine again. If anyone is going to spit in the eye of the grim reaper, it’ll be Patrick Cavendish. The one thing my father likes best is proving anyone wrong and Death isn’t going to get a hall pass on that.

But I’m wrong.

I reach the house that morning – it’s even uglier than I remember. Did I forget the turrets or just block them from my memory? I know there weren’t gold lions on the gate posts the last time I was here. There might not have been a gate. No, Candace must have been at work, ‘improving’ what Mike calls Casa Cavendish. It would be a mercy to toss a grenade at the place and even better to watch it burn.

I’d bring the marshmallows.

When I park in the circular drive, Mike comes out to meet me. He looks gutted, which tells me the news even before he does. We exchange a few words, and I know I need to shake him up a bit. He’s in a very rough place, as if he blames himself for our father’s death.

Not on my watch.

“In a movie,” I say as we walk toward the house. “He would have opened his eyes, repented of all harsh words, and made amends before he breathed his last. The clouds would have parted and a beam of sunlight would have shone down upon the scene while bluebirds swirled around, chirping serenely.” I’m glad to see the ghost of a smile on Mike’s lips. “I’m guessing that’s not how it went.”

“No.”

“No. Of course not.” He looks so forlorn – if anyone could miss the old bastard, it would be Mike – that I give him an impulsive hug.

I don’t know which of us is more surprised.

I cover my reaction by heading into the study with purpose. I sit down at the desk and start opening drawers. “Look at this mess. Didn’t he ever file anything?” Mike is just standing in the middle of the room, like a wounded bear that doesn’t know where to turn. I’ll give him a job. He’s good with assignments. “Can you get me a table, Mike? Maybe one of those big folding ones, set up there.” I point to a place as good as any, knowing that precise instructions are easier to follow.

“Are you seriously giving me a job?”

“Are you seriously trying to delay it? The sooner we figure out the exact state of the corporation and uncover whatever plans Dad made for its future, the better.”

“Just seems a little fast.”

“And what’s going to change if we sit here and cry for a day?”

Mike sighs. “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and it’s too late for me to teach you that fine art, so just find a table, please.”

“Anything else, your majesty?”

I ignore his sarcasm. “No. That’ll do for a start.”

I get busy sorting paperwork, ignoring Madison’s brief appearance to help Mike with the table. He looks around afterward, and I decide to find him another job. “Why don’t you open that bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch I gave Dad a decade ago?” I point. “It’s in that liquor cabinet, sealed like the day it came from the distillery.”

I get a grim look for that. “Hardly seems like the time for a celebration.”

I prop my hands on my hips and give him a look that’s even grimmer. “All right, how about this: there’s no point in buying the really good stuff if you’re going to keep it locked away until you can only use it to clean your drains. I’ve had a shock. You’ve had a shock. I’ve driven half the night. You’ve been up all night. We deserve a shot, not any bloody coffee.”

Confronted with such indisputable logic, Mike gets the bottle. He could be walking on eggshells, which means he feels guilty about something. If it’s our father’s heart attack, I need to shake him free of that idea and fast.

“What did you say to him anyway?” I demand.

“Me?”