Lost: A Counsel Novella Page 2

  “Adam likes her,” she rolls her eyes, pretending to swoon. “He wants to kiss her.” She smacks her lips together.

  “Shut up, Cait” I warn, raising my voice.

  “Don’t shout at your sister, Son; and Caitlin, leave your brother alone. How’d you like it if he tells everyone you’re sweet on Matt?” Dad asks, trying to keep a straight face.

  “I’m not sweet on Matt Bannen!” she yells, glaring daggers at me even though I hadn’t complained to our parents about her always hanging around when Matt’s with me. I’d said plenty to her, of course.

  “Stop it, you two,” Mom admonishes. “Finish your dinner; and, Cait, you can help me clean up after.”

  “What about Adam?” she grumbles.

  “Your Dad has things to discuss with him.”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” I protest.

  “Relax, Adam. I know you haven’t—or have you?” Dad asks.

  “No!” I quickly say. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “After dinner; and there’s nothing to worry about if, as you say, you’ve done nothing wrong,” he says dryly before filling his mouth with food.

  “What’s it mean?” I ask, staring at the letter Dad handed me.

  “I’m not entirely sure, Adam; but it appears that your biological father mentioned you in his will. I’ve called to speak with this Mr. Atkins,” he points to the signatory. “He was out, but he’ll, no doubt, call back.”

  “As you can tell from what’s written, Adam Winston died in a plane crash about six months ago, and it’s taken his lawyers all this time to trace you. Charles Atkins has asked that I bring you to New York for a meeting.”

  Chapter Two

  My favorite band’s lyrics pound in my ears. The words speak of good news, but I’m sure as hell not feeling any joy. What I feel is burning anger.

  Adam Winston, only son of a stinking-rich New York family and, apparently, also my biological father, has named me in his will. Dad doesn’t know how much money he left me, only that his lawyer who he’s now spoken to, called it a ‘significant sum’. He gave only basic information, which included the fact that Adam Winston had been a Harvard medical student when he met Eleanor. I feel sick at the realization that she almost certainly named me after him.

  He must have known she was pregnant, and he’d probably also known that she had no family and that she’d struggle after he left. Eleanor Mannering’s parents died in a boating accident when she was just a toddler. She’d lived with her only remaining relative, her maternal grandmother, who died when she’d been barely eighteen. I know this because Eleanor once told Mom.

  She turned twenty-one just after I was born, so she would have been twenty and alone when Winston left her to return to his wealthy family. Now, decades later, he decides to include me in his will? Well, fuck him—I don’t want his money. I hope he rots in hell!

  The music stops suddenly, and I snap my eyes open to find Cait standing over me “Turn it on, Caitlin,” I growl.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, even though, I have no doubt, she already knows. Dad would have updated Mom on my reaction, and either one or both of them, probably told Cait because our parents wouldn’t hide something as significant as this from us kids.

  I want to tell Cait to get out, but I can’t be mad at her when she looks at me like that. “There’s a lot of shit going on that I don’t understand, and I sure as hell don’t like it!” I say instead.

  She crawls over me to lie against the wall. “Tell me,” she mouths, and that simple invitation, like it’s always done, loosens the tightness in my chest.

  “Why don’t you want to go? Don’t you want to know more?” she asks when I’ve told her how I feel and confessed that I have no intention of going to New York.

  ‘What difference will it make? The fact is, he didn’t care—he never cared.”

  “He cared enough to leave you something.”

  “Money! I bet that was never a problem for him.”

  “Just go, or you’ll never know anything about him or why he left.”

  Dad used pretty much the same argument. He said I’d regret it when I’m older, that I owed it to Eleanor and myself to go. I stormed out of his office after he insisted I accompany him, but I know the conversation is far from over. And he’ll definitely be calling me out on my behavior because I was so confused and mad that I shoved some things off his desk on my way out.

  I mean, what the hell? When Eleanor said I only had her, I’d stupidly invented some mythical, perfect father, one who’d died doing something heroic. In my childish imagination, he’d wanted us—me—but had no choice. I didn’t once consider that he’d known of my existence, that he chose to ignore me for seventeen years. What if he’d lived another forty? Would he have acknowledged me in that time? Some fucking hero!

  Cait scrambles over me to leave but turns back at the door. “I love you, big brother,” she signs before speaking out loud. “Think about it.”

  “I love you too, Sis,” I say, deliberately ignoring her last comment.

  The next morning, I tell Dad I’ll go to New York.

  “Adam, are you all right?” Dad asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. We’re in the offices of Babcock, Atkins, and Hanes. All marble, glass, and lots of expensive-looking art, it’s clear this is a law firm for the rich.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I’m not.

  “Don’t worry, Son. I’ll be right there with you,” Dad assures me, and I return his smile gratefully. No matter what I learn today, Callum Thorne is my father—my only father, a man to be proud of.

  Dad’s a striking man, good looking, tall, and fit. He’s always been at ease in any situation, but there’s something different about him today. I’d been a bit shocked when he walked through our interconnecting doors this morning. An architect and owner of a construction company, Dad usually dresses in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt when visiting sites, which he often does. For days spent in his office, he wears a pair of dress slacks and adds a tie and jacket for client meetings. I’ve never seen him look quite as businesslike as he does right now.

  Yes, he looks even more impressive in the dark suit, white shirt, and red and gray striped tie, but it’s the resolve in his eyes and the determined set of his jaw that’s different. If Charles Atkins thought he’d be meeting someone easily influenced or intimidated, then he’s about to find out just how badly mistaken he was. My Dad looks ready to face down anything or anyone. My chest swells with love and pride when I realize that he’s here not only to learn about the contents of Adam Winston’s will and support me; he’s here to lay claim to me as his son.

  And now, sitting in this opulent place, I finally understand why when he saw my expression this morning, Dad said, “appearances count, Adam, remember that.” For the first time, also, I feel grateful that Mom insisted I pack the charcoal slacks, white shirt, red tie, and the new black blazer she bought me. I complained, practically whined, that teenagers did not wear stuff like that. Her reply had been, ‘well-dressed teenagers who are going to important meetings in New York do.’

  As proud as I am to call Callum dad, I want him to feel the same way about me, especially today. I want Adam Winston’s lawyer and through him, his family, to know that from the moment I entered Callum and Emma Thorne’s home, I didn’t need his money and that I sure as hell don’t need it now. I almost choke on the resentment I feel when comparing what I imagine his life must have been like to the one Eleanor and I led. I can’t wait to reject his belated attempt at making amends and then get out of here.

  Dad promised me a day of sightseeing after our meeting. Cait and Mom, of course, had plenty of suggestions of places we should visit, but Dad said no more than five, and so The Empire State building was included because Mom and Cait once watched and enjoyed some old movie. Times Square made the list because Cait and I have fond memories of watching the ball drop on New Year’s Eve. Matt, when he learned about the trip, insisted on a visit t
o Yankee Stadium, and given that Dad and I also had it on our lists, there was no way we were going to skip that. And finally, Dad and I agreed on visiting The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.

  “Mr. Thorne?” someone calls out, and Dad stands as a middle-aged woman approaches. I get to my feet as well. “Yes. I’m Callum Thorne, and this is my son, Adam,” he replies.

  “Mr. Atkins will see you now,” she announces, smiling at Dad politely before turning her gaze on me. Her smile falters, and her eyes widen before she schools her expression into one of professional blandness once more. Do I look like him? I wonder; that thought makes me feel both angry and ill.

  “Thank you for making the trip, Mr. Thorne, Adam,” Charles Atkins says as we settle into the leather chairs across from him. He didn’t have quite the same reaction as his secretary when seeing me, but I’ve sensed his eyes on me several times since being ushered into his office.

  “Well, it seemed the only way to get the answers Adam needs,” Dad gets straight to the point.

  “Yes, of course. Let’s get on with it, shall we.” Winston’s lawyer opens a brown leather folder and stares at it briefly before raising his head to address me.

  “Mr. Winston, your father, died in February. He and his pilot were both killed on what should have been a routine flight to Aspen to join his family for a weekend of skiing.” He pauses expectantly. I say nothing; if he expects me to show interest or sorrow, then he’s in for a big disappointment. I’m not interested in learning about Adam Winston’s lavish life. I just want him to get to the part about the money so I can tell him I don’t want it.

  “Mr. Atkins, something puzzles me. How did you trace Adam, and how can you be sure he’s Mr. Winston’s son?” Dad asks, and Atkins retrieves something from the folder and hands it to dad. It looks like a handwritten letter with a photograph clipped to one corner, which Dad stares at for long moments before his mouth curves into a smile. He slowly runs a finger over whatever he’s looking up. I’m curious but try not to show it because I can sense Atkins watching me again.

  Dad reads the letter, his eyebrows drawn together, mouth set in a straight line. “Did he ever respond to this?” he asks.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. Mr. Winston did leave something for Adam, though; you may find answers in there.” Atkins reveals a sealed envelope, which he offers me. I shake my head, refusing to accept it.

  “This is a stressful situation for my son, as I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. Atkins. Adam didn’t want to attend this meeting, but my wife and I insisted—not because he needs anything from Adam Winston, but because he deserves it. My son hasn’t accepted that premise yet, so I’ll take that for safekeeping for whenever Adam feels ready to read it.”

  “Of course,” Atkins says, his tone apologetic.

  “I’d also like his mother’s letter and that photograph, please,” Dad adds, and now I know it’s a letter from Eleanor, one she’d, apparently, written to Winston. So, she did contact him, and it’s equally clear that he’d deliberately ignored us.

  Atkins nods. “With your permission, I’ll have Diane make a copy for our files and include the originals with what Mr. Winston left for Adam.”

  “Thank you,” Dad says before turning to me. “Son, do you have any questions? Something you’d like to know about Adam Winston or his family?”

  I’m glad he hasn’t referred to him as my father. “Just one,” I answer, and both Dad and Atkins look at me expectantly. “Does he have other children?”

  “He does,” Atkins says after a moment’s hesitation—a moment in which I curse myself for asking because, of course, I suspected. I knew what the answer would be, but that doesn’t stop the fresh wave of betrayal washing over me, nor the anger that follows.

  I lower my head and breathe deeply through my nose, fighting not to embarrass Dad and myself by losing control. When I look up, Atkins is looking at Dad nervously, but Dad’s watching me. His mouth lifts into a smile, his message clear, and the weight I felt pressing down on me lifts. I’m his son; Adam Winston may have donated his sperm, but Callum Thorne is my dad.

  “He has a son and two daughters, their names are—” Atkins continues, but I cut him off.

  “I didn’t ask for their names, I asked if he had other children, and you’ve told me.”

  “Of course, I’ll just get on with the legal proceedings,” he says after clearing his throat.

  “Your father, Adam Winston, left you thirty million dollars.”

  Chapter Three

  “Could you repeat that?” Dad asks, his voice sounding faint through the sudden whooshing in my head.

  “Mr. Winston left his son, Adam Mannering, thirty million dollars,” Atkins repeats, and then before Dad can respond, continues. “There are some stipulations, of course, but essentially, the bequest is free of restrictions.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Dad answers, sounding remarkably calm. He turns to me and, seeing my expression, frowns in concern.

  “Adam? Are you all right?” he asks.

  My brain only kicks in fully when Dad touches my arm. With its function fully restored, my anger and disgust at Winston return tenfold.

  “I don’t want it!” I say, struggling not to shout, then stand and race out before I give in to the urge to break things. Outside, I pace the lobby near the elevators in an attempt to calm myself. I’m not sure how long it takes before Dad appears. He presses a button before turning to pat me on the back.

  “I know this is a shock and that you’re upset, Son, so let’s not discuss it until we get home. I want you to enjoy the rest of the day and take your time to digest everything. I have both letters, which I think you should read, but I won’t rush you,” he says as we descend to ground level.

  I nod, grateful that he’s not pushing right now.

  “Did you tell him we don’t want the money?” I ask.

  “Adam, it’s not our money; it’s your money. And no, I said no such thing. We’ll discuss this when we get home—when you’ve calmed down and after your mom and I have had a chance to talk.”

  Out on the street, Dad hails a cab, and we return to the hotel for a quick change of clothing before leaving once more. The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island are our first stops. We don’t stay as long as either of us would like to because we have a lot to fit into our day, but Dad’s promised that we’ll come back one day with Mom and Cait. From there, we make our way to the Empire State building and walk to the top so we can tell Mom and Cait we did. In the gift shop, I buy a snow globe for Mom’s desk and a sparkly key chain for Cait. Dad and I tour the Yankee Stadium next, where I get Matt an official Rawlings Major League baseball. I admire it so much that Dad gets one for me too.

  We try to make the most of our day by forgetting about the morning’s events, but there are times when either Dad or I lapse into silence. I have no doubt that, like me, he’s thinking about the meeting with Mr. Atkins. I have no idea what else Dad may have learned after I left the room. Honestly, I don’t care. I meant it when I said I didn’t want to know or have anything to do with the Winstons.

  Finally, after wandering around and doing some shopping, mostly for Cait and me, Dad announces that we need to visit Tiffany’s on Fifth Avenue.

  “It’s a jewelry store. I want to get your Mom something,” he explains when I ask.

  “We just passed two jewelry places,” I point out. Dad replies by telling me a rather long-winded story about a movie called Breakfast At Tiffany’s, apparently another of Mom’s favorites. The store, he says, epitomizes taste and style.

  “Every discerning woman dreams of receiving jewelry from there,” he says.

  “Remember that response when you meet a woman you love as much as I love your Mom,” he chuckles at my look of ridicule.

  “Not going to happen,” I mumble.

  “What? You haven’t met someone who’s made your heart pound yet?” he jokes and, despite my best efforts not to react, my ears heat.

  I haven’t met anyone
who’s made my heart pound, but other parts of my body have most definitely been affected by girls; Natalie Jones, especially.

  I spend most of the flight home staring into the night, thankful that it’ll be too late for long conversations when we get home. When we arrive, I greet Mom and Cait, and then immediately excuse myself to go upstairs, where I make a quick trip to the bathroom before going to bed.

  “You can see Adam in the morning,” I hear Dad say.

  “I said tomorrow, Caitlin,” he repeats, and I assume she’d argued because he hardly ever takes that tone with Cait, with either of us, in fact. Then, despite my dark mood, I smile when I hear Cait stomp off. She does like having the last say. I bet, though, that Dad doesn’t wait until morning to fill Mom in.

  I wake with a start when something heavy lands on my legs. “What the hell? I mutter irritably. It took some time to fall asleep because I couldn’t stop thinking about Adam fucking Winston.

  He’d known about me; Eleanor’s letter made sure of that. I have no idea when she wrote it, but it must have been more than eight years ago because she’s been gone for that long. However long ago it was, he didn’t try to contact me. He’d clearly not wanted to because he instructed his lawyer to hold onto it until after his death. I also don’t know when he that letter to me, but what difference does it make if it was seventeen years or six months ago? The fact is, he didn’t want to know me.

  Thirty fucking million dollars—guilt money—he can shove it!

  A sharp knock to my shin brings me back to the present. I force my eyes open to glare at Cait.

  “Well?” she demands, opening her arms expectantly.

  “Well, what? Damn Cait!” I yell, glancing at the clock.

  “It’s seven, and it’s Saturday—go away.” I turn my back on her.

  She pulls my pillow out from under me, making my head hit the bed with a thump. She pummels me with it until I struggle to sit up.

  “Well?” she challenges.