Paul Robertson: The Heir

When the weather shifted and clouds started piling up in the southwest, I abandoned my torpor and tacked south across the wind toward Block Island. We watched the rain from across the water.

I could have as easily gone north toward home. “Let’s find somewhere to stay tonight,” I said.

Everywhere, sails were scattering, fat sheep in a blue field escaping a pack of hungry squalls. The boat picked up speed, and the storm had no chance of catching us.

When it finally reached us we were ashore, behind a huge window, eating shellfish and drinking wine, with the marina churning below us. Then we went back on the water, just a little way out, for the sunset and the stars, and finally we slept in the boat rocking quietly beside the pier.

Sunday morning I cleared the harbor, heading for home, and there was no way to delay it. The breeze was directly behind us.

Katie had been breathtakingly patient, but now she finally inhaled. “Rosita said there have been twenty more calls since yesterday.”

“I thought we were leaving the phone off the hook.”

“I told her to start taking messages again.”

The weekend had been filled with all the happiness money could buy, which was the kind I liked best. Avoiding Monday was something money couldn’t buy.

“I told the phone company to change our number.”

“It takes three days. You can run, Jason, but you can’t hide.”

“They’re not after me. They’re after my wallet.”

“Do you know what you’re going to do when we get home?”

“Yes. I’ll take a shower, have lunch, and call Fred.”

“What will you tell him?”

“I don’t have that part figured out yet.”

“Let me know when you do.” Fred was inescapable, and she wasn’t worried. It was another gorgeous day, and if I’d taken the boat on another tangent somewhere, she wouldn’t have minded. Instead I cut a straight gash through the waves.

I knew a third of the names on Rosita’s list, I knew of another third, and from the messages the last third left, I knew their type.

“I want to meet Melvin’s board members,” I said to Fred on the phone after lunch. “The officers, or whatever. Pick five names to give to Pamela, and she’ll arrange it.”

“My secretary can arrange the meeting.”

I wanted to stay in control. “No, give Pamela the list. But you should be there. And I’m not committing to anything, Fred.”

“I understand.”

“I still plan to be rid of it.” Every time I said it, it meant less. “But I want to do it responsibly.” That would be a new way for me to do anything.

“Of course, Jason. But keep your mind open.”

“It’s so open you could drive a truck through it. It even feels like someone has. I guess I need someone to give me a list of what I own.”

“That would be George Elias. And by the way, has Clinton Grainger called from the governor’s office?”

“You know he has. Lots of people have, but his secretary was first.”

“Yes, I called him immediately after you left on Thursday. We need to discuss your meeting with him, and soon. We should do that tomorrow morning.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“That you are keeping an open mind.”

Dinner was a standoff with Katie. She knew that time was on her side. I was meeting with Fred and with the board members. She just wanted to hear that we were really going to Disney World.

“It won’t be that hard,” she said. “You can hire people to do everything for you.”

We usually eat in the formal dining room. It had been annoying to me at first until I got used to sitting at the head, Katie at my left, the other ten places stretching off into the distance. We never entertained. Katie liked the room, though. Royal blue walls and rococo ornamental plaster, tile floor, Windsor chairs. It made up with elegance what it lacked in geniality. It made a person feel like a king.

“It’s the being, not the doing.”

Philosophy was not the ground she wanted to fight on. “I talked to Angela this afternoon,” she said.

“How is she?”

“She feels very alone.”

“You need friends to not be alone, and she doesn’t want friends. Or she’d at least have to be willing to talk to people,” I said. “Maybe you should have lunch with her.”

“We are tomorrow. I suggested it. Does she get to stay in the house?”

She meant the question to sound innocent, but did she have her eye on the Big House? It was only a matter of time. “All the properties are part of the estate. But Angela has exclusive use of the main house as long as she wants, and she can use any of the other houses.”

“Good. I’d hate to think she’d have to move.” Angela would be a good distraction for Katie.

I excused myself and went looking for my book. I don’t always read so much. I was just in greater need of escape.

But I couldn’t read. After a while I was back in my office. Pamela had me all fixed up with Fred at nine o’clock, with George Elias for lunch, and with the board members at three. Clinton Grainger was open Monday night.

“How did you know that?” I asked the sweet voice on the telephone.

“I talked with his secretary,” she said. “Fred suggested it. I told her you were still very busy with your own people and it would take a couple days for you to be ready for outside meetings.”

I thought about telling Pamela she worked for me and not Fred, but she was just trying to be helpful.

“Okay. I’ll call you after I see Fred tomorrow. Thanks, Pamela.”

“Glad to help, dear.”

Riding an elevator thirty floors normally takes a while, but on Monday morning it took forever. At the seventh floor I’d chosen the path of self-preservation and a clockwork fifty thousand a month-that had always been the plan. At the tenth, I decided on an even million a year. It was my own decision, so why not be generous? At the fourteenth, I was wavering. Where was the line? If I could accept a million a year, then I could accept two million. I could accept it all.

Where was the line? It was somewhere around the twenty-third floor, and I crossed it. It really wasn’t a decision. I was only deciding to not decide yet.

Fred saw through me when I dropped, defeated, into the grand armchair throne and put my elbows on his desk and my head in my hands.

I stared down at the floor so I wouldn’t have to see him smirk, and when I finally looked up, he was trying real hard not to.

“Okay,” I said. “Start with Clinton Grainger.”

“Yes, a very good place to start.”

Wasn’t that where Julie Andrews started singing in The Sound of Music? I was having severe concentration problems.

“Governor Bright will be your biggest challenge, and you need to deal with him decisively at the very beginning. He might be too ambitious to be controlled. He is a reckless man.”

“From what I’ve seen on television, the governor doesn’t come across as very bright.”

“Grainger is the brains. The problems come when he can’t control his boss.”

The irony of this statement, spoken to me by Fred Spellman, was not lost on either of us.

“Did you ever have that problem?” I said.

He laughed. “I never controlled your father; he was no one’s fool. I doubt you are, either.”

“I feel like a fool right now.” I did, too. Fred’s office was power, real power. The furniture was a bit worn-not from age or even use, but from weight. Heavy decisions were made there. Important words were spoken. It was serious, the real thing. I was just a little bubble waiting to be popped. “What do I say to Clinton Grainger? I guess I should meet him tonight.”

“Yes, certainly. He will be making his own judgment, whether he thinks you or the governor will likely be stronger.”