Reverb (33 page)

I just stare at him. Would have spit in his face, but I’m too tired.

“You are who you have always been, James. Your experiences over the past two years simply brought to the fore aspects of your character yet utilized. I will offer no judgment on who you are, nor on what you wish to become. That is for you alone to determine. All I can offer you are some answers, and perhaps a broader perspective on your current interpretation of the circumstances that lead to my actions.”

Edward has me by the balls again. We both know it. I have to know. Need to know why my father had me locked up and then abandoned me in hell. Edward alone can provide the answers, and he sits before me now, offering them. “Is this your attempt at penance, father?”

“Perhaps.” Edward smiles, but it fades quickly. “Indulge me this one last time, and you may just learn some things about yourself, James.”

I can’t move. Weight greater than gravity holds me in the chair. Stare at the man before me. He looks so tired. Old and tired. I feel like Edward looks. I nod for him to continue.

Edward nods back with another weary smile. “At the time I met your mother, I was married to Kathryn, Ian’s mother, though we were estranged, and in fact, had not been together in the conjugal sense for years.”

“Are you trying to justify fucking my mother while you were married to someone else?”

His eyes narrow slightly but he does not look away. “I have no need to justify loving your mother. She was a consenting adult, and was privy to the truth from the beginning. When she found out she was pregnant with you, it was her choice to move back to the States and terminate our relationship. She refused to be a catalyst for breaking up my family. Your mother married Michael Logan two years after your birth, and I agreed to the adoption upon their request, their union offering you what I could not.”

“You want a fucking medal for doing the right thing?”

“James, will you give no quarter?”

“Why should I?”

Edward shakes his head, takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Ian was not as fortunate as you have been.”

“
Fortunate
? You are insane, Edward.”

He continues as if I’d not spoken. “My marriage to Kathryn Croft, then Countess of Aragon, was a business union. She was a socialite, an alcoholic and addicted to pain killers. In fact, died of a combined overdose in her late twenties, only three years after your brother was born.”

“Half-brother.”

He nods slightly. “It was, indeed, Ian’s birthright to take over the Trust upon my retirement or passing. It was all he had, and it was all I had to give him. It wasn’t until his teen years that I began to see this may not be feasible. While I relinquished my parental rights of you to your mother and step-father, that you were to retain the Whren name was also part of our agreement. Anna understood the significance of our lineage, the enormity of the Whren Family holdings. It was quite possibly the driving factor in her decision to leave me, instead of marry me.” His eyes flash with...affection maybe, picturing my mother. “She was unwilling to risk scandal of our affair or your illegitimate birth, afraid the media fallout might hurt you, or compel me to abdicate my position and renounce my title.”

Picture my mom, her wide, white smile after we hit the snow bank. Imagine her stunning young face kissing my old man, and feel sick. “Why are you telling me this, Edward? What difference does any of this make now? Thrilling though it is traveling memory lane with you, I don’t want to hear about your affair with my mother.”

Another portentous sigh escapes his lips. “When you were born, your mother agreed you’d be added to the House of Windsor registry as my direct descendant—a cautionary measure to discourage legal challenges to the disbursement of my assets you’re due as my son upon my death—”

“All I want from you, Edward, is to leave me the fuck alone. In fact, I’d like my name stripped from every association with yours. Barring that as not possible, I don’t want to be named in your will, or on any documentation involving the family Trust. We’re done. You get that, right?”

Hint of a frown and he shakes his head again. “James, you are my son, my only remaining direct heir, and now the 22nd Earl of Carham. With the title comes responsibilities—”

I rise abruptly, put my hands on his desk again, glare at him. “I don’t want the goddamn title. Why are you not hearing me? Why is it we’re still here, right back where we left off two years ago? Damn it!” I turn away, sweep my hair out of my eyes and pace a few steps, then turn back on him. “I told you then, I’ll tell you again. But this is the last time, Edward. I will not sacrifice my life to serve your needs. I don’t care what they are, now more than ever.”

“James, I do not have the authority, nor the desire to leave our family estate to anyone but descendants. It will be passed to you, as a matter of course, as it has been for over five centuries. While your net worth will substantially increase with the transition, and there will be serious tax implications, of course, your involvement may remain as minimal as you choose, modeling our current structure of operations. When we sat here discussing this two years ago, I did not infer you abandon your music career. In fact, I thought I made it quite clear that overseeing the Trust would take only an initial investment of your time to familiarize yourself with our holdings, and get acquainted with the people managing them. As I recall, however, you couldn’t hear me as you were on drugs at the time.”

“I wasn’t on drugs, Edward.”
I was crashing from them.
Sudden pulsing in my temples emerging into a massive migraine. I glare at my father. “And even if I was, you had no right to set me up, to rob me of my freedom, to control my life. There is
no
justification for what you did to me.”

“I am not here to justify myself to you, or to defend my position. I had you arrested because I believed you were abusing drugs and in need of professional intervention. You are an adult, an American citizen, James. I had no authority to help you once you were back in the States. I was forced to act quickly. Caple Ne Ferne is a world-renowned, private treatment facility. You were slated to complete their highly touted twenty-eight day program and then be released, your records sealed, case closed. I could not foresee the events that took place after you were incarcerated. Nor could I prevent what followed after you killed Judge Ferrell’s son.”

“Gross miscalculation on your part, father?”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

I can’t believe the words actually come out of his mouth. Never before has the man admitted culpability, to me, or anyone else I can recall. I’d anticipated this moment my entire life. But no lightning bolts come shooting through the window. No brass band begin playing. The only thing in that room is a defeated old man, and there is no victory. I turn away from his debasement, move to the bar to put distance between us. “Are you finished playing God, Edward? If I’m truly a free man, will you let me walk out of here and control my own life?”

“It was never my intention to control your life, James. If I had taken any course of action to help your brother when I first became aware of his addiction, it is quite possible he would be alive today. Had I taken no action with you, it is equally possible that you would not be.”

“You’re wrong, Edward. I was never that strung out.”

“You were addicted to your own mastery, chose to let it consume your life, denying those in it their due. Drugs were a dangerous means to a distorted end, son. Somehow, I failed to impress upon you the importance of a balanced life.” He sighs, shakes his head. “While much of your experience over the course of the last two years has been unfortunate, and without condoning nor minimizing your suffering, you are fortunate to have broken the bonds of your obsession. You’ve achieved a greater understanding of your place in the world around you, and your effect on the lives you touch, forging the foundation to extend yourself in love.” He pauses, lets his words resonate. “I assume you and Elisabeth are to marry, you'll adopt her son, Cameron, move back to the States?”

My shoulders tighten. My fists clench and I look away, at the full shot of gin on the bar.
Pick it up and throw it at his head
. I need him to bleed. “Don’t speak their names again. It doesn’t matter how you know. You can watch me, but I’ll never let you in.”

Edward nods. “I understand.”

Again, I’m dumbfounded. His stance has always been domination, never conciliation. Where’s the lightning? I can’t get a fix on my father’s expression in the reflection of the smoked mirror behind the bar. He just looks old. Turn back to face him. “You expect me to stand here and have a civil conversation, a casual dialog between father and son?”

I have to get out of here
.

“Well I’m just not ready to do that, Edward.” I shake my head, turn away. My eyes fall back on the shot glass. I go to the bar, pick up the glass, down the gin in one gulp and swallowed back the burn, then set the glass back on the bar and walk out of the room.

The sonofabitch knows everything about my life. He’s been tracking me, who knows how long, and I’ve been blissfully unaware. I stand in the hall. No one’s in sight. Can walk out the front door, except I have no I.D., no money, no shoes, no jacket. It’s pouring rain and maybe forty-five degrees out there. I’ll probably freeze to death before I ever make it off the property.

Oddly, I feel very calm, the gin having encased my brain in a fuzzy haze. To leave, I’ll have to get my wallet back, or at least ask for help, and I’m not about to ask
him
for anything. The limousine kid, Steven, I think it was, something like that, might help me with the right numerical incentive, and a good alibi to deny any culpability in my departure.

I manage to find his bedroom with the aid of one of the household staff, but he’s not there, nor the suggested library or media room. Find two housemaids in the kitchen, but they only speak German, which I know about five lines of, though they make it clear 'Stefan' has been summoned to drive Edward and Howard somewhere. The blond, blue-eyed matronly woman and her younger version don’t seem to know when they’re coming back.

Fuck
.

Neither has seen my wallet or passport, but tells me to check my bedroom again for my shoes. I request a phone. The older woman indicates my father’s study, and I go back to where I left Edward, but he’s gone. I enter slowly, fighting the anxiety that’s overwhelming me as the gin wears off.

I want out of here.

There’s a sleek black portable phone on a small antique table near my father’s desk and I pick it up, considering how to reach Elisabeth. I need to talk to her, hear her tell me she and Cam are fine, and let her know what’s happened, what’s going on. Find out if she still wants to be with me, even with my twisted history shackling me to this family. But I don’t know her cell, or their number on the island. I’d never had to call her. We were always together. Regardless, it isn’t likely she’s gone back there. A day, maybe two have passed since I was taken. Hopefully, she went back to L.A. as I’d told her to.

Spend twenty minutes on the phone trying to find someone at Villa Vacation Rentals in Corfu City, and leave two message for my property manager to call me back as soon as possible with Elisabeth’s contact information. Could try her at her parents, if I can get their number, but it’s six o’clock in the morning there, and probably not the best introduction to possible future in-laws.

Can’t call a cab without money. Can’t get a plane ticket without I.D. Can’t leave this fucking house without shoes. I fight the urge to throw the phone across the room, but set it down on my father’s desk instead. Someone has picked the lamp and the laptop up off the floor and put them back on the desk. The brandy and crystal snifter are gone. The papers I’d scattered now sit in a neat pile next to the laptop.

I’m about to turn away, but the top paper catches my attention. A metallic British Crown Court identity is at the top of the page. There’s a raised government seal at the bottom. It’s a court order, issued to my father to appear before a grand jury inquiry in regards to my arrest two years ago. It’s dated from December of last year and is scheduled for—
tomorrow
. The warrant gives few details. It simply states the date and time Edward is required to appear. One of the few things it does specify is that my father must submit his “signed statement” on or before the inquiry date.

Search the small stack of papers for any other pertinent information but don’t find anything. Desk drawers are all locked. The laptop, well, it doesn’t work anymore. Why were the drug charges rescinded? Was the ‘recent evidence’ to which Edward referred supplied by my father? Edward had me locked up, but is he the one to set me free as well? He knew about my suicide attempt, knew I was sent to an outside hospital. The idea burrows into my brain and my head starts pounding again. Press my palms into my eyes, holding them closed, blacking out all light. Edward’s aged face and diminished stature come to the fore.

What has my incarceration cost my father?

What has it really cost me? Hear myself screaming in my head from searing, tearing pain, feel the restraints around my wrists and ankles, pinning me spread, ripping my limbs apart.
Stop it. Don’t go there.
Drop my hands and open my eyes and I’m alone in the silent study.

Elisabeth, save me. I need you.
And
I see her laughing, her lightness brighter than the fire we had blazing that rainy afternoon. We’re on the floor, I’m fingering the chords to Itsy Bitsy Spider, Cameron’s in my lap learning to strum, my hand guiding his. We’re on the fiftieth rendition, though he’s finally getting it, and doesn’t want to quit until he can make the ‘tar’ sound like me. Liz is laughing with me, at me, my beleaguered expression of fatigue, but we don’t want to discourage his enthusiasm. We’re both awestruck by his unwavering tenacity. It was then, I believe, the moment I fully understood love without reservation.