Sergey Redkin
Hide-and-Seek

Dedicated to my parents

hide-and-seek (n.) – a game in which several children hide while one child counts to a particular number without watching the others and then tries to find them

(Definition of hide-and-seek from the Cambridge Academic Content Dictionary © Cambridge University Press)

Chapter 1

The office was large and looked on-trend opulent–plenty of natural light through large windows, grey walls, black leather furniture and contemporary art on the walls. I couldn’t say that I liked it. I preferred more classical interiors. Be that as it may, it was intended to show, along with its location on the top floor of the highest building in the city, that the owner of this place had a lot of financial power.

The April morning sun shone brilliantly in the clear, blue sky, adding saturation to the professional décor of a site where tens of millions of multiple currencies were routinely made before some people had their first cup of tea. I was sitting in one of the two very expensive-looking custom-made armchairs at a large coffee table in the part of the office where the owner would want people to feel more comfortable, a few meters away from his big meticulously organized working desk with two big computer monitors.

The man I was meeting was one of the most successful money wizards in the City. His name was Jared Shannon, and he was a few years younger than me and a couple of billion dollars richer. The latter fact was annoying, the former was baffling.

Why would a man of his level want to talk to me about my little country project? I mean, I realized I was not an average Joe, but I could hardly be of any personal interest to him unless he micromanaged everything in his company, which was highly unlikely. He had enough people below him in his empire whom I could meet and to get what I wanted without meeting the man. It could only make sense if he was into aristocrats and their lands. Whatever the reason, I was there, and it was all that really mattered at that moment.

I was trying to concentrate and appreciate the moment of this opportunity, but it was proving hard to do because of the hangover I’d tried to suppress with some painkillers before the meeting. It had not been a good idea to go to a party last night and spend half of it flirting with some open-minded young women to schmooze them into a more meaningful conversation in my apartment later. One of them was susceptible to my oratorial skills and I had to wake her early and put her in a cab to give myself enough time to be presentable for this meeting.

“Well, I don’t think I have any more questions,” Jared said, still nonchalantly holding what looked like my proposal. He was a tall man in a good shape in his late thirties with a face that projected intelligence and confidence, sitting in the other armchair in front of me on the opposite side of the table. “Perhaps you’d like to ask me some questions?”

He was wearing an unpretentious but extremely good quality custom-made T-shirt and a pair of jeans, accompanied by a pair of matching Louis Vuitton sneakers. Anyone who didn’t know much about quality outfits wouldn’t even look twice at this man on the street. I, on the other hand, knew a thing or two about sartorial choices that made you stand out among the initiated. Someone had done a decent job putting together this look for him. No watch though. Apparently, he was one of those people who could afford any watch in the world but used his phone to check the time. It said “new money” to me. No tradition yet.

I like to feel comfortable in my outfit as well, but I am not a T-shirt type of person. I had on a nice light brown jacket by Orazio Luciano and a white dress shirt by Jean-Manuel Moreau, which I had ordered in Paris. I had done a bit of research about Jared’s company, and I knew about their casual attire policy. I could be casual. I was wearing a pair of Luigi Borrelli jeans with a comfortable pair of Tod’s loafers. That was my casual. My watch choice was a silver and blue dial Patek Philippe World Time, a platinum-cased reminder of the kind of money my family used to have. It’s something that a watch aficionado would appreciate, a conversation piece, but it would sadly go unnoticed with watch-less folks for sure. I had to look like I had other options for my project besides this one.

“I’m good,” I said, feeling relieved that the meeting was about to be over and looking forward to having a big cup of coffee. “I’d just like to thank you for this opportunity to meet in person.”

I wasn’t really good, but things hadn’t been great recently and this deal was very important to me. I had a few friends with money, but they hadn’t shown any interest in my idea, so it had taken a bit of mingling with people I didn’t care for much. I had been leaving hints here and there that I was developing an idea of using some parts of my family estate for housing construction. Those were the people with good connections and that had led me to securing this meeting, a potential cornucopia of desirable investment, even though I had not expected to get acquainted with the man himself. My idea of building a few cottages for rich people had to seem quite minuscule to him. However, someone once said that everything important begins with something trivial and I surely hoped it would be true in this case. Besides, one must be flexible when it comes to making money these days, even if one with a noble title must turn some of their oldest parks into property slots. I had to roll the dice to restore my financial situation before I would be forced to sell things I would like to keep. Oh, there was this other thing, of course, that I had to remember–my father had told me that it would be my last chance to use the family’s funds which had seen better days. If this thing didn’t work, I would probably have to be forced to take some online courses and study accounting or something. Get an honest job, as it were. But I tried not to let that “little detail” cloud my judgment.

“There’s one thing though.” He looked at me and smiled. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

“Excuse me?”

Jared slapped his knee and chortled. “Man, I was thinking all this time that you didn’t want to mix personal stuff and business, but I can see now that you have no idea who I am.”

This was starting to feel a bit too strange for my taste. I’m not used to people I don’t really know well talking to me in such an informal way. Beggars can’t be choosers though. I’d have to play along for the moment.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. I know who you are.” I tried to sound as professional as I could. I even smiled through my teeth. “Have we met before?”

“Yeah, we have.” He stopped laughing. “All right. We know each other from way back.” He looked at me and added: “And when I say, ‘way back,’ I mean all the way to when we were kids. Well, me at least.”

That wasn’t helpful at all, and I ventured another guess. “Did we go to the same school? I think I would’ve remembered you.”

“No, we didn’t.”

Jared stood up and went to his desk. He picked up a photograph in an expensive-looking silver frame and brought it over.

“This is my mother,” he said.

I held the photograph. The woman looked vaguely familiar. She could have been anybody, but I felt that Jared expected me to recognize her.

“I see.”

“She used to work in Maple Grove House,” Jared said, waiting for some sort of a-ha reaction from me. “Susan Shannon?”

“Oh, the cook?” I asked and looked at the photo again. “Of course, Susan. I remember her.”

I remembered the name but had totally forgotten what she looked like.

“So, you must be…” I tried to guess because I couldn’t remember how many children she had.

“Little J,” Jared finished.

“Of course, Little J,” I said looking at him and slowly recognizing the little rascal I used to see around our house when I was a teenager. Susan had one son. It was coming back to me now. Little J and my little brother used to play in our garden. They were kind of friends, I think.

How could I miss this in my so-called research? His last name was still Shannon, for God’s sakes. Why did none of my acquaintances mention that to me?

Now, it was starting to make sense why we were having the meeting in his office instead of a meeting room. For a minute there, I started to foolishly imagine that, perhaps, my “brilliant” proposal wasn’t that infra dig for a tycoon like Jared after all. The meeting was slowly turning into something awkward even for me. I was in the process of getting the coveted financing from the son of our family’s former cook with whom my little brother used to play tag all the time. To make matters worse I failed to recognize him and his mother. This was not what you’d call a “good beginning” for a professional relationship.

Jared took the picture and put it back. There was a short pause that made me a bit more uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to be offended by my poor memory.

“I realize it’s way overdue but I’m sorry about your brother,” Jared said finally. “Charlie was a great boy. I loved him like my own brother.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, relieved that we were talking about something else but, at the same time, hoping that there would be no questions about my little brother. I added just in case there would be more: “We all loved him, and it still hurts to talk about him.”

The office that seemed so vast at the beginning of this meeting seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. Even though money was a rather sensitive subject to me, I tried to focus on my pragmatic objectives to stay calm. I had to get this investment so I could smooth out the consequences of some of my financially disastrous decisions. Not many people were aware of how bad my situation was, and I wasn’t going to reveal it unless it was absolutely necessary. I had been able to keep the pretenses quite well, but I had too many bills that were urgently waiting for my attention.

“Weird though, after all this time… they’ve never found him,” Jared said, not getting my hint.

Chapter 2

I’m in the third-floor corridor that leads to the attic. I’m approaching the stairs and want to check if anyone is up there, but something catches my attention. I’m getting closer to the window, and I see Charlie in his white shirt running away through the garden.

“That’s not fair,” I scream. “We’re supposed to hide in the house. Cheater!”

Charlie can’t hear me. He’s too far away. His shirt disappears behind the old oak trees.

I’m running downstairs after him and then …

I woke up screaming his name.

I sat up in my bed, confused. I hadn’t had this dream for a long time thanks to the therapy that seemed to be working. Why would I suddenly dream about the last time I saw my little brother alive? That stupid meeting with Jared. That’s why.

My therapist used to tell me that the dreams “allow us to consolidate and assess our memories” and dreams of someone we lost “are influenced by some unresolved issues.” He also told me fifteen other possible reasons behind those dreams that I forgot and never tried to remember. We worked a few techniques out with the good doctor for me to “come to terms with the past trauma,” which I’d hoped I didn’t need to do anymore.

It’d been three days since I had that chat with him. No news so far. I supposed I’d have to figure out some other way to get the money if I didn’t hear from Jared’s people within a week. No point in waiting longer than that.

Most of the people around me had been extremely patient with my shenanigans that went all the way back to my school days. Back then, I figured that being the oldest offspring from an old and respected family would be my lucky ticket to whatever successful future I had in mind. Even though it was somewhat out of the ordinary for a boy like me, I started to deal a bit in drugs here and there to increase my allowance and to feel more independent. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the beginning. I didn’t do it to be popular. I was that already and some. It was just an entrepreneurial itch to control my own life, to be above all the rules of the house and instructions you must follow to be “the son your parents can be proud of.” I figured they had Charlie for that, and I could just have a bit of fun on my own before I took over as the successor. After a few small successful deals, I presumptuously started to believe that drugs could turn into some serious enterprise or give me some innovative experience at least. It also gave me the confidence to scale up my operation. Unfortunately, I lost the first batch that I was supposed to get my first big income from. The police mounted an unexpected raid on my boarding school and paid a visit to our dormitory. I was lucky to be able to flush most of the stuff down the toilet and throw the rest out of the window. To pay back the dealers though, I had to secretly sell some things from the house. There was a bit of a situation when it was discovered, but I managed to get away with it. That, however, did not teach me a lesson. I just failed to see the sign that it was not for me. Unexpectedly, I got more money from the sale than I needed and decided to get even more weed to establish myself as a serious player. The future was mine for the taking, I thought. Only the next time I would lose both my weed and my brother.

Meanwhile, it was time to get on with my day and do something productive for a change.

As I reached for my phone, apart from usual let’s-get-a-drink messages from my buddies, I saw there was a message from Jared.

Finally!

He wanted to meet for a drink. Let’s make it casual, it said. Did that mean that I had gotten what I wanted? I couldn’t really tell what he thought about my prospects after we reminisced about his mom and Charlie.

“My people will be in touch with you,” he’d said, when the interview had finished.

Yes, I remembered that he used “my people” and I’d thought it had not sounded good. So why was he sending me a message himself? Whatever it was, it was better than no news. I sent a few messages back canceling some appointments, which also were going to include alcohol consumption. Let’s get a drink with the son of our former cook who was a hundred times richer than me. Drinking was something I wasn’t too bad at. However, I needed something more to take the edge off. It was an important meeting, and I did not want to cock it up.

Just as I was about to get into the shower, my phone rang. The screen showed Natasha.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I said. “How are things?”

Natasha Cunningham and I had been having a relationship for a year, which one could describe as “occasional friends with benefits.” She was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met, a real head turner when we’d been out together. Natasha knew how to dress to stop other men breathing. She had made a wise decision not to look like a clone of all those celebrities who were famous for being famous. She went for Linda Evangelista type of chic, kept her beautiful hair short and looked gorgeous in everything. She liked glamor and being at the center of attention, which suited me because I kind of liked those things myself – they were good for my business projects. Natasha was a pragmatic lady, maybe a bit too pragmatic for her age. She was twenty-five. Started as a hostess in a fancy restaurant when she was twenty year old, Natasha developed a slew of extremely useful connections with people who knew people with titles and money. She quit being a hostess, read Dostoyevsky and Dickens to educate herself, became a socialite supported by some generous gentlemen and moved on to more ambitious projects.

Natasha had heard about the Montagues and the beautiful estate with a single heir who had been available for the taking and had arranged to bump into me at some event “by accident” and we had some more “bumping” a bit later in my apartment. Our almost-twenty-year age difference didn’t bother her much. She had a goal of getting an old and titled last name with lots of money. She had neither of those things yet, but she was incredibly determined and had kept me as one of the possible candidates to fulfill her dream. What I liked about her was that she had never lied to me about it and hadn’t minded my little adventures “on the side”.

“I’m well, Sasha,” she said. She liked to use a Russian diminutive for Alexander. She thought it sounded sophisticated when we had been out but didn’t speak one word of Russian. “So, I called Christopher to see if he was still on for tonight and found out that you aren’t going with us. I thought you’d make more time for your friends and me in your extremely busy schedule.”

I detected sarcasm in extremely busy schedule but decided to let it pass. I had not been known for being terribly over occupied. Besides, it was somewhat unusual for me not to participate in a drinking outing with my university mate Christopher Deven who apparently was on Natasha’s speed dial these days. It sort of made sense because he was also one the “aristos,” which had made him a person of interest for Natasha. As far as I knew, she hadn’t made any moves towards his estate yet. Natasha had just enjoyed being seen surrounded by people who had coats of arms over their entrances. Be that as it may, I made a mental note about Christopher being mentioned but let it pass as well. “Right, I have a business appointment,” I said, looking for my robe.

“I hope she’s worth it,” she said laughing. Natasha wasn’t a jealous type, but she liked to joke about it.

“Nothing compares to you, dear,” I tried to sing the line from a famous song.

“Sasha, you’re a terrible singer. When can I see you?”

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” I found my robe and was ready to go to take that shower.

“Okay.” She rang off. Natasha never wasted her time.

Chapter 3

Jared met me at the entrance to his office building in the early evening. I was on time and ready for any type of conversation thanks to a magic substance called Ching, which conveniently was in a tiny brown glass jar, snugged in my blazer’s inner pocket. I had picked it up from a reliable friend with pharmaceutical background on the way and had taken a bit of it to be extra ready.

“Thanks for coming, Alex,” he said shaking my hand.

“My pleasure,” I said.

He had a similar casually expensive look. It seemed that he didn’t want to be bothered with anything that had buttons on and was sporting a dark blue linen T-shirt with no print on and a pair of black jeans with black deerskin sneakers. I’d say the whole ensemble was purchased in a Zegna boutique. A bit too humble for a man like Jared, but who was I to judge?

Since it was an informal situation, I’d decided to keep it simple and to look like I was on my way to some sport event. I chose a doeskin wool two-button blazer from Ralph Lauren; you can’t go wrong with classic. Besides, it could get a bit chilly in the evening. A stretch checked shirt from Corneliani was tucked into a pair of cotton tailored trousers from Brunello Cucinelli. I also felt comfortable in my Carlos penny loafers by Santoni and was on time thanks to my dad’s discontinued blue dial AP Royal Oak. I had kind of tricked him into lending that horology masterpiece to me for a business meeting a few years ago. “It would go well with my shoes, don’t you think?” I believed my line was. I forgot to give it back to him after the meeting and he never asked about it either. Back then, we could forget about things like that.

“Let’s get a pint and sit down by that window,” Jared said, pointing to the farthest corner of the pub.

The place was not too far from Jared’s office, but I was a bit surprised that he chose this old unpretentious, like his wardrobe, place. People with new money often like to show they have it, but I imagine Jared wasn’t one of those people. Perhaps he owned the place. He probably bought it secretly to show other people how humble he was or something. I bet there would be some fancy kind of craft beer with a fruity flavor and healthy snacks.

We grabbed our beers and sat down at an old table.

“Cheers,” Jared said and drank a good half of his glass. “That’s more like it!” he said and put his glass down.

I took a sip. The beer was good. Nothing pretentious, but a good old lager. I had some more and decided to let him talk.

“Listen Alex,” Jared said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I just wanted to have a chat with you away from the office. So, there’ll be no shop talk tonight.”

Great! I came here for nothing.

“We’ll do all that next week,” he continued.

Now, that sounds better. Let’s chat away.

“Let’s finish these and order another round, shall we?” he said and, without waiting for my approval, he gave a sign to the bartender for more beer. “Bottoms up?”

Now, that is the game I play well. We drained our glasses.

“I come here all the time. Hugh, the bartender, knows me well and doesn’t mind bringing drinks over when I ask him,” Jared said.

He definitely owns the place.

“Okay,” I said.

“They say it’s one of the best pubs in town,” Jared said, looking around.

“Never been here.”

“You’re probably wondering why we’re meeting here.”

“That crossed my mind. Yes.”

“Well, perhaps, you don’t know this, but I spent quite a bit of time overseas. Your family was good to my mom, and she was able to save some money so we could go to our relatives in the States.”

I didn’t remember any of that. Why would I? Jared was not in my circle of friends. He was not on the same level as me socially either. In fact, I didn’t think I had ever talked to him much when we were kids.

Hugh, a middle-aged man with tattooed hands and a goatee, brought our drinks and put them on the table. Jared just nodded to thank him.

“I didn’t really want to go across the pond because I enjoyed my time here. The little cottage behind the main house my mother and I shared and the time playing with the local boys and …”

“Charlie,” I ended the sentence for him.

“And Charlie. Right.” Jared smiled and lifted his second glass. “Here’s to your little brother.”

Jared took a hearty sip from his glass. I followed suit.

“There was just something about that boy,” Jared said. “He was so kind and …what’s the word I’m looking for here?”

“Gregarious.” I made my guess and meant it about my little brother.

“Right. Kind and gregarious.”

Jared emptied his glass. He was thirsty and I had no problems with that. I could be really thirsty if I wanted to. So I emptied mine as well.

“Now, could I ask you to tell me exactly what happened?” Jared said after a short pause. “I mean, I know the story, but I haven’t been to the house ever since I left when I was a kid. I heard it from my mother, and I read something in the papers, but it’d be great to hear it from you.”

Okay, so that’s what those two rounds were for – to soften me up and prepare me for the sad story. It takes more than two beers to make me emotional. A delicious meal and a movie about little puppies in trouble might do a better job. Beer only makes me alert and curious – well, up to three glasses, that is. After that, we either increase the alcohol content or just keep at it until one of us cracks, goes to the bathroom, and breaks the seal.

Well, Jared was my potential investor, my only potential investor, and he wanted to hear the story. As reluctant as I was, I had to comply. But I needed to use the restroom to “powder my nose” before taking a walk down memory lane.

Chapter 4

My brother was seven years younger than I was. Despite the age difference, I remember us being good buddies. Of course, we had our brotherly disputes, and I admit I could be quite an ass to him at times, but Charlie liked everyone, and everyone liked Charlie. He was incredibly inquisitive – sometimes to the point of annoying the hell out of me – and seemed interested in learning and collecting everything at once. From picking up stones from our stream to gathering postage stamps, from inspecting worms with his magnifying glass to learning star constellations, nothing escaped his awestruck attention. You could often hear him laughing victoriously somewhere in the house or outside whenever he made his discovery of the day.

I always wondered where all that energy came from and why I didn’t seem to have that trait in my DNA. I did my best to keep him away from my so-called entrepreneurial attempts. He always wanted to be around me, though I did not always let him. There was never anything bad or negative about him. Despite all the puberty nonsense teenagers usually go through, I think I was proud to have such a brother, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

When he disappeared, it felt as though a black void opened inside me, one that has been slowly growing ever since.

I blamed my negligence for his disappearance. For years, I had the same nightmare where Charlie was calling my name, and I couldn’t find him. I would be running around our house looking for him. I could hear his voice, but I just couldn’t find him. I would wake up screaming and it would take a minute or two before I’d realize that it was a dream. The countless hours of therapy gradually changed the dream to the one where I’d just watch Charlie running through the park. Well, the therapy and the “exciting” combination of drugs, alcohol and quite a bit of casual sex. Theoretically, one could’ve called it a breakthrough, but I had tried to forget the day it’d happened and had been avoiding the topic with everyone, including my parents. Today, however, it seemed that there was no way around it. So, there it was.

“You might remember that Maple Grove House isn’t the biggest manor around but quite spacious,” I began.

“Indeed,” Jared said. “Ten bedrooms, isn’t it?”

“Yes, plus five or six other rooms for different activities so to speak.”

Another round of beer magically appeared on our table. This time it was accompanied by a bowl with walnuts.

Walnuts in a pub? It’s his place.

Jared took a sip from his fresh glass, started cracking the nuts and throwing them in his mouth rather skillfully.

“Anyway,” I said after admiring his cracking-and-throwing technique for a second. “Charlie loved to play hide-and-seek for hours with me because there was so much space that we could use. Our parents were often too preoccupied with their guests to spend any time with us. So, we were left to our own devices when we were there. That was of course only during summer and winter breaks. Then we sort of played it less and less.”

“I do remember that,” Jared said. “I also remember wanting to play with you so much, but the house was off limits to the servants’ kids. We could use the playground though, which was quite generous of your parents.”

That was true. At one point we kept quite a few people as staff in the house. My parents liked to hire married couples with children. They were stable employees, I suppose. Being a single parent, Jared’s mother was an exception, but she was a good employee. In any case, we always had some kids playing in the playground that my great grandfather had built.

“Well, we were playing the game on that day as well,” I said, dreading to get closer to the moment when my brother disappeared. “We hadn’t played in a while and Charlie sort of begged me to do it for old times’ sake, so to speak.”

If only I’d said no.

“He told me that he’d found a place to hide and that I wasn’t going to find him this time,” I said. “I knew all the possible hiding spots in the house, of course, but that was our ritual. He would boast of a new place, and I would find him within minutes.”

I suddenly got thirsty and finished my glass. Judging by numb gums, my magic powder was still working, and I needed more alcohol to reduce the unexpected anxiety. Jared followed suit without saying anything and gave the bartender a sign for another round.

“So off he ran to hide. I decided to give him a few extra minutes and went to get a cold drink,” I said, wishing the new round would come sooner.

“We could take a break,” Jared suggested, looking at me.

“I’m all right. I’ve worked through all this with my therapist and drank through it many times over.”

The new round came with a fresh bowl of walnuts. Jared started to work on those nuts, and I joined the cracking action as well. We ate the nuts in silence like two buddies who didn’t need to fill pauses with unnecessary chat. After I’d finished a couple, I felt I was ready to continue.

“Well, when I went upstairs looking for him, I couldn’t find him in all the usual spots. And just when I thought that, perhaps, he had finally found a new one, I saw him from the window running through the garden. I figured he’d changed his mind and didn’t want to play anymore, so I went to my room.”

“You saw him running away?”

“Well, I was on the third floor and was considering checking the attic, which Charlie was a bit afraid of, when I saw him running fast towards the main gates. I screamed, ‘That’s not fair!’ or something to that effect, thinking it was odd for him to break our rule about hiding only in the house.”

Jared stopped eating the nuts and gazed at me.

“When exactly was that?”

“Thirteenth of July.”

There was a moment of silence. “Was that the last time you saw him?”

“Yes, it was.”

“When did you realize that he was missing?”

“It was much later in the evening. I felt strange that he hadn’t shown up for dinner, which we usually had by ourselves when our parents were preoccupied with their guests. I asked the staff. No one had seen him. Then I thought perhaps he’d gone to see our parents. It was a bit unusual but at that point I was running out of options.”

If only I had started looking earlier instead of sitting in my room, checking out my secret stash of adult magazines.

“I remember the summer parties your parents organized,” Jared said. “They were amazing. So many people in nice outfits walking around the park, carrying tall champagne glasses, and chatting with each other.”

“Some of those events were nice, I suppose,” I said, remembering myself being bored at them.

“But you couldn’t find Charlie there.”

“Right,” I said and took a sip from my glass. “It was getting dark, and we started to get really nervous. Everyone, even some of the guests if I remember correctly, was out looking for him. I told everyone where I’d seen him running to and we all went to comb the park. My parents called the police and then the whole thing became this massive search operation that lasted for a month and then some.”

“Yes, I heard everyone was looking for Charlie. My mom was there as well.”

I didn’t remember the last bit but nodded anyway.

“After six months, my mother was emotionally drained. It was decided that my father would take her to France to recuperate. It was a temporary arrangement. Not sure if you know this, but my grandparents had a château which they had bequeathed to my mother and her sister. After some time, though, my mother developed this notion that Maple Grove House was cursed and persuaded my father to stay in France for a while longer. Each time my father brought up the idea of returning, my mother would ask for ‘a bit longer’, which eventually turned into ‘never.’

At that time, we still had a pig farm that was generating some income. It had been profitable until a few years ago when the tenant died, and his kids didn’t want to be pig farmers. Well, my father went back from time to time to take care of some things, but my mother was adamant she didn’t want to set foot in the house again. Gradually, my father stopped coming back as well and things were getting done through our lawyer.”

Jared nodded. “What about you?”

“I spent some time in France, came back to go to university, graduated and have been in the City ever since. Never went back to the house either,” I said and felt that it was a bit too much. The beer wasn’t working in my favor.

Jared pondered his next thought. “He was running towards the main gates, and he was wearing a white shirt?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You know, you might have seen me, not Charlie.”

“What?”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about today. I think we’ll need something stronger than beer, though.”

When our “stronger” single malt drink arrived, Jared took his phone and speed dialed a number.

“Freddy, bring it in,” he said and put the phone down. He took his glass, lifted it up and looked through it as if admiring the rich, medium dark shade of orange color of the drink. He gave it a sniff. “Ah, this stuff is the best.”

A tall man with wide shoulders and a square jaw dressed in a black suit walked in the bar with a white paper shopping bag. He approached the table, placed the bag on it and looked at Jared.

“That’ll be all, Freddy. Thanks.” Jared said.

Freddy nodded and left without saying a word.

I wasn’t going to reveal my anxiety by asking questions about the stupid bag, so I took my whiskey and emptied it with one gulp. It was nice and smooth. The Irish knew how to make the good stuff.

“Well,” Jared finally broke the silence, “there’s something I want to give you back.”

“Give me back? I can’t remember giving you anything, to be honest.”

Jared pushed the bag closer to me.

“Open it. It belongs to your family.”

I slowly took the bag and looked inside. There was a little size white shirt, neatly folded and wrapped with a long blue string inside. I looked at Jared.

“Take it out,” he said.

So I did. Before seeing it, somehow, I already knew what I was going to see on that shirt. Slowly, I untied the string and revealed the embroidered anagram CJM on it.

“Charles John Montague,” Jared said. “I noticed you have a similar one on your cuff. You still customize all your shirts, don’t you?”

I did have a similar style anagram on my cuff, except it was my name, AJM II for Alexander James Montague II, and I’d been wearing dress shirts, polo shirts, and even underwear with my name on them all my life.

I was trying to gather my thoughts. “How… Why do you have this?”

“Well, Charlie gave me this shirt the day before I left the estate. I didn’t own anything that nice, as you might imagine. He gave it to me as a goodbye present.”

I shook my head, trying to digest the information. I didn’t remember Charlie giving away any of his stuff.

“He gave it to you the day before you left? When was it again?”

“It was on the day when he disappeared.”

Chapter 5

“Could you please step on it?” I asked the taxi driver. “I need to get on the last train.”

The man didn’t dignify me with an answer, but he did make the cab go faster. Shamefacedly, I took another dosage of Ching at the next traffic light in order not to spill the stuff.

This is insane. I'll make a complete fool of myself.

My phone rang. It was our former butler who turned de facto estate manager.

“Mr. Montague, this is Harry Schulenburg,” he said.

“Yes, Harry. I need you to open the house first thing tomorrow morning,” I said wiping my nose.

“It can be arranged, Mr. Montague. May I ask if you’ll be traveling alone?”

“Yes.”

“Will you be requiring any assistance?”

Good old Schulenburg. He’d started working for my father when they were both young men in their twenties. He’d come from South Africa to see the land of his predecessors and decided to stay. He’d married a local lady, but she’d fallen ill and passed away after only ten years. He never remarried. He volunteered to stay behind and look after the house. He said that he was “tied to this land until the day he was no longer needed,” and we couldn’t imagine the house without him. Nothing could rattle his professional calm, which had helped him manage the house without its owners and deal with the tenants for the past twenty-three years.

“I think I’ll be fine. I may need a flashlight and the keys to the basement, though.”

“I’ll have them and a guest room ready for you tomorrow morning.”

“Could you do it tonight, just in case, if it’s possible?”

“Certainly, sir,” he said without a hint of surprise.

“Thank you, Harry,” I said and rang off.

I placed my head on the back of the seat, not worrying too much about the cleanliness of it, and closed my eyes. I needed a few moments to understand what had just happened back in the pub and the possible ramifications of whatever was going to happen tomorrow.

What was Jared saying back there again?

“My mom told me what happened when we were on the way to the States,” he said, nurturing the glass in his hand. “Later, she told me that you guys had left the house. I know it might sound strange to ask this now, but was it properly searched?”

It did sound a bit odd, but I kept my poker face. “Well, we and the police searched everywhere the next day. A hundred people were looking for him in the park and nearby villages night and day for a month.”

“I see. I don’t know why, but I just thought of something Charlie told me about.”

I noticed Jared’s phone–that he had put down on the table–was blinking with incoming messages, but he did not check it. I was sure that he was going to tell me whatever it was, so I just looked at him, waiting for another flashback to surface.

“He told me about this eerie chest your family kept in the attic,” he said. “If I remember correctly, it was a pirate's chest filled with cursed treasure, and if you took anything from it, the pirates' ghosts would hunt you forever.”

“Yes, there were actually two. One was in the attic and ‘his identical brother’ was in my dad’s study. The one in the attic was ‘cursed,’ and I was the one who told him that story. It’s kind of a thing that gets passed from one generation to the next to scare the bejesus out of the younger kids in the house so that the older kids can hide their stuff in it. A family tradition, as it were.”

I didn’t need to tell Jared that this was the place where I kept my product. I had to reinvent a few scary stories to make sure Charlie never got closer to that chest. There was some powerful weed, and it smelled so strong that I had to double bag it and keep it inside so that no one knew.

“Were they really pirate chests?” Jared sounded intrigued.

“Well, the legend has it that the first Montague, Ezekiel, wasn’t a savory character. He travelled a lot and was involved in some shady trading business somewhere close to the end or right after “the golden age of piracy”.

“When was that?”

“I imagine it was in the early or mid-1800s. In any case, for some reason, he got to keep what he ‘traded,’ I think he was pardoned, and invested it in railways. Later, he was smart enough to pull his money plus interest out before the railway mania and the revolution in France… the last one, I think. Anyway, he bought the land and built the house in 1862. The chests were among his possessions when he moved in. It was said that he got them from some Chinese sailors in Asia. My grandfather used to say that the chests were filled with gold coins that helped the family through some challenging times, but I haven’t seen any of that alleged pirate loot.”

“Interesting.”

“Yeah,” I said, twisting the glass in my hand and looking at my drink.

As a little boy, I had been fascinated by the story myself and kept asking my father to tell it to me again and again. Unfortunately, it had been a rare treat because my father had usually been too busy for this sort of things.

“All the kids in the family, including Charlie and I, were trying to find those coins. Alas, the chests were filled with everything but.” I shrugged.

Jared smiled. “I remember wanting to look at that thing and being scared at the same time. I also remember Charlie thought that it was an ideal place to hide from everyone.”

“He was a bit afraid of the attic and the chest. Plus, the lid was too heavy for him to open anyway,” I said, massaging my belly which had started to feel strange. It wasn’t a “nature call” type of strange, but a feeling as if my mind was trying to tell me something and it chose my gut to send me the message.

I recalled the events of that day in more detail, which wasn’t difficult. When I found out that my parents had called the police, I had the chest moved down to the cellar the next day. I didn’t want the police and their dog anywhere near it. I had no desire to be questioned about where I’d got the money to buy that batch.

“Why did you mention the chest?” I asked.

“I don’t know. As a kid, every time I watched a pirate movie I would think about that chest,” Jared said and had another sip from his glass. “In any case, I’m sure you did everything you could to find him.”

Chapter 6

Back in the taxi, I was thinking about that chest. Did we check it before it was moved down to the cellar? Of course, we didn’t. I was too worried about the police, and it never occurred to me that someone could’ve been hiding in it. Besides, I was not actually there when a couple of our footmen carried it down upon my request. No, it was crazy, but it’s driving me off the wall now. I had to be sure.

I arrived at the train station on time and gave a generous tip to my indifferent taxi driver. I got on the train and threw myself into the seat. Now I could think a bit.

“Alex?”

I turned my head and saw my old university friend James Harding. His family were our neighbors.

The Hardings had lived in the area where our estate was situated long before Ezekiel Montague arrived, but they had lost most of their land piece by piece over the years. They had been land-rich but cash-poor and had to make many compromises to stay afloat. They still owned their Baroque-style manor house, Wintersmith Hall, which was built in the late 1600s, but it was mostly uninhabitable due to a lack of proper maintenance and funding. James’s family had been occupying one wing and using the former stables for their needs for as long as I could remember.

Our fathers had been friends until James’s dad passed away seven years ago, but our great-grandfathers had not been. I remembered my father telling me that when I became the head of the family, I would have to ensure the Hardings were always welcome in the house.

I used to see James and his family at the parties my parents organized, but we had never been especially close. Perhaps the closeness of our fathers was the reason James and I attended the same boarding school and later the same university, which technically made us close enough to call each other friends. He studied history while I took business courses. After graduation, we didn’t stay in touch much, though we occasionally saw each other at various events in town.

I had always thought of him as a sloppy nerd with his head perpetually in the clouds. He was a bit shorter than me and paid little attention to either the cleanliness or tidiness of his wardrobe and hair. I remembered once, when I went to his dorm room to pick him up for some event during our university days, marveling at the chaos that cluttered his living space. He pulled a white dress shirt from beneath a pile of shoes, put it on, and declared himself ready to go.

James had started hiding his weak chin beneath a dark beard long before it became fashionable, though food crumbs often got stuck in it like little hostages. His lean body, which rarely saw the inside of a gym, was never particularly attractive to women. After his father passed away, James returned home to help his formidable mother with what remained of their estate, which, as far as I could remember, had never made them much money. After that, I hadn’t seen him much—until today.

“It’s been years,” he said. “How the heck have you been?”

It felt unexpectedly good to see him. I could see a few greasy spots, sauce from burgers no doubt, on his jacket.

“James” I said, “I haven’t seen you since …” I squinted my eyes, trying to remember when it was the last time we’d seen each other.

“Since forever would be the right estimation.” I laughed.

“Come, man,” I said pointing to the seat next to me.

He sat down.

“How’s your back?” he asked.

I’d had a nasty car accident a few years ago when my car’s brakes malfunctioned, and I crashed into a brick wall. I hurt my back, spent some time in hospital and went through an unpleasant recovery therapy after that. I had my car, a Firenze red Range Rover, fixed because it was new at the time and a real chick magnet but had been driving it rarely ever since.

“It’s all right as long as I don’t need to stand for a long time,” I said.

“So, what brings you to this neck of the woods anyway?” he asked.

I didn’t know if I should tell him the reason why I was on the train, but I had a feeling that I needed to share what was on my mind to feel better. Well, at least sharing some of it couldn’t hurt.

“I had a business meeting with Jared Shannon.”

“As in Jared Shannon, the founder of QC Solutions?”

“That’s the one. Trying to get some investors for this project that I have.”

I was trying to be as vague as possible yet attempting to make it important at the same time. It was futile because James didn’t have that much money nor did he have any good connections that could’ve been useful to me, but I couldn’t help it.

James widened his eyes and nodded. Suddenly he looked as if he just remembered something important.

“Hey, didn’t his mother work for your family?” he asked. As a frequent guest at Maple Grove House, he knew most of our staff. When we were kids, we would sneak into the kitchen to steal something that had been “forbidden before dinner.” James would always tag along and enjoy the fruits of our raids, which we would happily devour, hiding somewhere in the park.

“Yeah, he sort of reminded me about that,” I said.

“He did? That’s strange.”

“Why?”

“Well, I would think he’d try to avoid the subject, but it’s been years, and I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“What subject?”

“Oh, that incident with his mother. Don’t you remember? She was fired. She was accused of something. Stealing, was it?”

“What? I don’t remember her being fired.”

“Well, it was just before… you know, Charlie’s disappearance,” James said, scratching his beard and releasing some questionable particles from its depths. “So it wasn’t that important to remember I imagine.”

“Still, it’s interesting why he never mentioned that,” I said mostly to myself, thinking out loud.

“Anyway, how have you been? Do you still date that girl I saw you with last time?” James asked, changing the subject for which I was thankful.

We talked all the way to my stop, reminiscing about our university days, discussing our families, James’s tense relationship with his mother—who kept him around but refused to give him control of the estate—and dissecting my poor choices in women. Although I couldn’t stop thinking about Jared, I made a deliberate effort to keep him out of our conversation. James, never a particularly inquisitive person, didn’t ask me any more questions about my meeting.

When it was time for me to get off the train—James’s stop was the next one—we agreed to catch up in the City the following week. I promptly forgot about that promise as soon as I stepped off the train.

Chapter 7

Our former footman-turned-maintenance person, Benjamin “Benny” Hudson, was waiting for me on the platform ready to drive me to the house. He was a short, heavy-set, spectacled man in his sixties with a very friendly wrinkled face. It was almost midnight when I saw the dark silhouette of our family nest with only two lit windows on the second floor – the guest room I was going to stay in.

Maple Grove House was a red brick Georgian style stately country house that had three floors. It was of simple rectangular form, with harmonious symmetry, sash windows and a central doorway. There were some smaller buildings behind the house – former stables, a carriage room, and a few cottages where the servants used to live. The house was set in grounds of almost five hundred acres, which also included a stream and a closed pig farm, but most of which was covered by the park with old fields of maples and oaks. There was a big old maple tree in a round clearing, right in front of the house that Charlie and I used to call The Giant. Its girth was more than two meters, and it was a great spot for hiding. When I was about five, my grandmother Anna told me that there was a large talking cat living in the tree that could tell fairy tales. I tried to find it on numerous occasions, hiding in various locations in order not to spook him. Later I learned that it had been a hoax created by Anna to make sure I’d spend more time in the fresh air.

Harry appeared at the main door as soon as our car pulled up.

“I expect your trip was pleasant, sir,” he said stepping out from the darkness of the hall.

“It was good, Harry,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “How have you been? Still in shape, I see.”

“Life has been kind to me, sir. Thank you. No luggage?”

I only had the bag with Charlie’s shirt with me. “It was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

Before we stepped into the house, Benny turned on some lights in the hall and I couldn’t help but notice the bareness of the once opulent entryway. The slightly lighter squares on the brick walls and wooden panels indicated where the pictures were when the house was full of life.

“Would you like something to eat, sir?” Harry asked. “I’m sure we can even find some refreshments.”

“I’d have a glass of single malt if you can manage to find that.”

“Certainly, sir,” Harry said as we were walking through the hall. “Would you like me to serve it in the library, sir?”

“Oh gosh, does it still have furniture?”

“Well, we keep a few chairs and the table there, just in case.”

“Good man,” I said, contemplating where I should go. “Let’s see the old place. Why not?”

Harry and Benny went downstairs to the kitchen, and I continued to the library. I needed a few moments on my own before proceeding with the plan I didn’t have yet. I was hoping that the magic power of whiskey would show me the way and relax me a bit. Besides, I still had a bit of Ching left. I thought I could give my weary brain one more boost for another hour.

I looked at the empty bookshelves that used to be filled with the leather backs of hundreds of folios collected by my predecessors. Some of those had to be sold at closed auctions to keep the family afloat. No one had to know that the collection was getting smaller.

I noticed our old taxidermy fox still standing by the fireplace. James’s father, Richard Harding, had given it to my father as a gift about thirty years ago. It had a secret compartment inside, just big enough to hide a bottle of whisky—something Richard often did because his wife, Margaret, was rather strict about alcohol. We used to stash presents and snacks in it. Now, it seemed nobody had any use for this old bit of fur, and it was destined to be devoured by moths.

Looking around, I wondered if speaking loudly in here would produce an echo. I didn’t test my theory and instead went straight to the red leather armchairs still positioned by the fireplace and sat down. I tried to recall the conclusion of my conversation with Jared back at the pub.

***

“We looked everywhere,” I said to Jared. “I believe there was no stone left unturned in the search for my little brother.”

“Right,” Jared said and chewed on his upper lip.

The pause was getting a bit too long, and the silence was calling either for another round or for the meeting to be adjourned.

“Well, thank you for giving the shirt back,” I said finally.

“You bet.” Jared stood up and pressed a few buttons on his phone.

I also stood up and felt that I’d had just about the right amount of alcohol. I waved to Hugh to come and give us the check. He understood me but gestured that there was no need.

“Don’t worry about that,” Jared said. “My treat.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Jared waved to Hugh, and we walked out of the bar. It was chilly, but I found it refreshing and congratulated myself for wearing the jacket. Jared’s car, a big black SUV, was parked right outside and Freddy was standing near it, ready to open the passenger door.

“Do you need a ride?” Jared asked. “Freddy will take you anywhere you want.”

I felt that I’d had enough of Jared and his people for one evening. “I’m good.”

“Cool,” Jared said and turned to Freddy. “I’ll walk to the office, Freddy.”

Freddy nodded, walked around the car, and got in.

“Listen Alex,” Jared started. “I didn’t mean to stir up the past with all those questions back there. I was fascinated with your family once and I guess I got carried away with my nostalgia a bit.”

“No worries,” I said, feeling surprised at this sudden correctness.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll have my people contact you about the proposal in a day or two.”

“Thank you, Jared,” I said and felt that it would be better not to push my luck by asking if I’d got it.

***

I was deep in my thoughts when Harry appeared with my drink on a tray.

“Cheers,” I said taking the drink and getting the first sip. “Wow, how can we possibly still have this in the house, Harry?”

It was The Balvenie, the Scotch my family had been buying since the distillery began production all the way back in the nineteenth century. All the men in my family had preferred it to any other whisky. I was certain we had emptied our cellar when we moved to France.

“I kept a few bottles, just in case, sir,” Harry said.

“Good man.”

Suddenly, I felt at home and at ease enough to take my business a step further.

“So, the foxy is still here, huh?” I asked and pointed to the thing with my index finger because other fingers were busy holding the glass.

“It is, sir,” he said. “Would you like us to put it down in the basement?”

“Nah, keep it here where it belongs,” I said taking a sip. “I say, Harry, do you remember the old pirate chest we kept in the attic?”

“I do, sir. We moved it together with all the other old furniture to the cellars.”

“I’d like to take a look at it if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir. I’ll have Benny fetch the keys and open the basement for you. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“No need. Benny’ll do just fine. I’ll just finish my drink and meet him in the hall in, say, ten minutes.”

“Very good, sir,” Harry said and left the library thoughtfully leaving the tray with the crystal whiskey pitcher on the table.

All right. The wheels were in motion, so to speak. I would have one more drink and then I’d be ready to see it. One more drink.

***

We had a large basement under Maple Grove House. It matched the floor space of the levels above. Since it supported the weight of the house, its walls were built to extend the foundations, making them much thicker than the walls above. There were two entrances: one from inside the house, from the kitchen, and one from the backyard. Both led to passageways with storage spaces, wine and whisky cellars, and pantries on either side.

The basement had a secret exit, disguised as a dead-end, next to the farthest cellar, which led into the escape tunnel. Ezekiel Montague had included this in the design of the house in case he needed to flee the property. The exit was hidden in a maple grove about fifty meters from the house. That led us, the descendants, to believe that he still had a few skeletons in his closet that had been troubling him.

Over the years, the tunnel proved to be an extremely useful addition for those who knew where the exit (or entrance) was and wished to enter the house unnoticed. These were mostly male family members returning from some debauchery late at night. In fact, it got so out of hand that at some point, my great-grandfather ordered it to be sealed. After that, no one used the tunnel much – well, no one who didn’t want to be seen using it.

The basement was off-limits to us when we were children, but we managed to sneak in from time to time, with the staff who were down there getting groceries from the pantries, fetching old and dusty wine bottles from the cellars, or moving ancient items from one storage area to another.

I was following Benny through the kitchen to the basement door and my heart started to beat faster. I tried not to think what I might see down there, but I was determined to get this crazy thing over with as soon as possible.

“How long have you been working here, Benny?” I asked just to fill the silence with some chat.

“Going on twenty-seven years, sir,” he said, opening the door and entering the basement.

“Gosh, has it been that long?” I asked, following him down the stairs.

“Time flies, doesn’t it?”

“It certainly does.”

We passed a couple of storage spaces on the left side and former pantries on the right when Benny turned right around a corner.

“I thought that was the storage.” I pointed to the massive wooden door on the left, farther down the corridor.

“Oh, that’s a wine cellar and we had to lock it up a long time ago because of the rats if I remember correctly. Some of those furry bastards, pardon my language, died in there. The smell was unbearable. We threw some chemicals in and sealed the door,” Benny said. “I don’t reckon we’ve opened it ever since.”

One of the footmen had explained to me at the time which storage area they had put the chest in, and I had made one attempt to get to it after it was moved down here to get my stuff out, but they told me to wait until the rodent problem got resolved. Later, we were too busy searching for Charlie, and I had neither the time nor opportunity to come down here again.

We approached another door, and he opened it with one of the countless keys on the huge ring he was carrying.

“Here we are,” he said. “Let me switch on the light.”

When the light was on, I found myself in a room full of countless things covered with dust that had clearly been here for a long time.

“The chest’s right there,” Benny said and pointed to the corner. It was the chest all right.

“Do you mind if I look around here myself, Benny?”

“No problem, sir. I’ll just be around the corner.”

After he left, I came closer to the chest. There was no lock on it. I opened it.

It was empty.

My knees became weak, and I had to find something to sit on. Luckily, there was a cardboard box next to the chest that looked sturdy enough to bear my weight. It was also dusty, but I didn’t care. I sat down and tried to breathe evenly. I didn’t want Benny to see me getting emotional over nothing.

How could I fall for that? My brother couldn’t possibly have been in that thing. I was so stupid for coming all the way to this place. Was this all because of “the lack of closure on Charlie’s disappearance,” as my therapist had once put it? My family and I had always hoped that one day we would see him again or, at least, know his fate.

Hope was a dangerous thing. It could drive a person mad.

Once I was able to gather my wits, I began to think. What had happened to my stash? It couldn’t have just evaporated along with the bag it was in. Had the staff over time helped themselves to some recreational drugs at my expense? Perhaps it had been the rodents that got to it after all. Well, I hoped those furry bastards, as Benny had so eloquently put it, had died high.

Chapter 8

Back in the library, I was having another drink, still feeling stupid but relieved at the same time.

“Do you also think I’m a fool?” I asked the fox. It didn’t dignify me with an answer but kept staring at me. “It’s the stupid legal high. That’s what it was.” More unanswered staring.

Well, I could focus on making money again.

Like many families with large estates, we went through some tough times, but we did our best to hold on to our land for as long as we could. It took me a while to convince my parents, especially my father, who still lived in France, to consider the housing project, after our tenant who ran the pig farm passed away. The land had belonged to his side of the family for a few generations. The idea of having cottages full of strangers on our land didn’t sit well with my father at first, but he reluctantly agreed when I told him that it would be for the good of the local community, as it would create long-term jobs for the locals. I suspected, though, that the real reason was that they had given up on me getting into a meaningful relationship that could lead to forming a family and having children. Ergo, no need for a lot of land that wasn’t making any money.

Harry came in.

“Did you find what you were looking for, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, Harry,” I said, standing up. “I think I did.”

“Would you like to have some dinner, sir?” Harry asked, picking up the tray with the whiskey pitcher and my glass.

“I would actually. Could we make a sandwich or something?”

“I think we could do better than a sandwich, sir.”

“Sounds amazing. Will you join me, Harry?”

“If you wish, sir. I’m afraid the dining room is empty at the moment, though.”

“The kitchen will do just fine,” I said.

***

I decided to stay at the house for the rest of the weekend. I figured that since I was already there, I might as well do something useful. I received a few inquisitive phone calls from Natasha, who had tried to invite herself to the house. She knew that I hadn’t visited the place in years and had become extremely excited about the opportunity to finally see it. I told her there would be another chance and promised to take her out when I was back in town. She didn’t say much, but I sensed she was disappointed.

I saw that my mother was trying to call me but decided not to answer. I hadn’t been in touch with her for some time, and I wasn’t sure how to explain why I had come to Maple Grove House. I wasn’t in the mood to make up excuses, so I decided to call her back in a few days.

I spent most of my time walking in the park, reminiscing about the good old days and inspecting the spot I had intended for my construction project. The park, with its old trees, wooden benches, and neatly mown grass, was as splendid as I remembered. For a brief moment, it almost made me reconsider what I was planning to do with a sizeable chunk of it. It also reminded me of the time we were searching for Charlie, and I felt a twinge of hostility towards the place, as if it were somehow to blame for my brother’s disappearance.

In the end, I felt that bringing more people to this park would breathe new life into it and bring positive energy. It had been deserted long enough. But I wondered what my predecessors would think of all this. Would they turn in their graves, over in the family cemetery on the other side of the park? The thought made me smile.

Perhaps, for the heir I was bound to become one day, the right thing to do would be to preserve the place as it was, as it had been shaped by generations before me. Somehow, though, I didn’t feel enough connection to the past for it to stand in the way of my decision. Did that make me a bad owner or simply a pragmatic businessman? One had to let go of the past in order to build a future, I’d read on some street poster somewhere. It didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

As for the house, it felt empty and cold without the people and things I remembered as being part of my childhood and adolescence. To feel a bit more comfortable, I asked Harry to have some of my clothes and toiletries delivered from town, and once I’d purchased some wine in the village, it almost felt like I was having a weekend out in the country. I almost felt like calling Natasha and inviting her over but decided against that.

Harry and Benny kept me company during meals. I could sense that they felt a bit awkward dining with me – it wasn’t what they were used to – but they were the remnants of the past that wasn’t there anymore. The life that was gone and would never be again. So I imagine I just wanted to get that feeling back, even if it was only with the butler-custodian and the footman-maintenance man.

The subject of my brother was never mentioned and was deliberately avoided whenever our conversations neared the dreadful event of the past. Harry and Benny had loved Charlie, but they didn’t want to bring it up for fear of upsetting me. I was still wondering what had happened to my disappeared product, so I decided to ask them about it during our last meal together on Sunday.

The weather was nice, and I asked Harry to set up a table outside. Benny found some old long torches that we had used for outside dinners and set those up around our improvised dining area near The Giant. I thought that some barbequed salmon would be nice for the occasion and volunteered to make it myself despite Harry’s attempts to do everything. Salmon is a meaty fish, and since I intended to grill it, I decided that a bottle of Pinot Noir would be an appropriate match. Harry arranged that and added a dry Pinot Gris, just in case we changed our mind and went with a white. Benny turned out to be quite a skillful salad maker and made a large bowl of succulent-looking green salad with God knows how many ingredients inside. Unexpectedly, the mood was rather festive, and we were sitting at the table enjoying our food and drinks.

“I say, Harry,” I started after the fish course. “The chest that was moved to the cellar. It’s empty. I seem to remember there were some old things in it. Do you happen to know what happened to the contents?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say that I do, sir,” he said, frowning as if trying to remember. “It’s been twenty-six years and we’ve moved quite a few things around the house, sir.”

“Do you remember where my father’s chest is? Had it been moved to France? I can’t seem to remember seeing it there.”

“Mr. Deschamps, your father’s late valet, was in charge of sending Mr. Montague’s belongings. I’m sure he took care of that. Should I look into it?

“He was quite old, Mr. Deschamps, and could have forgotten to do it,” Benny said thoughtfully.

“Highly unlikely. Still sharp as a tack he was,” Harry said defensively.

I waved my hand. “No matter, really.”

Perhaps it was a sign to leave this whole business in the past and move forward. However, there was one more thing I could refresh my memory on. “Do you remember Susan the cook?” I asked.

“I certainly do.”

“Did we let her go or did she leave of her own accord?”

“Mr. Montague, your father, decided to let her go after we found out that there had been some rather valuable pictures missing from the house.”

“How come I don’t remember that?” I asked, looking through my glass.

“Your father, sir, did not want to make it public and it was decided to deal with the matter privately, even though, I must say, there was a considerable sum of money involved. In the end she had to go and take her son with her,” Harry said and finished his wine.

I looked at Harry. “Little J?”

“Right. He was a nice boy, but with a bit of a temper.”

“What happened to Susan?”

“They moved to the States and, if I’m not mistaken, she passed away a few years ago.”

“Do you know what happened to Little J?”

“I heard that he’d made quite a fortune across the pond,” Benny said.

Harry stood up. “I heard that as well. Benny, could you take these plates away and start on that coffee?”

How come I’d never heard that?

Benny took our plates and went to the house to make coffee.

“Dessert, sir?” Harry asked me.

“Absolutely. One thing though. How did they know it was Susan?”

“Oh, we found the frame from one of the missing pictures in one of the pantries, sir,” he said and started to cut the cake that had come from the local bakery.

I put my glass down. “In the pantry? How did you know it was her?”

“She used it more than others, I suppose.”

“That’s an odd place to hide something valuable, don’t you think?”

“It is, sir.” Harry gave me a plate with a piece of cake. “She was lucky she wasn’t arrested, if I may say so,” Harry said. “It was very generous of your father to let her go without pressing charges.”

“How did she take it?”

“Oh, she was quite upset.” He nodded, and the corners of his mouth drew downwards. “She was a good woman and, to be entirely honest, we didn’t believe that she could’ve done something of the sort. She actually stayed for a time and helped us while we were all busy with the search.”

“Who did?” Benny asked, coming back with the coffee pot.

“Susan Shannon,” Harry answered, frowning at Benny’s familiarity in front of me.

“Oh, yeah.” Benny nodded, not noticing the frown. “She helped us with those rats in the basement, didn’t she?”

“Did they find what happened to the pictures?” I asked, trying to conclude the topic.

“To my knowledge, they never found out who’d done it,” Harry said.

“I suspected two drifters who worked at the estate at that time, but they had some sort of alibi,” Benny said pouring the coffee. “Poor Susan though.”

I put a piece of cake in my mouth and nodded to Harry approvingly, pointing to the cake. He smiled.

“By the way, Benny,” I said when I swallowed my dessert, “you did a splendid job of keeping the lawn in perfect shape. I kind of expected to see it waist high.”

Benny was pleased to hear it. “Thank you, sir.”

The subject was successfully changed to gardening and house maintenance.

Chapter 9

I woke up early on Monday morning in my apartment and checked my phone for any messages. Surprisingly, there were none. Before putting the phone back on my bedside stand and contemplating a few more hours of sleep, I noticed what date it was – First of May. It was my mother’s birthday and the birthday of Charlie. They were born on the same day, which my mother had taken as a blessing from above, and the day was always special in Maple Grove House. We would have a grand party, and my mother would take countless pictures with Charlie. For many years after Charlie’s disappearance, my mother stopped receiving her presents and would only celebrate his birthday. The number of candles on his favorite honey cake, which my mother and her sister Lucy would bake themselves, would be equal to the age of what he would have been. I would call her on this day no matter wherever I was or whatever the state of our relationship at that moment. Charlie’s birthday would negate all the arguments for one day and we would talk about him. I would aways end our conversation with Happy birthday, Mother to which she would always reply It’s not about me today, mon chéri, it’s about Charlie, and she would sometimes add, Thank you, though.

“Hello, Mother,” I said when she finally answered the phone. Sometimes it would take her ages to locate it.

“Good morning, mon chéri.” I could sense she was in one of her sad moods. “Nice to hear your voice … finally.”

“Happy birthday …to Charlie,” I said.

“Happy birthday to Charlie,” she said. “He would’ve been thirty-seven now.”

“Right.”

“Perhaps married with a few children.”

“Definitely,” I said following our usual routine of imagining what Charlie’s life would have been if he was alive. “He would probably have had a few dogs, cats, horses and snakes or something.” My list of Charlie’s imaginary pets had always put a smile on my mother’s face. I heard her chuckling, and I smiled. I didn’t want her to be too sad today. We chatted for a bit and ended our conversation with the usual lines. I felt that I had done something good today and deserved some decent news in return. And that’s exactly what I received.

It was in the afternoon when I received the anticipated update from Jared’s team. I was getting ready to meet some acquaintances I had met at a nightclub a few years ago—a fun bunch of people who enjoyed partying—who had promised there would be some women I might like. Jared’s assistant called to inform me that they had emailed the proposal’s outlines. She asked me to review it and, if I was willing to accept, to visit their office next week to review the paperwork and grant permission for their team to visit Maple Grove House for assessment work. I approved the visit right away and thanked her for the call.

The proposal's outlines were straightforward. Jared was willing to provide the necessary funds to build the cottages, but only after the project was successfully promoted and had secured at least two down payments. Essentially, I had to use my own money to get the project started, and he would invest once he saw progress. I wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, but it was a clear sign of his interest. Given my situation, I felt compelled to roll the dice and accept it—beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

I called my lawyer, Mr. Goldberg, to discuss the deal. He wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the terms either, but he admitted it was “definitely better than nothing, as long as you’re smart about it.” An old family friend, he knew me all too well. For him, this was good news; it signaled the end of my financial dry spell and, hopefully, meant he would finally get paid for his work.

He had been our family’s lawyer for over forty years. In fact, my grandfather had hired him to handle some paperwork back when he was still a law school student. Even after establishing his own firm, Goldberg and Associates—a respected name in the City—he continued to personally handle our affairs.

I asked him to join me for the meeting with Jared’s team. Having him by my side to catch any slips of the tongue gave me peace of mind.

“Let’s do everything right this time,” Mr. Goldberg said, reminding me of some of my decisions in the past that had been made in a hurry.

I had to let my parents know. They had never been too worried about money for the greater part of their lives. My father didn’t show much concern for it outwardly because, as he explained once, he was “an old-fashioned gentleman and it was vulgar to talk about it.” That, however, didn’t mean that he was a reckless spender. On the contrary, he was trying his best to preserve what had been left to him. He also had other investments in different parts of the country and often travelled to meet with his business partners when I was young. His business activities and the financial returns on his investments had significantly subsided over the years after Charlie’s disappearance because he had been neglecting the business side and focusing more on supporting my mother and, probably, inwardly, dealing with it himself.

Recently, despite the lack of a proven track of success on my side, he started to give me more opportunities, within certain financial limits, to help him with improving our financial situation and to teach me to “be accountable for my own actions and for the future of the family.” My mother had always trusted my father with all the financial decisions and didn’t want to spend her time “counting coins.”

I called them the next day. My father didn’t feel well, and I spoke to my mother. She tried to sound happy, but I could sense a bit of acting in her voice. She didn’t want to do anything with the house after Charlie had vanished. As far as she was concerned, I could sell the lot. I felt a bit disappointed that my idea hadn’t impressed her much, but I didn’t dwell on that too long because some good money was to be made, which was the most important thing, and my mother had never been interested in finances anyway. I was sure it would work this time.

Later that day, I had plans to spend time with Natasha and Christopher. Back in university, the ever-reliable Christopher had proven himself to be an excellent drinking companion and an expert in dealing with hangovers—two qualities I still greatly valued. Unlike James Harding, Christopher was a neat gentleman—trustworthy and a real pleasure to get drunk with. I hadn’t mentioned the deal to either of them. These were people who didn’t wear their hearts on their sleeves, and I had always been one of them.

Natasha had arranged for us to attend a charity event, announcing it during dinner at a French bistro.

“There’ll be plenty of people looking for opportunities to invest their money,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll meet someone useful.”

“And whom will we be giving our money to this time, darling?” Christopher asked, sipping his Old Fashioned. He enjoyed charity events, not only as a way to “give back,” but also because they were “great places to meet smart and educated people.” Unlike me, he loved engaging in meaningful conversations and learning new things.

“I’ll need to check my schedule,” I said, raising my index finger to preempt any sarcastic comments. “I mean it this time.” I turned to Natasha. “When is this wonderful event of yours happening?”

She finished her Champagne cocktail before answering. “Tomorrow.” This time, it was her turn to raise a finger. “I know it’s short notice but do try to make it. I promise you won’t regret it.” She raised her eyebrows with a smile. “There’ll be an open bar.”

***

The next day, Christopher and I presented ourselves at the venue, properly dressed and groomed. Since it was a black-tie event, I chose my deep double-breasted Tom Ford tuxedo with wide lapels and a custom-made white dress shirt from Charvet—a luxury investment in a masterpiece of shirt-making, appreciated by the likes of Sir Winston Churchill and Napoleon Bonaparte long before me. I was pleased to see that Christopher looked dashing, like a movie star, in his tux from Henry Poole & Co., which slimmed his torso and broadened his shoulders.

Just as we were about to compliment each other on our sartorial choices, Natasha appeared in a spectacular black maxi dress with an open-back detail and an asymmetric neckline. I couldn’t identify the brand of the dress, but it didn’t matter—she was stunning. Her diamond chandelier earrings added a sparkling touch to her striking look.

“Glad you both could make it,” she said after completing her obligatory red-carpet photo session. She pecked us on the cheeks. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

“May we just take a moment to compliment you before we start networking?” I said, kissing her hand. “You look amazing.” I turned to Christopher. “Doesn’t she?”

“Absolutely,” he agreed, taking his turn to kiss Natasha’s hand.

“Thank you,” she replied, glancing at someone behind us. “Oh, that’s the gentleman I’d like you to meet.”

We turned.

“He’s a billionaire from the States who moved to the City a few months ago,” Natasha explained. “His name is—”

“Jared Shannon,” I finished.

“You know him then?” Natasha’s disappointment at my ruining her surprise was evident as she pursed her lips.

“How do you know him?” I asked, watching Jared wave to Natasha and make a beeline toward us.

“Oh, we met at an event a few weeks ago. You know, I meet this kind of people to—oh, hello, Jared.” She opened her arms for a hug and greeted the man in a fine tuxedo—the man I hoped would be my way out of impending financial disaster. The fact that they were already on a first-name basis felt a tad unsettling.

“May I introduce my friends to you?” Natasha said after finally releasing Jared from her hospitable, if slightly clingy, embrace.

“I think I know at least one of them,” Jared said, extending his hand for a handshake. “How are you, Alex?”

I shook his hand. “Fine, thank you.” I gestured toward Christopher. “This is my friend, Christopher Deven.”

“It’s Baron Christopher Deven,” Natasha corrected me with a friendly but slightly judgmental shake of her head.

“Christopher’s fine,” Christopher said, saving me from the faux pas. He shook Jared’s hand with a smile.

“How are you doing, Christopher?” Jared asked before turning to Natasha. “I didn’t know you’d be bringing guests tonight.”

“These two needed a bit of fresh air,” Natasha said.

We all laughed politely—the kind of laugh people give when they have nothing meaningful to say.

“I’ll just escort my friends to the table,” Natasha said, taking Christopher and me by the hands. “We’ll see you later at the after-party, won’t we?”

“There’s an after-party after this?” Jared asked, laughing.

“There always is,” Natasha replied with a smile.

“Enjoy the event,” Jared said. “I don’t think I’ll be joining the party.”

He nodded at us with a smile before walking toward a group of young people who greeted him excitedly. I was relieved he hadn’t mentioned our little deal; I wasn’t ready to make it public just yet.

“You seem to know him quite well,” I said as we reached our table. I pulled out Natasha’s chair for her.

“It pays well to know people like Jared Shannon,” she said, opening the menu. “Let’s see what we’ll be paying for tonight.”

“Speaking of which, what is this charity for anyway?” Christopher asked as he took his seat.

“And where’s that open bar?” I added, looking around for the more pressing matter.

The event went well. We left a couple of hours later, having taken full advantage of the open bar while donating some money to…well, I couldn’t even remember what the charity was for by the time we got to the after-party. One thing, however, stuck in my mind: I didn’t particularly like the way Jared looked at Natasha. But I couldn’t blame him for being smitten by her beauty either.

***

A week later, Mr. Goldberg and I were in a big meeting room with Jared’s team in charge, getting ready to iron out any wrinkles in the deal if necessary. This was when a young lady walked in and announced the new offer their boss was ready to put on the table. She put it quite succinctly and yet extremely comprehensively: Jared would double his investment in the project, giving me more funds to make my small cottage community even better and thus attract more clients down the line, if we made one more deal—sell the house. He wanted Maple Grove House. His team had done the necessary assessment of the house’s condition when they were on the property checking the future construction site last week. The sum he was offering was very generous, and he was eager to close the deal as soon as possible.

“What does he want the house for?” Mr. Goldberg asked me when we were out on the street.

“You heard her: ‘Mr. Shannon would like to give back to the community he was once a part of by restoring the house to its former glory and converting it into a cultural space for educational purposes.’”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Beats me. Whatever it is, he’s willing to pay top dollar for it.”

“You still need to start the project with your money, though.”

“Yes, but there’ll be much more later. We just need to get a few offers, and we’re golden.”

“If you get those offers.”

I smiled. Mr. Goldberg was a very cautious man. I tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

We walked to the parking lot and stopped by Mr. Goldberg’s Range Rover.

“I didn’t know the house was for sale in the first place. Your parents had been keeping it and hoping that one day you’d have a family, and you know…”

Charlie would be found alive, and we would all go back to being a happy family in a big house.

“…you know what I mean,” Mr. Goldberg said, getting his keys. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it wasn’t for sale. Until now, I suppose. I mean, it’s been empty for more than a quarter of a century.”

He unlocked the car, and we both got in.

“You aren’t seriously thinking about that preposterous offer, are you?”

“Well, it will be nice to have more cash for the project, but I need to speak to my father about this.”

“You bet you do,” Mr. Goldberg said, starting the engine. “Say hello to him from me and be sure to let me know the outcome of that conversation.”

Chapter 10

I couldn’t have that conversation with my dad because he passed away from some cold virus complications three days later. I had been going through the details of the proposal and postponing the talk to make sure I could present it correctly to him. I had missed a few calls from my mother and not bothered calling her back. I didn’t want to make any mistakes and miss any details, which was something I had been known for.

When I thought I was ready, I had called my mother the day before and told her about my plans to visit them. My dad had been unwell for some time and couldn’t join the conversation, but my mother sounded happy and excited about seeing me. When she called me the next day to break the news, I’d thought she was merely wanting me to bring her the Turkish treats she liked and so didn’t bother to answer my phone. She always asked me to do that. When I saw that she’d tried to call me three times in a row, I picked up my phone.

No treats this time. Just a black suit.

“It happened so fast, Alex. He was doing better. He was excited about your visit and then he just stopped breathing while he was asleep last night. The doctor said it was some sort of a respiratory syndrome, a lung failure.”

She started to sob quietly. I was considering ways to console my mother, but all I could think about was the fact that my dad’s ancestors had all been buried in the family cemetery situated in one of the park’s corners, and he was probably going to be buried there as well. The corner wasn’t in the deal I was working on, but the idea of my dad’s headstone overlooking the house that wasn’t going to be ours anymore made me feel even sadder.

My father, Alexander Montague I, was the only child of Theodore and Adelaide Montague. He received a good education at the places where children from the upper class usually went, worked with the tenants on the estate to ensure everyone was happy, kept the income coming, and began developing some investment projects. He wasn’t susceptible to the charms of the local female candidates among the “equals” but was known as a desirable match for many.

Before he was given the reins to Maple Grove House, he was sent to Europe to learn about art—something he hadn’t shown much interest in but was expected to understand in order to help enhance the family’s art collection. My grandfather wanted him to distinguish between Manet and Monet and be able to hang the right paintings in the right places to impress guests. Not that the family had acquired a large art collection, but it was “an essential element of a good house,” and Theodore had believed it important.

It was on this trip that my father met a young and beautiful French woman, Elizabeth Baudelaire-Nazarova, who spoke fluent English and would, a year later, become his wife—and a year after that, my mother. He met her at a Roerich exhibition in Paris, where they were both admiring the Himalayas landscapes and the artist’s unusual choices of colors. He asked her if she liked the paintings, which he hadn’t fully understood, but kept that fact to himself. She did, and their conversation went on for thirty indecent minutes, neither of them willing nor able to stop. My father was smitten and completely disregarded social proprieties when he invited young Elizabeth, who was ten years his junior, to have a cup of hot chocolate at a café on Rue de Rivoli. There, they discovered they both shared a love for Jules Verne. The place was called Angelina, and my father, enchanted by this young woman, referred to her as “an angel.” He had been calling her Lizzy, my Angel ever since.

My mother was an independent spirit who wanted to see the world, but she willingly adjusted most of her dreams when she married my father. “Love makes you do things,” I often heard her saying. They had travelled a bit before my father became the head of Maple Grove House, they had children and slowly became “merry country folk,” as my mother liked to call themselves.

“Mother, I’ll be there later today, and I’ll take care of everything,” I said, feeling that I wasn’t doing well at consoling her.

“Thank you, Alex. I want you to know that I want him to be here with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want him to be buried here in France because I want to be buried here,” she said softly but resolutely.

“But Mother—”

“We made that decision together and you’ll find it in his last will. The reading will take place tomorrow morning. I trust you’ll be here to hear it.”

I didn’t have to literally bury my father amongst my entrepreneurial projects. Fewer complications, but it didn’t make me any happier. I tried to remember my time with him as a kid, which wasn’t that much. I was used to seeing him entertaining his guests more than his own children and going away on his business trips way more frequently than travelling with us. Nevertheless, there were a few rare moments – a couple fishing of trips and assembling a boat model together–which could’ve almost overshadowed the loneliness of a boy who spent more time with his nanny than with his parents. Almost, but not quite.

I had never compared my parents to anyone. When it came to my parents, I dealt with what I had been given without even thinking that it could be any other way. Despite the status and social calendars, living in a big house could be quite solitary for a boy. It was before Charlie was born. When he came along, he instantly became the center of attention, and I realized that solitude had various levels. That initiated quite a lengthy period during which my tiny and fragile connection with my parents became stretched to its limit. I was lucky, though, that Charlie had adored his elder brother despite all my flaws, and I cherished that in my own way.

It was time to say goodbye to my father. I had done that many times when he was alive. This time was supposed to be different, and I was trying to feel the loss in my callused heart. I loved my father, and I was sure he loved me too. Unfortunately, we hadn’t had a strong enough connection to convey that feeling to each other.

“I’ll be there, Mother,” I said and rang off.

I suspected that I would be away for a considerable amount of time and decided to make one more phone call before I started packing. I felt that I needed to let Natasha know about what had happened. It was a curious feeling because I had never needed to report my movements to anyone. Was I developing feelings for her, serious enough to make a phone call like that? Or was I simply trying to ensure that she wouldn’t gallivant with other men while I was gone?

“I’m so sorry, Sasha,” she sounded genuine on the phone. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“Thank you, Natasha. I think I just need to spend some time with my mother, you know?” I didn’t feel that it was the real reason why I wanted to go alone, but it was all I could think of at that moment. “Why don’t I call you from France and let you know how it goes? Will that be all right?”

“Sure. Whatever you need, Sasha,” she said and sighed. “I wish I could’ve met him.”

“He would’ve liked you, Natasha,” I said, suddenly realizing that it could have been a real possibility, even though Natasha was not of noble rank. My father would have recognized the hardworking essence of her personality if he’d had a chance to meet her.

“I’ll let you go. Sorry. You’ll probably be insanely busy with all the funeral stuff and the inheritance.”

Oh, there it was. Natasha was sorry, but never missed an opportunity to gather useful information.

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

***

My parents lived in a château in the picturesque eastern part of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes with my mother’s sister Lucy. The place was called Chateau de Rossignol. It was purchased by their father, Etienne Baudelaire, a successful French entrepreneur, for their mother, Anna Baudelaire-Nazarova, a daughter of Russian immigrants who had been quite wealthy before the Russian revolution but had lost everything during it. It was said that the place had reminded my grandmother of the estate her family had owned back in Russia, which she couldn’t really remember because she was too little when they left but saw it in the family photos. She did remember, or thought she did, nightingales singing beautifully in the morning outside her nursery. Her maiden name was, Nazarova, originated from the old Hebrew Nazar which meant “devoted to God.” Anna became quite religious and superstitious over the years, but she could never refuse her daughters anything. She loved them dearly and saw “a piece of the Motherland” in their eyes. Etienne was a serious businessman, but he loved his women more than anything.

My mother and Lucy had been inseparable when they were young until Lucy got swept off her feet by a young dashing motorist, George, who happened to stop by the chateau one summer day for a cold drink. Apparently, the feeling was mutual because only a few weeks later they announced their engagement to everyone’s surprise. What was supposed to be a magnificent love story ended up abruptly with George’s sudden death in an unfortunate car accident just before they were going to get married. He loved speed and fast cars. Lucy never found another man who could win her heart and had been keeping his photo in a silver locket on her person ever since.

We used to go to Chateau de Rossignol often when we were kids. Even though, it was much smaller than our house, I quite liked the ambience and my French-Russian grandparents when I was a kid. When I became a teenager, however, the place didn’t seem cool enough for me to spend my “precious” time away from my friends. It was a decision I regretted later when my grandparents passed away and I didn’t have a chance to see them anymore.

After what happened to Charlie, my mother insisted on moving to the chateau and my father reluctantly agreed. He didn’t want to leave his ancestral home, but he loved my mother more. At the time, Lucy was taking care of the place. My parents took the valet and the housekeeper with them. The rest of the employees were given generous severance payments and had been let go, except Harry and Benny. I hardly visited them there, being more occupied with whatever I thought was important at the time.

This time around I tried to spend as much time with my mother as I could, but the preparations for the funeral, the burial itself, a few meetings with our lawyers and the subsequent paperwork took up pretty much all my time over the next a few weeks. I was glad that she had her elder sister Lucy around. I liked Lucy. She was a nice lady who didn’t mind us kids singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” every time we saw her. She would laugh and sing along. She couldn’t care less what other people thought about her being a spinster. She had been with my grandparents until they died and then took care of the estate.

The clock on Jared’s offer was ticking and I–as the new owner–had to make the decision. When my father was finally resting under the black marble tomb my mother had ordered at the back of our French estate and the endless stream of visitors finally seemed to dry up, I decided to have a chat with her.

Lucy was out and my mother and I were sitting in the library, with some of the books from our house, and having a drink. After being married to my father for forty years, my mother never took up having scotch as her nightcap, but that evening she asked me to pour her some. She was holding the glass, smelling the aroma from time to time but never touching the drink itself.

“Now that you’re the owner, what are you going to do with the house?” my mother asked as if she had read my mind.

“That’s what I was going to talk with father and you about when I told you I was coming.”

“Out with it then,” she said and smelled the scotch in her hand.

“Well, I think I’m going to sell it. Do you remember the construction project I mentioned to you some time ago? Cottages for some well-off folks in the eastern part of the estate.”

“Your grandfather’s pig farm?”

“Yes. I want to build a small community there.”

I did not feel like sharing all the details of the deal with my mother; she wouldn’t have been interested anyway.

“As much I want to get rid of it, I still don’t understand why you’re selling the house. It’s at least a mile from there, isn’t it?”

“You see, Mother, I got a good offer for it. I’ll have some disposable cash for the project, and I have a few other things I’d like to invest in, like bitcoin and property. Besides, with your share, you won’t need to think about money for…” I stopped, not knowing how to end the sentence.

She smiled. “For the rest of my life?” She looked at me and put her hand on mine. “Mon chéri, I don’t want you to worry about me. Besides, I don’t think I have too many years left in me, and I will be following your father soon,” she said.

“Don’t say that.”

“Sell it!” she said and finally took a sip from her glass.

I looked at her reaction and admired the determination with which she swallowed the drink she hated. She wrinkled her face at the strength of the drink.

“Who’s buying it?” she said when she regained her composure.

“Jared Shannon,” I said, and I was about to tell her the whole story when she suddenly put her glass down.

“Susan’s son?”

“Do you remember him?”

She looked away for a minute, without saying anything, and then she gave a chuckle.

“Might as well. We reap what we sow, don’t we?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she said and stood up. “I’m rather tired and I think I’ll go to bed now.”

She was on the way out of the library when she stopped and looked at me.

“You know, he sent a card with condolences and a big bouquet of flowers.”

“Who did? Jared?”

“Yes,” she said and left the library.

Chapter 11

Mr. Goldberg was waiting for me outside Jared’s office building—as always, on his phone, checking the latest developments in his small legal empire. He was wearing his body armor: a dark blue Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and a red silk tie by Dege & Skinner with a washed red snail design. He had a white custom-made shirt from the same shop. This fact wasn’t supposed to be known by outsiders, as one of the oldest tailors on The Row kept their client list confidential. “Easy does it” was Mr. Goldberg’s motto, and the snails were a reminder of it. He knew his threads well, and I respected him for that even more than for his outstanding legal skills and knowledge.

I had expected his attire and wanted to match his style with a look from The Row myself—somewhat contemporary and sleek British style. I wore my trusted Richard James double-breasted grey suit with a pale blue cotton shirt. No tie. My feet were guarded by a pair of chukka boots in suede from the same shop. I was ready to sign the deal and start the project.

The last time we had seen each other had been at the funeral, and, outside the family, he was the first person I notified of my intention to sell the house. I didn’t think he was happy about that, but he was a professional and I was the owner and his client. The client was always right.

“Ready?” he asked, putting down his phone and shaking my hand.

“Let’s get it over with.”

When we went in, we were greeted by Jared’s assistant, an attractive young woman in black pants and a tight white blouse that complemented her upper torso rather nicely, who was waiting for us in the hall.

“The team is upstairs. Mr. Shannon might join us today as well,” she said.

Mr. Goldberg and I looked at each other. It wasn’t planned but wasn’t unexpected either. We had discussed the probability of that on the phone the day before, along with the content of the agreement we were supposed to sign today.

“It’s an honor to finally meet him,” he said to the assistant.

I don’t think he really felt that way, but he was a polite man and had to say something.

“Right this way,” she said, showing us to the elevator.

Once again, we found ourselves in the meeting room with the same long table and some delicious looking hors d'oeuvres and a variety of beverages. I didn’t remember this abundance at our last meeting, but it was nice to see this sort of hospitality. Someone obviously wanted to keep us fed and happy while finalizing the deal. I would rather see an ice bucket with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and, perhaps, some Beluga Caviar.

The team was ready indeed. Half a dozen men and women, mostly in their thirties, with their laptops and serious faces were waiting for us in the room. We shook hands with everyone. They were all wearing smart casual outfits and the pair of us looked a bit overdressed and much older.

“Shall we get this show on the road then?” I said with a smile, rubbed my hands and sat down at the table.

The contract and the transfer deed were ready on the table to be reviewed and signed. I noticed that there were Montblanc Rollerball pens next to Mr. Goldberg’s and my copies. My father liked those. Being one of the old-school pen lovers, he preferred fountain pens though. I picked it up and looked at the assistant.

“A small gift from Mr. Shannon,” she said with a smile.

I nodded and looked at Mr. Goldberg. He was happy with it. We both were.

“Shall we sign now, or should we wait for Mr. Shannon?” I asked, unscrewing my new pen’s cap.

“Mr. Ford here,” she pointed at a man in blue jeans and a lighter blue blazer over a black T-shirt with a tiger print on it. “He will sign the contract on behalf of the company, but you can sign it first,” she said.

So we did. No fuss. It took a minute. The deal was half done. Then Mr. Tiger-on-my-T-shirt signed his copies.

“The keys will only be handed to the buyer once the paperwork and money transfer have been completed, which will take a few weeks,” the assistant stated, collecting their copies of the documents. “Mr. Shannon, however, is willing to wait for a month or more to give you sufficient time to relocate your belongings.”

“That’s very generous of him,” I said, putting away my new Montblanc.

“Congratulations on the sell, Mr. Montague,” she said, smiling. “I’m sorry that Mr. Shannon couldn’t be here. I just got a message from him. He was held in a different meeting, but he sends his regards.”

“Well, he’s a busy man,” I said, smiling back. I didn’t really care about Jared’s presence. I had what I wanted, and it seemed that he had what he wanted. We didn’t have to be in the same room to share our experiences.

I stood up and noticed a CCTV camera on the ceiling with the red light on. Were we being watched?

***

It was almost lunchtime when we stepped out of the building. I put on my Louis Vuitton sunglasses to shield my eyes from the bright June sun.

“Do you want to grab lunch?” I asked Mr. Goldberg.

“Sure,” he said, slipping on his Ray-Ban Aviators, which gave him the look of a spy. “You’re paying, aren’t you?” He flashed a greedy smile, baring his white teeth.

I nodded.

“In that case, let’s go someplace fancy and celebrate the deal.” He patted me on the shoulder.

“Absolutely. You pick, and I’ll pay.”

“Deal.”

As we were about to cross the street to reach Mr. Goldberg’s car, I noticed a car exiting the underground parking lot of the building we had just left. It was a mineral white BMW 8 Series Coupé—a sleek, luxurious vehicle perfect for someone who enjoyed speed and style. Natasha happened to own one just like it.

Chapter 12

I had one month to empty Maple Grove House, which had been empty for more than twenty years, and start my construction project that was going to change the place forever. A doable task, by all means. I was planning to spend the rest of the week at the estate. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone – prepare the house by going through the inventory with the good old Harry and spend some time at the former pig farm with my construction engineer, discussing the necessary preparations for the construction now that we had the money to do it. I called Harry and asked him to hire a cook for the time being because I wasn’t ready to have bachelor-style meals while I was there. He had “just the person” for the job.

I decided to leave early on Wednesday and take the morning train to Maple Grove House. I picked up a cup of coffee with a pastry on the way to the station. When I got there, I stopped at a news stand to buy something non-digital to read when I saw Jared’s face on the cover of a business magazine. The title below his smiling face read “The Finance Wizard is here to stay.” I bought the issue to educate myself on the train.

The article was mainly about his sky-rocketing success in finances, hailing his local roots but not going into too many details. They mentioned that his mother worked for “one stately manor” before leaving for the States and taking him along. It was “the best decision ever” and “taught him to be resilient and persistent.” He never knew his father, and his “mother was everything to him.”

There was a picture of him in his twenties and Susan in front of their small home in California, just before he started building his financial empire. I wondered if he started it in his garage like other famous entrepreneurs. The article didn’t cover that. A few other pictures showed various stages of his life all the way to the present day. It concluded with his plans to “develop different aspects of his business further” and spending more time where he was born to understand his roots better. I couldn’t say that I had been enlightened by the read but it had added a few brushstrokes to his portrait.

Somehow, the purchase of the house and the timing of this article didn’t feel coincidental to me. Even though I was the one who asked him for investment, as I sipped my coffee and watched some little villages passing by in the window, I wondered what Jared really needed the house for. To get his foot in high society? Didn’t seem like he cared that much about it. Maple Grove House was probably the passing fancy of a really wealthy guy who wanted to own something old which he could show to his friends. For me it was a good opportunity to turn over a new leaf. So I suppose it was a win-win.

Natasha’s car came to mind as I was about to get off the train. If it had been her driving out of Jared’s building the other day, what business could she possibly have had to discuss with him on the very day I was there to sign the deal? More importantly, why had meeting with her seemed more important to Jared than meeting with me?

***

This time it was Harry who met me at the rail station.

“Big changes, sir,” he said, taking my luggage. “Mr. Goldberg filled us in on the recent developments.”

“Indeed,” I said, trying to understand how he felt about it.

I had never been known for sharing my thoughts with the staff or concerning myself with their feelings when I was younger, but this time, I wanted to know his perspective. Harry had been part of the house for a long time, and it felt as though I was about to sever him from his livelihood. I decided not to press him for now and instead wait for him to bring up the subject himself.

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