“He was a great man,” Doug added, the silence awkward. “Beloved around these parts. He’ll be missed.”
Nodding, Jameson’s chest burned again, a lump lodged in his throat. Taking an extra-long sip and composing himself, he redirected the conversation back to the topic at hand.
“None of that tells me where the money went.”
“What money?”
“I was sending him money. More than enough to make the mortgage payment.”
“I don’t know.” He appeared genuinely puzzled. “I was your father’s lawyer, yes. But not his accountant.”
“Clearly he didn’t have an accountant if he was losing the house.”
“I would agree.”
“What about the store?”
“It’s yours.” Doug opened a desk drawer, pulling out a thick legal file. “We didn’t have a chance to go over this in detail yesterday evening. His will is simple and straightforward. The hardware store, his bank accounts, life insurance, and the contents of Maine Lane are yours, such as they are. Not Maine Lane itself, but what’s inside.”
“The contents.” Generations’ worth.
“Maybe the answer you’re looking for regarding this missing sum of money is within those four walls, because it’s not inside this file.”
Jameson’s head clearer today than yesterday, they spent the remainder of the morning going through that manila folder and all those documents, his father’s life reduced to a few hundred sheets of paper.
Now that the rage from Chloe’s actions had reduced to a simmer.
“Chloe will give you full access to the house and unlimited time to sort and remove the contents. At least, that was her agreement with Jonah. I assume she’d extend the offer to you. Her office is across the street.” He motioned toward the front door. “Then again, you probably know where to find her without me telling you.”
Yeah. Naked, in a tubful of dicks. That’s where he found her.
And he could’ve done without the naked part.
“Thank you for your service, by the way.” Doug went from stuffy lawyer to old buddy.
Jameson nodded, acknowledging the statement but not needing the gratitude. It hadn’t seemed like service when he was doing it.
It was straight up self-preservation.
Years spent running.
Hadn’t worked, of course. Chloe kept a brutal pace, never far from his mind, day and night. Year after year. What she did to him—to them—right there too. Reminding him he had good reason to flee.
“How long have you been out of the Navy?”
“Three years.”
Doug nodded, then prompted him when he didn’t elaborate. “You’re in Florida now?”
The address in his deceased father’s file told him that, but Jameson played along simply because it was the socially acceptable thing to do.
“Yeah. I’m a commercial diver on an oil rig in the Gulf. Pipeline construction and repair.” Personally, he just wanted to commence with the neck wringing of one sweet little lying, conniving Chloe Morgan.
“Construction and repair,” he repeated, using Jameson’s lackadaisical tone. “How many feet below the surface?”
“A hundred or so.”
“I saw the movie Deepwater Horizon. I think those pipelines are more like thousands of feet below the surface.” He shivered. “You couldn’t pay me enough.”
“It’s a mile or so down.” So yes, hundreds adding up to thousands. Just him, his tank of oxygen, and the endless black ocean surrounding him.
The hazard pay was better than the Navy’s, and he wasn’t getting shot at or blown up, risking life and limb for the good of a nation. He’d rather die by tank malfunction than have a terrorist take him out.
“Well, I assumed you’d come home sooner or later. Turned out to be later than I thought.”
“Florida’s my home,” he murmured, rereading the finer details of the will.
Doug hesitated then nodded. “Tough occasion, for sure.”
“I’m only here temporarily.” Just long enough to gather up the contents of Maine Lane.
“Too bad. People would enjoy seeing the hardware store reopen.”
Jameson looked up in surprise. “He actually had customers?” They were few and far between years ago.
“Yeah,” Doug said simply. “Locals don’t wanna drive over to the big box store in Riverhead. They like to support local small businesses. Chloe’s doing well with hers.”
“Selling paint isn’t for me. I have a job to get back to, and my father made that damn easy for me.” He held up the papers, not taking Doug’s bait regarding his beautiful nemesis. “No urgent decisions regarding the house. No funeral. No reason to hang around.”
Once he worked the problem regarding Chloe Morgan and the missing money, he’d be in the wind.
“I thought that was unusual myself. Told Jonah that, but he said he didn’t want a funeral. Said they were too fucking sad, to use his exact words, and he’d rather people smile and crack a beer in his memory, not dress up in church clothes and take a day off work for no good reason.”
“Yeah? We never talked about it.”
They never spoke of death even though Jameson’s career choice substantially increased the likelihood of his.
After a summer spent watching his mother, a vibrant woman full of life and love, rapidly decline until she was nothing but skin, bones, and bravery, he had his fill of premature goodbyes. Or any kind of goodbye, for that matter. Which was why he’d not bothered issuing one to Chloe.
She hadn’t deserved one.
The fact his father was now buried next to his mother, with little to no pomp and circumstance, per his request, was meant to ease his only son’s burden. It didn’t.
Because right about now, planning and attending a funeral sounded better than what was on his agenda.
Seeing Chloe again.
And if there was a God who deemed him worth of mercy, this time she’d be clothed.
“I told him funerals weren’t for the dead. They were for the living. That people needed to have closure. You know what he told me?”
Jameson smiled for the first time since his phone rang two months ago, an ER doctor calling.
“To fuck off and mind your own business?”
“Yes,” Doug said after a shocked laugh. “That’s exactly what he said.”
“Sounds like him.” Jameson rested the paper cup on his jean-clad thigh, rocking it back and forth, his smile fading.
“But before that,” Doug added, his smile vanishing as well. “He looked down at his left hand, twisted the tarnished silver band on his ring finger, and said, ‘Don’t you know, Doug? I died the day Lydia did. So, instead of being the guest of honor at a funeral, I’ll be busy reuniting with my one true love. Aside from the day our Jamie was born, it will be the best day of our lives.’”
The cardboard gave way when Jameson squeezed, crushing the empty cup. His only outward sign of distress.
He usually bristled at the silly nickname. His mom always said Jameson—the name his dad gave him—was too grown up for a little boy. She’d call him Jameson once he was old enough to get married, but until then, he was her Jamie. She’d not lived that long.