Tears were running down Paul’s face as he watched his once vigorous uncle gasping for breath, the poor man’s strength clearly at an end.
In a husky whisper, his uncle said, “Paul Jacob Sinclair, always remember that I love you. My name isn’t on your birth certificate; that honor belonged to my brother. Not being your biological father didn’t stop me from considering you mine from the day he died. You’re the best son a man could wish for. Oh, don’t cry for me, kiddo. More years would be nice, I won’t deny it, but I can’t complain. My life was good. Actually, better than good. I hate that I can’t give you a hug right now, because I’m sure you need one. You always had a huge heart. How they got it in so small a body always amazed me.”
One final wish concluded the message. “May your life be as wonderful as mine.”
On the fifth replaying, Paul fell asleep to the comforting sounds of his uncle’s voice. Being nearly asleep, he didn’t realize it wasn’t the recording quietly whispering, “I love you, P.J.”
WHILEthe others hurried to view their videos, Alex placed his disk in the player in his room and returned to the empty office to pour himself a gin and tonic. He’d neglected Byron, and guilt left him terrified of what the message might contain—well-deserved admonishments, no doubt, making them even more painful.
He returned to his room, drink in hand, where he paced, drank, and occasionally turned on the video player, only to turn the machine back off again, Byron’s final message unheard. When the time came to rejoin the group for dinner, he freshened up and hurried downstairs. It didn’t pay to be fashionably late in the Anderson household, a fact drummed into him from birth.
The others were arriving as he descended, wearing bittersweet smiles and red-rimmed eyes. They entered the dining room and took their places. No one commented on Paul’s absence.
The new housekeeper served wine and appetizers before quietly departing, the model of a modern domestic servant. Alex found himself missing Martha and her acerbic wit already. Sitting at the end of the table, she kept unaccountably quiet. In spite of her eccentricities, she truly cared for both her employers and, on more than one occasion when Alex had called, she’d been at Byron’s bedside, reading to him or playing cards. Even though the meal was elegant and delicious, the flavor lacked the seasoning of salty humor he’d become accustomed to when served by her hands.
The talk centered on Byron and his generosity, for the most part, and even the attorney joined in, sharing anecdotes about his former law partner. Byron’s beneficiaries were open about what they’d received and what Byron’s messages contained, though they probably kept certain details to themselves. Alex wondered what Paul inherited and if he’d foregone dinner to plan how fast he could spend his newfound wealth. Guilt immediately gripped him for his unkind thoughts, especially in light of the circumstances. The minutes ticked by with no sign of Paul; Alex began to worry.
Finally, he asked, “Do you suppose Paul’s all right?”
His uncle appeared surprised at his question and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. “Why, Alex, I didn’t know you cared.”
When Alex sputtered in indignation, Alfred said, more seriously, “He’s fine, Alex. He was sleeping when I last checked, and I didn’t want to wake him. Let him rest.”
The conversation continued, and Alex tuned in to an amusing story, told at Douglas’s expense, about how one of Byron’s practical jokes had backfired horrifically. Even on such a solemn occasion, it did his heart good to know life went on and those left behind still found reasons to laugh.
Easing back in his chair, Alex observed the byplay surrounding him. As each person recalled their favorite memories of the deceased, he couldn’t help admiring the beauty of Byron’s gifts, each suited perfectly to the recipient and in some way connected to their stories.
The painting gracing the wall of Alfred’s office was based on a photo taken during a long-ago beach trip, recalled fondly by Douglas. As such, the canvas now belonged to the last living child in the picture, who bore little resemblance to the ginger-haired youth remaining forever unchanged in the swirling oils of the canvas.
Even knowing the reason behind the gift didn’t lessen Alex’s sorrow. He’d always loved the painting. The brilliant blue sky and rolling whitecaps reminded him of summers spent with his mother at the family’s ocean-side getaway, and later, of his trips to Aruba with his uncle and Byron. He’d never connected the three red-haired boys in the painting with Douglas, Byron, and Paul’s father, Jacob, and he felt disconnected from the others who seemed to share an enormous family history. Some of the blame he could lay at the feet of his grandparents, for limiting his visits while he lived with them. Once he’d reached his majority, though, any slighting of family rested purely on his own shoulders. He had a lot of making up to do.
After dinner, Alex escorted Alfred to his room, pausing to listen at Paul’s door. “Leave him be,” Alfred scolded. “He’s probably exhausted.”
Prudently choosing not to comment, Alex noticed his uncle appeared to be sinking fast. He’d barely opened the bedroom door when the new butler appeared, pushing him aside to help Alfred get ready for bed. How was Alex going to make amends and bond with his family if he kept getting shoved out of the way? Sighing, he admitted that wasn’t fair. The man was new to the job and more than likely trying to make a good impression. Alex stepped away and let William do what he’d been hired for.
As he watched, he realized that, like Theresa, William appeared respectful, speaking only when spoken to. Bernard always had something to say when he attended Alfred, and Martha chattered like a magpie. While the newly hired staff were quietly efficient, he wasn’t sure the quiet part was a good thing, fearing the house would resemble a mausoleum in short order.
“Will you be all right, Uncle?” Alex asked.
“I’m fine, my boy. Maybe a bit tired.” A wistful smile momentarily lifted the fatigue from Alfred’s face. “If I didn’t know before that Byron loved me, I do now, after hearing his final words.”
Alarmed at the resignation in his uncle’s voice, Alex asked again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“When you get to be my age, Alex, you don’t fear death. Now I have even less to dread—he’ll be waiting for me. Quite frankly, though I’ll miss all of you, I can’t wait to see him again.” Finally dressed for bed, Alfred allowed William to tuck him under the covers. “Good night, Alex,” he said between yawns. “Pleasant dreams. And, Alex? I love you, son.”
“Love you too,” Alex mumbled, uncomfortable saying the words even though he meant them beyond the shadow of a doubt.
Quietly leaving the room, he stopped by Paul’s door again before making his way to his uncle’s office—the room in the house most comfortable to him. Mixing a drink, he stared sadly at the blank space where the painting had hung a few hours ago. He agonized over its loss and tried in vain to visualize other artwork occupying that space. None seemed as perfect as the one now in Douglas’s possession. Sighing heavily, he turned his attention to his martini.
The grandfather clock had bonged eleven times and the house had quieted when soft footfalls announced someone’s approach. Alex knew without checking who crept down the hall. Easing silently from the room, he followed the lone figure to the kitchen, waiting outside the door.
From the sounds of the muted clatters and the beep of the microwave, leftovers were being reheated. Alex slid to the floor, nursing his drink and biding his time. Finally, it appeared the raider was satisfied, and Alex rose to his feet, intercepting Paul when he stepped into the hallway. “Alone at last,” Alex purred, alcohol and self-recriminations urging him to find a diversion. How kind of fate to generously supply one.
With far less fire than Alex anticipated, Paul asked, “What do you want?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
A weary sigh, followed by, “I suppose not.”
