Lost December (6 page)

My school career rose and fell with the usual tides of academia, and I just floated through it, lost in love. As I became enmeshed in my new world, my previous life seemed to drift further and further away. My father and I emailed or texted almost every day, though usually it was just a quick note, “How are things? How’s business? How’s school?” He’d occasionally allude to some of the copy centers’ happenings, but not as much as I thought he would—always sharing more information about the people than the profits. I shouldn’t
have been surprised. He had sent me away to find life outside of Crisp’s and he wasn’t about to sabotage his own plans.

Crisp’s went public in late November with 100 million shares. Henry kept me abreast of the offering, texting me four or five times throughout the day. The stock was issued at a dollar a share and rose to $3.42 by the time the market closed. The Wharton 7 knew about it before I told them. They were congregated in the usual corner of Smokey Joe’s when Candace and I arrived.

“So your old man’s worth a few hundred mill,” Marshall said as we approached the table. Candace and I sat down.

“Apparently,” I said.

“That’s a lot of calzone,” Sean said. “Congratulations.”

“So,” Marshall said, leaning toward me. “What’s your share of the booty?”

“What makes you think I have a share?”

“Do you have any siblings?” Lucy asked.

“No.”

“Holy cannoli,” Marshall said, “It’s all yours someday. I think I’ll start being nicer to you.”

Suzie said, “How do you even get motivated to study when you’ve got a parachute like that?”

“I wouldn’t mind finding out,” Marshall said. “If you’re lucky, the old man will croak soon.”

I felt my face turn red and I spun at him. “Why don’t you just shut up?”

Marshall looked at me blankly, caught in the stupidity of his comment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“You’re an idiot,” Sean said. “It’s his father.” Sean turned to me. “Sorry, man. Don’t listen to him.”

Marshall turned pale. “I wasn’t serious.”

I stood. “Let’s go,” I said to Candace.

“Luke,” Marshall said, “it was a stupid joke.”

“You’re a stupid joke,” Candace said.

We walked out of the pub. James followed us out. “Hey, Luke. Sorry about that. You know how Marshall is. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“Of course he did,” Candace said. “And why are you making excuses for Marshall? He and Sean mock you every time you open your mouth.”

“They’re just joking around,” he said. James looked truly worried about my feelings.

“It’s not a big deal,” I finally said. “I just need to cool off.”

He looked relieved. “All right,” he said, patting my shoulder. “And congratulations. Success couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

After he went back into the pub, Candace said, “Of all of them to be happy for your father’s success, you wouldn’t expect it to be James. He has the most to envy.”

“He’s a good guy,” I said. “He reminds me of my father. You watch, he’ll go further than any of us.”

As a boy, I fantasized a “Currier and Ives” Christmas,
dragging home a pine tree through pristine banks of crystalline snow.
Unfortunately, in Phoenix, we’d be more likely
to find a cactus than a pine.
No matter. Like Heaven, Christmas is less about the weather
than the company
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

That December I went home for Christmas. It was my first time back since I had left for school. I asked Candace to come with me, but she had commitments with her own family. It was her year to spend Christmas with her father, who would otherwise spend the holiday alone.

“I couldn’t do that to him,” she said, “Besides, it’s still a little early to start meeting parents.” She must have seen the disappointment on my face when she said that, because she kissed me on the cheek, then added, “But not by much.”

It was good to go home again. The mild Arizona winter was a stark, welcome contrast to the flesh-numbing cold of Philly. My father had invited his only brother, Paul, and his wife, Barbara, over for Christmas Eve dinner, which had been the routine for the past six Christmases, ever since the last of their children had married off and moved out of state. My father also invited his assistant, Mary, who was as close as family.

As usual, my father had our dinner catered with the exception of the turkey and stuffing, which was his own specialty. We sat down to eat at the long table in the dining room that was used more often for business meetings than eating.

After we’d settled in, Barbara asked me, “So how is school going?”

“It’s good,” I said.

“Luke’s been doing well,” my father said.

“How are things on the romantic front?” Barbara asked, which was probably what she had meant by her first question.

“I have a girlfriend,” I said.

“Oh. Does she have a name?”

“Candace.”

“Candace. That’s a pretty name.”

“Where’s she from?” Paul asked.

“Cincinnati.”

“Do you have any plans?” Barbara asked.

I said without looking up, “I’ve got lots of plans.”

“You know what I mean.”

I grinned. “No. Not yet.”

“But you’ve discussed marriage.”

“We’ve talked,” I said.

My father looked at me with surprise.

“Wonderful,” Barbara said, “Just wonderful. Let us know when something happens.”

“You’ll be among the first to know,” I said.

My father still said nothing, but I sensed that he was pleased.

After dinner, we ate pecan pie, then talked over coffee until dark. After everyone had left, my father put his hand on my shoulder. “I want to show you something.”

“How are things going with the business?” I asked, following him out of the room.

“Okay,” he said in a tone that suggested otherwise. “We’re still growing in this economy,” he said. “The shareholders are happy.”

“You don’t sound very happy,” I said.

“I’m not sure I was ready to go public. It’s one thing to run a family business, it’s a whole different beast to have shareholders to answer to.”

We walked into his den. “But you still own the majority of stock,” I said. “You can do as you please.”

He grinned. “It’s not that simple. There’s such a thing as fiduciary responsibility. Stockholders have rights.”

“Then you regret going public?”

“Sometimes. But I can’t dismiss the good. The capital infusion has allowed us to exponentially increase our growth. Besides,” he said, looking into my eyes, “I won’t be here to run things forever.”

“Sure you will,” I said. “You’re immortal.”

He smiled. Then he pulled something down from a shelf—a leather binder embossed with his initials, CC, overlapped as they might be on a branding iron. He handed it to me. “Here you go.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Like I said, I won’t be here to run things forever. These are my detailed instructions in the event that something happens to me. I’ve made you the executor of my estate.”

I looked at him anxiously. “Why are you giving this to me now?”

He read the concern on my face and casually waved it off. “It’s nothing. You know me, measure twice and cut once. It’s better to err on the side of caution. We Crisps aren’t exactly known for longevity. I’m already two years older than my father was when he passed away and six years older than my grandfather was.”