Lost December (7 page)

“I don’t like talking about this,” I said.

“I know. And I’m just …” His expression lightened. “It’s like the flight attendants’ announcement, ‘In the unlikely event of a water landing …’ I’ve prepared all the documents on what I’d like done with my assets: life insurance policies, personal property, charities, etcetera, etcetera. Also, what I’d like to see happen to our top managers.” My father was always watching over those in the business. “Also, you should know that you have a trust fund that you are already of age to access.”

“I have plenty,” I said. “You already pay for everything.”

“I know, it’s just legal hogwash. But the trust fund is completely in your name so you need to be aware of it.” He knew I wouldn’t ask, so he offered. “There’s a million dollars in it.”

I handed him back the binder. “How about we just agree that nothing ever happens to you.”

He smiled. “Agreed. Want to play some chess?”

“Bring it on,” I said. “You’re going down, old man.”

“After all that money I’ve spent on your education, I certainly hope so.”

I had almost forgotten how much I enjoyed being with my father.

Everything human is evolving. Always.
That includes our hearts and desires as well as our bodies
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

Christmas was gone in a blink and I was back in the cold of Philly. No matter what they say, distance
doesn’t
make the heart grow fonder—it makes it
cooler
, like an ember pulled from a fire. I could say that I had never experienced this phenomenon, but that wouldn’t really be true. My mother’s absence was all I thought about as a boy—now it rarely even crossed my mind.

As I became fully engrossed in my new world and my father became overwhelmed by the requisite business of running a public corporation, our relationship changed.
Cooled
, you might say. It happened so gradually I don’t think I was even aware of it.

I say that my father was “running” the company, but in actuality it was more like being dragged behind it. In the few emails from him that mentioned Crisp’s, his comments seemed more about obligation than passion—and my father had always been passionate about business. “Without passion, we are destined to mediocrity,” he taught. Truthfully, I was becoming less passionate about someday running Crisp’s as well.

As my relationship with my father weakened, my relationship
with Candace grew stronger. So did my friendship with Sean. When I wasn’t with Candace, I was usually with him. I suppose that both provided something I was looking for. Sean was a man who knew how to live. He worked as hard at playing as most people did at their careers. At the end of our spring semester he organized a trip to St. Barts in the French West Indies. I didn’t know anything about St. Barts, but Sean did and he painted a picture of the island better than any travel agent could—brilliant white sand beaches against an equally brilliant blue sea—upscale boutiques and an abundance of the finest French food and women this side of the Atlantic.

Sean invited the Wharton 7 to join him. Marshall and Lucy were in, but Suzie had other plans and James didn’t have the money to go. Neither did Candace, but I didn’t want to go without her, so I offered to pay her way. She felt embarrassed about me footing her bill and resisted until I talked her into it.

The morning of our departure, the five of us gathered at Sean’s place—Chez Sean, he called it: a small home he had rented about a mile from the campus. We were about to leave for the airport when the doorbell rang.

“Somebody get that,” Sean said.

“Got it,” I said. I answered the door to find my father standing on the front porch.

For a moment I just looked at him in surprise. “Dad. What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I had a meeting in Philly and thought I’d drop by and surprise you.”

“Wow. Yeah, you did. How did you know I was here?”

“Luck. When I went to your room, one of the students told me you were here.”

In light of our impending departure I wasn’t sure what to say. After a moment he said, “May I come in?”

“Sorry. Of course. Actually, we were just getting ready to go to the airport. We’re flying to St. Barts.”

“St. Barts. Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know.”

“I should have told you. It was kind of last-minute.”

He looked a little awkward. “Well, then maybe I should just go.”

“No. We have a little time. Come in. Let me introduce you to everyone.”

I led my father into the kitchen area, where our luggage and everyone but Sean was gathered. Candace and Marshall immediately stood.

“Candace, this is my father.”

She walked up to him. “I’m Candace,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“My pleasure, Candace. Luke’s told me a lot about you.” “He’s told me a lot about you too,” she said. “I’m really happy to finally meet you.”

I pointed to the others. “And that’s Marshall and Lucy.”

My father waved. “Hello.”

Lucy waved back. Marshall walked up to my father. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’ve read at least a half dozen articles about you.”

“Don’t believe everything you read,” my father said lightly.

Just then Sean walked into the room holding a beer. “Who was it?” When he saw my father, he set his beer down on the counter. “Mr. Crisp,” he said. “Welcome.”

“This is Sean,” I said. “This is his place.”

I’ve heard it said that some people have the
gift of discernment
—the ability to see through a person’s guises and pretenses right to their very soul. If anyone had that gift, it was my father. I once attended a business meeting between him and a potential investor. Just fifteen minutes into the meeting my father thanked the man for his time but told him that he wasn’t interested. After we were alone, I asked my father what was wrong with the deal. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t trust the dealer.” Two years later I read an article about that same businessman in our local newspaper. He had just been convicted of fraud.

Knowing this, my father’s reaction to Sean should have meant something to me. My father’s brow furrowed and he tensed a little, the way he did when he was skeptical of what he was hearing. Still, my father was always polite. He put out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sean.”

“Likewise,” Sean said. “It’s an honor.” I think it was the first time I had ever seen Sean look nervous.

My father turned back to me. “Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can go.”

“All right,” I said. I walked my father to the door. Everything about the situation was awkward. On the porch he turned back to me. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m sorry about this. If I had known …”

“No, it’s my fault. I should have called first.”

“Well, thanks for coming by.”

“Be safe,” he said.

“Okay. Good luck with your meeting.”

He looked at me as if he were about to say something, then instead he turned away and walked to his car. I waved to him as he drove away. Then I went back inside to get my luggage. We had a plane to catch.

Someone should invent a pill for guilt.
They’d make billions
.

Luke Crisp’s Diary

In June the Wharton 7 fell to 6 when Suzie dropped out of school to work for her father’s trucking company. Around that same time I gave in to Sean’s repeated request to move off campus into Chez Sean. Candace was against the idea from the beginning.

“You’re really going to room with Sean?” she asked.

“I take it you disapprove.”

“Sean’s like radiation—okay only in small doses.”

“You’re afraid I’ll start losing my hair?”

“Your hair I can handle. It’s your soul I worry about.”

“My soul,” I laughed.

“You hang around Sean long enough and he’s bound to rub off on you.”

“You’re making too much of this,” I said. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

She folded her arms. “You could become like Sean.”

“It’s only a year,” I said. “How much could I change in a year?”

“I don’t want to find out,” she replied.