The Inheritance (Volume Two) (2 page)

“Fine,” I say, trying on a smile, lips tight and short.

Neal shakes his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

The dinner’s held at the country club in Burnham Harbor, the familiar white building glowing with orange and yellow light, towering over the yachts bouncing gently in the lake. A horde of photographers surround the long brick path to the entrance, double French doors with gold handles, two white-gloved teenagers holding them open as guests make their way inside.

Neal takes my hand as we exit the car. One of the photographers shout, “There he is!” The rest of the guests are forgotten. The photographers with their cameras and detached flash bulbs narrow in on us, my fingers tightening around Neal’s as I close the car door.

It’s blinding, like standing beneath a falling sun, but Neal remains unfazed. He works the crowd with a steady grin, exchanging witty banter with the photographers, dodging their invasive questions with a duck of his head.

“Did Julian Wheeler know you were fucking his daughter?” one photographer asks.

Neal laughs. “I don’t know. You’re gonna have to ask him.”

The photographers hurl a handful of questions at me (“Caitlin, were you able to make up with your father before his death?” and “Caitlin, your father left you a large lump sum of money, are you going to give it back to the families he stole it from?”). Neal handles those too.

“Give the girl a break,” he says, “She just lost her father and I’m positive she doesn’t want to talk to you assholes about it.”

The teenage boys close the doors behind us, swallowing the sound of the cameras and the reporters, replacing them with brassy jazz that floats out the dining hall to our right.

Neal leads me in the opposite direction, turning down a narrow hallway, restrooms waiting at the end. He drops my hand and straightens his jacket, dusting off his sleeves as he catches his reflection in a mirror. There’s a hint of hesitation picking at the corners of his mouth, turned down thanks to nerves, his teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek. It’s not just a dinner, the night revolves around him.

“You look great,” I say, feeling terrible for being such an asshole.

He fixes a strand of his hair.

“Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“For handling all those reporters.” My fingers slide across the bracelet. “And for the bracelet. It’s really beautiful.”

Neal turns toward me. “You don’t have to be nice for my sake. I know you don’t want to be here.”

I smile. “But I do want to be here.” I tuck my hand in the crook of Neal’s elbow, my fingers pressing into his jacket as I slide beside him. “And I’m not just saying that.”

He looks down at me and smiles.

The dining hall is smaller than I imagined, enough room for ten round tables and a bar in the corner. Glittering chandeliers hang from the ceiling, dripping with diamonds and gold trim, hovering over the heads of guests, sitting, drinking, and loudly mingling. At the head of the room, a wide display of windows showcases Lake Michigan bathed in moonlight, the backdrop to the jazz band playing on stage. Percussion, strings, and wind instruments buzz along to the curvaceous woman crooning at the microphone.
Blue moon, you saw me standing alone.
Above her, hanging lower than the chandeliers is a gold banner that reads: “Congratulations, Neal!”

My father attended plenty of dinners like these but I was never invited, shooed away to my room while he and Gina or Darlene drank half a bottle of champagne, readying themselves for the evening. Hopped up on alcohol, they floated out of the apartment, bursts of laughter filling the hall, the door slamming shut behind them.

I wish I snuck a drink before we left the hotel, one shot to take the edge off, to make it easier to laugh and smile when Neal carts me around the room. He shakes hands with everyone in attendance, their names hot on his lips. I meet: George Fletcher, Head of Operations, Marianne Lockhart, Secretary turned General Manager, Caesar Pfeiffer, Seth Lee, and Graham Semple, the boys who “keep the new kids in line”, Chuck Rice and Percy Hill who take care of the mailroom, Harold Eisenberg from Detroit, Nick Rodriguez, who wants Neal’s job, and at least a hundred more. It’s an exhausting spin around the room, a whirlwind of names and titles I’ve stopped trying to remember.

Neal introduces me as, “My girlfriend, Caitlin Wheeler.” They all respond with that same dumb look. The wide-eyed, open-mouthed gasp -
I can’t believe it, you’re actually dating
– before they grab my hand and squeeze, the same six words cutting against their teeth: “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

We sit at the front of the room, inches away from the stage, at a table with Martin, George Fletcher, Nick Rodriguez and their wives. Beautiful women who are, surprisingly, middle aged. On the opposite side of the table are two open chairs, the place cards reading: Christopher Kick and Guest, Ashleigh’s seat when she finally arrives.

My chair’s next to Martin’s wife, Gilda, who hands me a glass of champagne the second I sit down. I almost knock it back but she wraps her fingers around my wrist, smiling sweetly as she says, “Better take it slow. Everyone’s watching.”

Around the room, each guest throws a glance my way, ducking their heads when we make eye contact, turning so I can only make out the back of their heads. I lock eyes with Nicky and his wife, who politely nod before looking away.
What happens at the club, stays at the club.
I take a small sip.

“We haven’t met before,” I say, holding out my hand.

“We have,” she says. My face falls. “You don’t remember. That’s alright. It was a very long time ago and you were a little girl. Your father had taken you to Navy Pier and we ran into each other. I was with my son, Francis.”

I remember snatches of my first and only trip to Navy Pier with my father: his hand in mine as we waited for cotton candy; the smell of the water as I rushed towards the Ferris wheel; a small brown-haired boy with large eyes, holding the hand of a young, pretty woman. Gilda and Francis.

“I think I remember,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. “Where is Francis?”

Gilda drops her chin. “He died,” she says, voice wavering. “Last year.”

My fingers tighten around my glass. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She smiles, lips tight and curling into themselves. “I’m sorry too.”

I take another drink.

______

George Fletcher sweats beneath the stage lights, his fingers clutching the microphone stand as he speaks. The room’s attention has shifted to him, the man in charge of speaking about my father. Before tonight, I didn’t know who George was but he’s worked for my father for more than twenty years. The crowd hums in approval as he chokes up around my father’s name, but I wonder how he would feel knowing my father rarely (if ever) mentioned him outside of work.

George presses the mic to his lips and calls my father his “family”. He says, “We’re all family, every single last one of us.”

A pinch of hysterical laughter builds in my throat. These people with their expensive suits and dresses, smelling of perfume counters and liquor aisles, believe that being part of my father’s family is a position that should be coveted, like being a prince to a king, instead of the punishment it is.

Gilda grabs Martin’s hand, twisting their fingers together as she ducks her head. A tear drops from the corner of her eye and she makes no move to wipe it away. Neal squeezes my arm like I’m one of the weeping women whose pitchy cries fill the room. Their make up running beautifully down their cheeks, the right amount of ruined mascara. George uses his handkerchief to dab at his eyes and clean the sweat from his forehead. He sucks in a breath and his face turns red. Someone should grab him a water before he keels over and dies.

“Julian’ll be missed,” he says. “More than he’ll ever know. But he left our family in good hands, hasn’t he?” There’s a resounding noise of approval. Hundreds of eyes fall on Neal and he pulls me close. “Neal Dietrich,” George says.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone whistles. Everyone laughs and a sharp blush crawls up Neal’s neck and spreads to the tips of his ears. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, in an attempt to keep myself from grinning.

“He is a handsome kid. I’m sorry, handsome man, Neal hasn’t been a kid for a very long time. The double agent, Julian used to call him. The bright-eyed kid who walked into our office his first day at Geon Associates and you know what he did? He charmed the secretary into letting him into Julian’s office, stared him right in the face and said, ‘Lee Geon’s offering me a starting salary of sixty-thousand dollars. Think you can top that?’”

Another round of laughter and applause. George wipes another layer of sweat away. Neal places his hand on my knee.

“We all know the answer to that question. Of course Julian could top that. He could’ve offered Neal eighty-thousand and his own goddamn desk, unlike those animals at Geon cramming two to a cubicle. Julian was always bursting with ideas, he looked at Neal and saw something Lee didn’t. Opportunity. Ambition. He saw the new goddamn face of this company.”

Nick Rodriguez cheers and the other guests join in, hands slapping together as Neal’s blush grows hotter. A pesky sliver of jealousy worms its way beneath my skin –
my father never saw any of that when he looked at me
– but I take another drink and swallow it. On my knee, my hand find his, lacing our fingers together.

“Let me tell you what Julian did. He said to Neal, ‘I’ll give you one hundred thousand a year, if you stay with Lee Geon, get him to trust you, and report back to me every week.’ Now, some of you are probably thinking: that’s a great deal, I’d take that in a heartbeat. And you wouldn’t be stupid for doing so. But for those of us who know how Lee Geon operates, Julian wasn’t asking Neal to take a walk in the park. He was asking him to dance with the wolves. To betray one of the most powerful and dangerous men, not just in Chicago, but in the entire Mid-West region.”

A few nods sprinkle through the audience, most belonging to men with their arms thrown around the shoulders of their baffled wives, perfectly groomed eyebrows knitting together.
What makes Lee Geon so dangerous?

Lee Geon suffers from the same media sickness as my father, newspapers printing every rumor their ears pick up, slandering him within an inch of his life. Growing up I read that multiple employees who promised a quote to the press, mysteriously skipped town the next day. Lee is a shadow, rarely making public appearances, where my father preferred to be the face.

George says, “And what did you say to him, Neal?”

Neal squeezes my hand. “I said I’d rather screw over the second most powerful man in Chicago to have the honor of working for the first.”

A thunderous applause fills the room. Chairs knock back as guests shoot to their feet, the whole dining hall rising to a standing ovation. Neal and I are the last to stand, our fingers laced together as he places a kiss to my lips. I lean into it, that familiar warm feeling spreading in my stomach.
Remember, you’re just doing it for the key, now keep smiling like the good little girlfriend you’re supposed to be.

On stage, George passes Neal the microphone and the applause grows to deafening levels. Who knew this many people in a room could threaten to blow out your ears.

Neal looks radiant on stage. The yellow light of the chandeliers drip gold flecks in his hair, his head ducking as a fresh layer of red covers his cheeks. He looks up and I can see the light dancing in his eyes, impossibly blue even from where I’m standing. I can’t take my eyes off him and neither can the crowd, our hands slapping together until our palms turn as red as his neck.

“Thank you,” he says, grinning bright enough to blind. The applause won’t stop. “Oh, come on,” he says, “now you’re just trying to embarrass me in front of my girlfriend.”

My hands lock up, fingers pressed together as the crowd shifts their attention towards me, their eyes like cameras, applauding hands, the flash. My eyes meet Neal’s and he raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth pulling outward.
Smile
.

I slap on a bright grin, my cheeks flushing beneath the attention, nodding as if to say, alright, that’s enough now.

“Okay, now we’re embarrassing her,” Neal says. “Sit down before some of you break a hip.”

Neal looks nothing like my father but standing in the center of the stage, confidently holding the attention of the crowd, I’m reminded of him instantly. They share the same strain of charisma, captivating the audience with just a few words. The women stare at him with wide, dreamy eyes; the men wearing that proud gaze reserved for their son. He’s the husband the women wish they had and the man the men hope their sons grow up to be. The ultimate patriarchal figure, and he’s supposed to be mine.

The hall’s door opens but no one turns away from Neal and he doesn’t miss a beat. He’s talking about my father – “He was like the dad I never had.” – when Ashleigh and Chris take their seats.

Ashleigh’s beautiful in a floral printed dress that shows off her slight curves. Our eyes meet across the table and she passes me a smile. She hears my father’s name and her head whips towards Neal, the corners of her mouth softening, her eyes immediately growing wide.
Here we go.
Chris slowly loops his arm around her shoulder and she violently shrugs him off.

Her hand presses against her mouth as Neal says, “There was never, and will never be a better man than Julian Wheeler.” He glances at me. “That’s what I want the world to know. And I want my family to know that I will never attempt to overshadow all that he’s accomplished. I can only hope to live up to a fraction of who Julian was.”

Another round of applause. Ashleigh’s eyes fill with tears. Across the table, I throw her my napkin and she buries her face in the silk cloth.

A flash rings out through the dining hall, covering Ashleigh and Chris in a pale glow. Chris’s hand is on her shoulder, fingers curling into her skin as she places her hand flat against his chest, pushing him away. The edge of the flash slides over me, half of my pinched face fixated on a weeping Ashleigh. A moment captured by a camera in the crowd.
Julian Wheeler’s dry-eyed daughter tends to his weeping mistress
.