The Wish (11 page)

What a pity Alex didn’t know how to trust, because, personality conflicts aside, they made a great team: Alex running the financial side of things and Paul handling domestic issues, including making sure Alfred made his appointments.

Then there were times when Alex forgot to hate him and spoke to him as an equal, though those were few and far between. Whenever Paul gained a measure of trust, some new, ludicrous, imagined evidence reignited Alex’s suspicions anew. Why couldn’t the man simply accept that not everyone was out for all they could get, no matter who they hurt in the process?

Yes, dealing with Alex amounted to “one step forward and two steps back.” How Paul hated the innuendo! Not for a minute did he believe the sexual offers to be real; it was as if Alex was testing him somehow. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of the right answers, either. They seemed to change from minute to minute.

The longer he knew the man, the more Paul questioned his earlier opinions. Alex was nearly obsessive about hiding his true self from the world; however, little hints hid here and there if one knew where to hunt. Like certain books missing from the library shelves and Internet searches that hadn’t been erased for websites dealing with heart disease and treatments. The attending physician and hospital where Alfred’s procedure was scheduled had also been researched. Most telling was a bookmark for the closest paramedics.

Paul knew he shouldn’t snoop, yet manners hadn’t prevented him from picking up Alex’s casually discarded phone one afternoon. A quick inspection revealed phone numbers for the doctor, hospital, and paramedics programmed into the device. Those weren’t the actions of a cold and uncaring man.

Furthermore, Alex became oblivious to his surroundings when preoccupied, and on several nights, Paul quietly observed him in his quest for knowledge about Alfred’s condition. When he wasn’t actively trying to be an asshole, Alex could be a decent and caring man. And the decent and caring part of Alex’s complex personality was starting to wear Paul down.

It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone, and Paul couldn’t look at Alex Martin, sitting in his uncle’s office avidly reading—glasses he didn’t wear in public perched on his nose—without thinking of taking him to bed. Even now, the thought of how he looked, eyes lit with passion while reading some interesting passage, left Paul hard and aching for release.

Well, as Alex pointed out, Paul did have a while before he needed to be anywhere. Maybe he should take another shower—a cold one.

T
HE
time finally arrived for the reading of Byron’s will, and due to Alfred’s condition, the event took place in Alfred’s home office.

Richard Gentry, Alfred and Byron’s legal counsel, ensured every designee attended: Alfred, Bernard, Martha, Paul, Douglas, Isaac, and Alex. The dour attorney read the preliminaries and then inserted a disk into a combination DVD player/television. The screen filled with a still image of Byron Sinclair, elegantly attired in a business suit and seated behind the desk of his downtown office, an indication that when the video was filmed, his condition hadn’t yet kept him from public life or the job he’d loved. At the click of a button, the image came to life.

Paul’s eyes filled with tears. His uncle looked like he had before falling ill. The video had obviously been made some months ago, as the man still sported a full head of hair and, for the most part, seemed healthy.

Quiet sniffles accompanied Byron’s voice as he addressed those he’d loved in life. “Before we get to the details, I want to tell every one of you how much you mean to me. Alfred, words aren’t enough. I have a special disk solely for you,” he said with a saucy wink at the camera. “As much as I love these people, some things should be kept between the two of us, don’t you agree, love?

“Paul and Alex,” he continued. The two cast questioning glances at each other. “You are the sons I never had, and I regret the law was against our adopting and raising you as our own. Sadly, you don’t know each other well yet. Suffice it to say that Alfred and I love you equally and hope you’ll come to view each other as family, as we do.

“Bernard and Martha. You’ve been the most loyal friends a man could ask for and always did what’s best for me and Alfred, regardless of the circumstances. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the heavens for you.

“Douglas, you old stick in the mud. We were quite the team in our younger days, and I’m going to miss our arguments, although you never win.” Byron brattily stuck out his tongue, causing a few chuckles, particularly from Douglas himself. “You can argue with the best of them. Too bad you decided against a career in law. You might have given me a run for my money.

“Isaac, a man is measured by where he’s going, not where he’s been. You can’t look back if you’re looking forward.”

Paul observed Isaac standing at the back of the room, silent tears trickling down his grief-stricken face. Those cryptic words obviously held great meaning for him. Paul narrowed his eyes as he saw… nah, couldn’t be. A trick of the light made the weeping man appear to be enveloped in shadow.

On screen Byron continued, “I leave my entire estate to my partner, Alfred Anderson, with the exception of one item for each of you. I’m told my methods are highly irregular, but individual disks have been made, carrying a personal message from me to you, telling what the item is and why I want you to have it. Richard knows the details of my behest and will ensure my wishes are carried out. Know that I love you all, and if I’m able and aware, my love will continue long after my death.”

The image faded to black. Each attendee received a disk and instructions to view Byron’s video privately in their room, with Douglas using the vacant green room. Paul noticed that Isaac appeared much calmer, though he seemed reluctant to leave his corner. Finally, he took his disk, and with a sad smile, followed the others into the hallway.

After Richard’s assurances that he’d attend to Alfred, Paul hurried down the hall to his room, putting the disk into the player and flopping onto the bed to watch. His uncle’s image appeared on screen. Unlike in the earlier video, in this one Uncle Byron appeared more informally dressed. The disk had obviously been made at a later date, based on the noticeable absence of bright red hair and the defined hollows in his cheeks, signs of a battle being lost.

“Hey, P.J.,” his uncle said quietly, invoking the childhood nickname Paul hadn’t heard from him in years. Byron’s voice was hoarse and raspy, a condition that plagued him during the final months of his life. “If you’re watching this, it means I’ve lost the battle.” With a wry smile he added, “Don’t cry for me, because I won the war—big-time. I firmly believe the most important thing in life is who you hang with, and I was surrounded by the best people in the world. I also did what many fail to do: I built a lasting relationship with someone I loved more than life itself, who felt the same about me.

“It’s always struck me as sad how few people ever know they’re truly loved. I had that, and I want the same for you. I’ve noticed how you study me and Alfred, wistful expression on your face, and how hard you took the breakup when Jordan turned out not to be the one.

“Yes,” the image confessed, “I knew more about him than you realized. I also recognized what you didn’t. He wasn’t the one for you, Paul, and you know it, though I can’t fault you for taking your commitments seriously and being determined to make your relationship work. You’re stubborn enough to try saving a lost cause.

“That’s my fear—that you’ll let your stubbornness keep you from the best things in life, like you’ve always done. This brings me to my next point: money. Every time we’ve offered, you’ve refused. Did it ever occur to you that we wanted you to have it? Or that it hurt us when you wouldn’t accept our gifts?”

A knife ripped into Paul’s heart. Had his uncle honestly mistaken his determination to be self-sufficient as ingratitude? His throat constricted and hot tears stung his eyes. What had he done?

His uncle’s next words absolved his guilt. “I know that’s not how you meant your refusals. You’d never hurt a fly. I want you to understand something: if we owned a candy story and offered you candy, we’d expect you to take it because we had plenty and wanted to share it with those we loved. In our case, we were blessed with money.” Byron chuckled. “Perhaps candy would have been less bothersome.”

Paul couldn’t agree more.

“What I’m saying is: we love you and want to give you the good things we have; the same as any parent wants for their child. Although you refused what we offered, we put the money into an account.” A frail hand rose, as if anticipating protest. “I know you worry about your half sisters and their future. The money will pay for their college, with enough left over for dorms, books, and a modest vehicle. It’s the least I can do for my brother’s widow and her children.”

Though dying, his uncle’s thoughts were still for those left behind. Paul vowed to be the kind of man his uncle had been: loving, thoughtful, considerate, and kind—traits further proven by his uncle’s next words. “There’s something I want you to have.” A wholehearted smile eased the weariness from Byron’s features, however temporarily. “Remember the last trip to the beach we made with Alfred and our artist friend, Eddie? The storm? Well, I remember you driving us down the coast, and later, driving us back, allowing me and Alfred to snuggle in the backseat. I want you to have the Jeep. Don’t argue with me on this. I know good and well you won’t replace your car until the damned thing dies on the side of the road, and I worry. I love you and don’t want anything to happen to you. Besides, the Jeep’s much better in snow than the car, and what happens if Alfred needs you in January? Will you be able to get there if it’s snowing? If it helps, don’t view my gift as me giving you a Jeep, consider it like I darned well expect you to be there for Alfred when he needs you, and I’m merely providing the means.”

With a start, Paul realized how prophetic the words were—Byron died in the middle of January, with a snowstorm brewing in Bishop. If Paul had waited even an hour longer, the car wouldn’t have made it past the city limits.

“One more thing,” Byron said. “I know you won’t accept money, so I’ve left stocks and certificates of deposit in your name. I’d never pressure you to do something you didn’t want, though I hope someday you’ll have the children of your own you’ve always talked about, and this is my present to them. With the exception of what I’m leaving the others, the remainder of my estate belongs to Alfred, as I know you wouldn’t take it.”

Though still afraid of being considered ungrateful, that his life wasn’t about to change as drastically as Paul’d feared brought an enormous sense of relief. He liked things the way they were, only wishing his uncle were still alive to be a part of it and one day meet the children who’d be the recipients of such generosity.

The next statement came as no surprise; in fact, he’d expected it. “I have two favors I’d like to ask, though I know I don’t even need to voice the first one. Take care of Alfred, will you? He’s not well, and he’s as stubborn as you are when it comes to admitting he needs help.

“The second thing is: keep your heart and mind open. You never know when you’ll meet someone perfect for you, and always bear in mind that what you need and what you think you want are two entirely different things.”

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.”

W
HILE
the 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.