May sat in her rental car for several minutes trying to process what had just happened. Although she only spoke to her father occasionally over the last ten years, she believed he respected and trusted Preston Marbury. He’d mentioned his attorney prominently and fondly in the last few emails they’d exchanged. The man had been his lawyer for nearly a decade.

She had to admit, Mr. Marbury made things seem a little too easy and too good to be true, but she knew nothing of business and the thought of allowing someone to sell the company and hand her enough money to set her up for life seemed attractive.

May turned her thoughts to Mr. Jessup. The man had eavesdropped on their conversation; it was obvious. The note he left on her car rattled her. What did he mean by saying Preston Marbury was not her friend?  How would he know? And who the hell was Mr. Jessup, anyway?

She started the car but didn’t drive away, choosing to sit for another five minutes, thinking things through. Finally, she turned the engine off and walked back into Starbucks.

May found the blonde with red glasses who’d flirted with Mr. Jessup earlier. She had moved from her spot behind the register and was now serving as a barista, making coffee. May noted the named on her badge.

“Excuse me, Suzie,” May began. “I’m looking for the tall older man who you were talking to earlier.”

“Mr. Jessup?” she said, immediately.

“Yes.”

“He left.”

“I know. Do you know how to reach him?”

“Sure. He comes in here every morning, eight o’clock on the dot. You can set your watch by it.”

“And she does,” called out another barista, this one older than Suzie. Her badge read ‘Bertie.’ “We all do. Mr. Jessup is a total stud.”

Suzie and Bertie giggled.

“I’d like to speak with him sooner if possible,” May said.

“He’s retired, but he works part-time at the Oceanside Library,” a third barista, a black woman in her mid-forties named Anna Bell said.

“Does he work today?” May asked.

“Yes, he usually works on Wednesdays,” Anna Bell said.

“And how would you know?” Suzie asked.

“Let’s say, since I found out Mr. Jessup worked in the library, I’ve developed a fondness for fine literature.”

All three women giggled.

“Anna Bell, you are awful,” said Suzie.

“Don’t talk like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Anna Bell piped. “I see you flirting with the man every morning. I know you’re trying to break off a piece of that.”

“What can I say?” she replied. “He’s hot.”

“Thank you for your help,” May interjected. “How do I get to the library?”

 

 

May called the funeral home and postponed her appointment until later in the afternoon. She pulled into the library parking lot, checking her watch. It was now a few minutes past ten. The library was just opening. She saw the bright red older car Mr. Jessup had been driving and parked next to it. The chrome shield on the trunk of the car indicated it was a Chevelle Super Sport.

She shut off her vehicle’s engine and gave Mr. Jessup’s car a visual once over. It was obviously a muscle car from the 60s or 70s but meticulously restored. The cherry red paint looked fresh and bright. She glanced through the driver’s side window and noticed the leather bench seats were old but well maintained and polished to a shine. The steering wheel was large, and the dash looked like it was original, complete with an AM radio.

An AM radio. It made her chuckle.

She walked toward the library, noting the building looked old but well-maintained, though not as well-maintained as Mr. Jessup’s car.  At the counter was an elderly woman, with a look that was pure stereotypical librarian, complete with reading glasses resting on her chest, held in place by eyeglasses strap cords.  She wore a name badge.

“Excuse me, Lydia, I’m looking for Mr. Jessup,” May said as she approached the desk.

Lydia looked up and gazed at May solemnly. The librarian’s expression told her that she was not the first woman wandering in off the streets looking for Mr. Jessup.

“He’s stocking shelves. I think he’s in the Science Fiction section,” Lydia replied. She pointed to a group of shelves in the far corner of the library.

“Thank you,” May replied, her face reddening at the thought Ms. Lydia believed she was just another woman on the prowl for the hot librarian man.

Jorge Jessup was standing in the Science Fiction section exactly where Lydia said he would be. May had never been particularly attracted to older men. Jessup was hot, however, damn hot.  He seemed unaware she was standing there. He looked relaxed as he went through the motions of returning books to their appropriate places on the shelf. For the moment, anyway, the fact she was looking at the hottest man she’d seen in years was secondary to the confusion she was feeling. The man had eavesdropped on her conversation.

“Mr. Jessup,” May called in a soft whisper.

He looked up and made eye contact, showing no surprise.

“Ms. Major,” he replied. “I assumed I would see you again at some point, just not this soon.”

“I have questions for you,” she said. Her tone was cold.

He placed the book he was holding back on the cart, “The library just opened. No one is in the conference room. We can go in there.”

“Lead the way.”

The conference room was spacious, bright and clean.  He motioned for May to take a seat. She did so, speaking before the man even sat.

“Who do you think you are, listening in on my conversation?” she asked.

The man drew a breath and held it. His green eyes looked sad and remorseful.

“You have a right to be upset. I’m sorry,” he said. “I recognized you from the newspaper. I’m sorry I left you that note. It was none of my business. I apologize.”

“It was rude, yes, Mr. Jessup,” she said.

“I totally agree,” he replied. “Believe me. I’m not proud of it. From what I’ve read, you must feel as though you have the weight of the world on your shoulders. The last thing in the world you need is someone poking their nose where it doesn’t belong. It was inappropriate of me to butt in. I wanted to take the note back immediately after I left it. It was an insensitive thing to do.”

She was prepared for him to provide a lame excuse for listening in. She wanted him to—wanting to tell him off.  But he didn’t back pedal at all. He owned his mistake and apologized. The tone of sincerity in Jessup’s admission of guilt disarmed her. And the look of sadness in those dreamy blue eyes of his was making her melt. The anger she’d felt flittered away. She cleared her throat, “Apology accepted. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Understood,” he said. “I wish you the best. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be getting back to work.”

She paused, then nodded.

Jessup stood and walked toward the door.

“So, what did you mean by it?” she asked. “Why did you write, ‘That man is not your friend?’”

“Really, Ms. Major,” he replied. “It’s not my business. I was out of line. You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure it out. I really must get back to work.  Good day.”

“No, really,” she insisted. “I really want to know. What did you mean?”

Jessup paused, biting his lip as he considered what he would say. At the center of the conference table was a notepad with a cup filled with cheap pens. He pulled a pen from the cup and jotted something on a piece of paper from the notepad.  He slid the note across the table to May.

“Ask the lawyer if he is one of the six silent investors in your father’s company,” Jessup said.

“He was my father’s attorney,” May responded. “He said nothing about being an investor himself. Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“I’m not sure about that… legally,” he replied, “but ethically? If what I believe is true, you’d want to ask yourself if you want another investor representing your interests and your father’s interests. If it were me, I’d want a third party who doesn’t have a personal agenda.”

“It doesn’t matter,” May insisted. “If he were an investor, he would have told me.”

“Perhaps, but… ask him.”

May looked at the piece of paper Jessup had slid to her. There was a phone number written on it.

“Yours?” she asked.

He nodded, “You ask the lawyer is he’s a personal investor the next time you see him. See where that conversation takes you. If, after that, you want to talk you can call me. Good day, Ms. Major.”

Jessup left without another word.

May left the library and plugged the address of the funeral home into the navigation app on her phone. Her head was still buzzing from the conversation with Jessup.

Why would he think Mr. Marbury was one of the private investors, and even if he was, what difference would that make? She wondered, if the attorney was a private investor, why wouldn’t he say so? It would seem suspicious for him to leave that information out.

The Bridgeway and Sons Funeral Home was how May expected a funeral home to be. The outside of the building was warm and inviting. There was a long circular driveway leading to the entrance. They positioned mature plum trees at the corners of the impeccably maintained lawn. The inside was ghostly quiet but beautifully decorated with mahogany furniture.

After reading about Oceanside funeral homes online she chose Bridgeway primarily because of its lush appearance and its enormous sanctuary. It was the only choice large enough to hold the amount of people she expected to attend.  Her father’s personal secretary, Mrs. Sweeney, a woman she remembered from her childhood, was making most of the arrangements.

Mrs. Sweeney was a smart-looking black woman in her late sixties. When she began working for May’s father, she hadn’t even graduated high school, but showed an incredible gift for organization and planning. More importantly, he loved the way she managed people. She could be pleasant and accommodating or she could be stern and forceful when needed.  Her father used to say Mrs. Sweeney could charm the pants off the meanest men or shut them down and leave them speechless. Mrs. Sweeney took no shit off anyone, he often said, proudly. He loved that about her.

 Mike Major helped Mrs. Sweeney get her G.E.D. and then paid for online college courses. She’d been at his side for thirty-five years. Her four children all called him Uncle Mike. May was taking charge of the financial decisions regarding the funeral, but left everything else to Mrs. Sweeney.

After a brief tour by one of the owner’s sons, he introduced her to Sam Bridgeway, an elderly man with a cane who looked as though he might be taking advantage of his company’s services in the not-too-distant future.

Mr. Bridgeway took her and Mrs. Sweeney through all the service and casket options, an exhausting experience she just wanted to get past. Mr. Bridgeway walked them through the choice of caskets, each one more beautiful and expensive than the next. She asked Mrs. Sweeney to choose. She chose the most expensive casket and the most expensive service option. May didn’t really know if it was what her father wanted but she was getting the impression it’s what the town expected.

Toward the end of the tour, the moment had finally arrived; the moment she dreaded the most.  She would view her father’s remains. She had not seen her father in person in, what, six years now. She’d called him each Father’s Day and Christmas but most of their relationship was through email. They exchanged emails once a month or so. She had planned to come see him for Thanksgiving two years earlier, but those plans fell through at the last moment.

Mrs. Sweeney had picked out the clothes he wore. He never wore a suit to work but owned two designer ones he broke out for special occasions. May contended that her father would want to be buried in one of his casual outfits, since that’s what he wore the most, but Mrs. Sweeney insisted the town would accept nothing less than his finest suit. It embarrassed her to argue with Mrs. Sweeney, since she knew him far better than anyone else.  So, they went with Mike Major’s finest suit.

She gasped when she first saw him laid out in it. Her father was seventy-three and until his unexpected death, was considered in great health.  He’d spent the weekend before his death golfing and fishing, his two favorite activities. He was at home reading when the heart attack took him swiftly.

Because he was a powerful and wealthy man, May ordered an autopsy. Her father had his share of enemies in the business world. The autopsy came back clear—nothing unusual detected. Mike Major suffered a myocardial infarction, a common heart attack.

Even through the heavy makeup base, she thought her father looked old and pale, a shell of the imposing figure she remembered from her youth.

“He loved you,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

May was lost in thought and didn’t realize her father’s assistant walked in.

“I heard from the coroner this morning,” May said. “When the heart attacked happened, he went quickly.”

Mrs. Sweeney nodded, “At least he didn’t suffer.”

“He died alone,” May cried.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was a horrible daughter,” May continued.

“You were both alike, pig-headed and stubborn,” Mrs. Sweeney replied. “You were both caught up in your own worlds. He as so ashamed about the way he treated your mother. He didn’t think you’d ever forgive him, but it never stopped him from loving you.”

“He had a funny way of showing it.”

“As odd as it may seem, he showed his love for you to everyone but you,” Mrs. Sweeney said.

“What does that mean?” May asked.

“It means, he thought he’d lost you forever because of his behavior, so he worked hard to turn himself into a better man, a man you’d be proud of,” Mrs. Sweeney explained. “He built a homeless shelter. Did you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He also built a water park for children and two different wings onto the Oceanside Hospital. He was the hospital’s largest contributor, you know.”

“So I read in the paper,” May answered.

“And you should know, every time that man did something generous, he’d always ask me, ‘Do you think May would be proud of me?’”

“Really?”

“Yes… really.”

“How many guests are we expecting?”

“Hundreds,” she said. “There’s no way to tell for sure, but Mr. Bridgeway is renting a tent.  The east side of the sanctuary opens into the courtyard. They will set the tent up with chairs and video. We’ll take all comers, and honey, there will be a lot of comers. Your daddy was a loved man.”

“I’m coming to know,” May said. “How are you holding up?”

“I cried for two days,” she said. “I won’t lie. I loved that man like a brother. My children loved him, too. But he’s with the good Lord now, and I know he’s in a better place.”

“What happens now? What will you do?”

“Your father took care of me, dear, don’t you worry,” she said. “I intended to work with him until he retired, which I knew in my heart would be the day he died.  Your father left me a pension and a supplemental health insurance policy that will take care of everything Medicare doesn’t cover. I got a nice life insurance policy, too.”

May smiled, “I’m glad he took care of you.”

Mrs. Sweeney smiled and patted May on the shoulder, turning to leave.

“Mrs. Sweeney?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Did my father want to sell the company?”

“That’s a complicated question, sweetheart. You know I worked hard to support him but he had his private side, particularly when he or the company struggled. He always told me the key to living a long full life was to avoid worry. He never got me involved in the details. It’s not that he didn’t trust me. He was just protecting me.”

“I know, but you must have heard…”

“All I can really tell you is this,” she continued. “The last three months of his life, I’ve never seen him more stressed. The man was anxious all the time; he wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t eating.  I was so worried. He was carrying burdens no man should have to endure. His heart attack was not all that surprising.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sweeney.”

“Oh, one more thing,” she said. “Mr. Marbury asked me to tell you that there is a meeting with the investors this afternoon in the conference room at the office. He’d like you to be there at four o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.