Chapter Three
pulled my sunglasses out of the front pocket of my sport coat as I scanned the terminal for the chauffeur who was supposed to take me to my father's funeral. When I didn't immediately see him, I pulled out my phone to dial the car service. On the screen was a message that read, "Car waiting at the end of the International Terminal. Luggage has been sent to the house."
"Well, I'll be damned," I muttered as I put the glasses on and quickly walked toward the end of the terminal. There I found Jimmy, my dad's driver, waiting next to the Lincoln. I called, "Hey, Jimmy!"
The man turned and nodded as he opened the car door. "Mr. Jackson, good to see you."
"How are you holding up, Jimmy?" I asked as I looked at him. Jimmy Branson had been my father's driver for almost 20 years. He'd started driving for my father just after turning 18, and my father had treated him well. Jimmy called all of us by our courtesy titles and our given first names. Everyone, that was, except my father. Jimmy had never called his employer anything but Mr. Yates.
"I'm fine, Mr. Jackson," he nodded. The corners of his mouth and eyes were pulled downward, and the dark shadows under his eyes told me he hadn't slept much since my father died.
"Seriously, are you sure you're okay to drive?" I asked as my mind raced ahead to the funeral home. I was going to have to bolster my courage if I was going to spend the rest of the evening with my mother and brother.
"I'm fine, Mr. Jackson," Jimmy repeated as he held the door open and waited for me to climb inside. I shrugged and slid into the car. Jimmy closed the door quietly. He went around to the driver's side where he slid in and put the car into drive.
As we glided away from the terminal, I poured myself a scotch, sipping it as I looked out the window. I watched as Jimmy skirted Brooklyn and headed into Manhattan, and I tried to imagine the scene I was going to walk into.
My father, Bernard Yates, had been a formidable businessman who'd worked his way up. Starting as a boy who'd opened a small diaper service in Brooklyn, he quickly moved on to owning and running Baby Steps, one of the most successful baby supply companies in the country. He'd built each rung of the business with great care and attention, and as a result, he'd been beloved by his employees and customers.
This funeral was going to be difficult for many reasons, not the least of which was that I had not seen my family for almost a decade. I'd been busy building my business and, once I'd sold it, I took off sailing. As much as I could be, I was on the yachts I'd bought with the money from the selling my company. I spent it before my father could convince me to buy a large portion of stock with the money. I'd been fortunate to enter the market at the beginning of the start-up boom and to have gotten out of it before the market crashed.
While my father and I had had many disagreements over how I should live my life, the one area we’d always seen eye-to-eye on was money. When I’d made my fortune, he’d suggested that I put the majority of it into a family trust that would pay out a substantial allowance every month. I’d agreed because I could see how the investment would benefit me and, after having my lawyer look it over, I agreed to the set up.
"Jimmy, do you remember the last time you picked me up at the airport?" I asked as I poured myself another scotch and leaned back in the leather seat.
"That would have been April 4, 2006, Mr. Jackson," Jimmy replied without taking his eyes off the road. "You were home after you graduated. I took you back to the airport the next day."
"Mmm-hmm," I nodded as I looked out the window, recalling the trip that had ended after my father and I had disagreed about my post-graduate path. I'd told him that I wasn't going to follow in his footsteps and join the family business, and he'd told me that I was ungrateful. I could have a year to travel and sow my wild oats, but that if I didn't come back and join the company after that, I would no longer be welcome in his home.
At breakfast the next morning, I'd told him there was no way I was going to be tied to a business that had no corporate vision and that refused to come into the 21st century. He had ordered me to leave. My mother had stood by as I packed my things and waved goodbye as Jimmy drove me to the airport to catch my flight back to Barcelona.
I wondered if Jimmy remembered the way that visit had ended. I thought about asking, but as I swallowed the last of my drink, feeling it burn its way down my throat, I decided that I really didn't want to know.
I leaned forward to pour myself a third drink. Jimmy's eyes flicked up to look at me in the rearview mirror.
"You might not want to do that, Mr. Jackson," he said quietly, staring forward. "Your mother is going to need you to be on top of things today."
"Good point, Jimmy," I said, feeling the shame rising in my chest. It was like my father was reaching out from the grave to remind me of all the ways I was still failing him. I grabbed the bottle and poured a third drink muttering, "Fuck it. It's not my funeral."
I felt the alcohol work its magic. It loosened my limbs and relaxed me as it bolstered my courage. I'd go to the funeral, pay my respects, say goodbye to my mother, then get the hell out of the city, and never look back.