6
Trystan
We sing hymns, ones I'm yanking the tunes for from the bottom of my childhood memories. Because of course I haven't been in church since I left this cradle of the South.
People I don't know eulogize about what a wonderful man my grandfather was. I try not to focus too hard on why we're here, but the long buried anger is clawing its way out of me. I loved him. But, no, he wasn't a wonderful man. He wasn't strong enough to stand up to his dragon wife. He wasn't strong enough to stop his daughter and grandson being kicked out. Perhaps he did give away lots of money to charities, but what does that really mean? I let out a harsh breath and pinch the bridge of my nose. Does it make you a better person if you give money to your church but don't take care of the emotional well-being of your own flesh and blood? My hand itches to go to my pocket to grab the phone and distract myself, instead I start running through the financials of my deal with MacMillen to keep my mood neutral. I think about my call with Mac, and how he reminded me I built my company from nothing. Nothing. I don't want anything from this family. They didn't want me, and now I've been fine without them. Whatever last ditch attempt my grandfather has made by including me in the will, I don't want. I promise myself I'll sign whatever it is over to my cousin Beau if he wants it.
This thought steels my resolve to pay my respects and then get the hell out of this town.
Finally the six pallbearers return to the front of the cathedral and heave the weight of the solid wood casket onto their shoulders again and walk solemnly down the aisle.
Maybe the best thing that ever happened to me was this family excommunicating my mother and me. Perhaps I wouldn't have had the same appetite and ambition without their cold shoulders. Maybe I'd be a plump, weak man like my uncle. He passes me then, glancing to the side as if he hears my thoughts. His eyes, so much like my mother's, reveal no recognition. He flicks them forward again. Following behind is Isabel Montgomery, and then a few others I don't recognize, but who seem to be important to the family. I should have slipped out before the recessional. Now I have to leave the church while people mill around outside exchanging solemn talk about how fitting the eulogy was and hope no one recognizes me.
If you were stuck in a church and there were angry villagers outside, how would you escape?
Emmy: That's happened to me before. It's best to stay inside.
I let out a bark of laughter, drawing the censured looks of a few last funeral attendees as they file past.
What did you do to make the villagers angry? I ask, buying into her make-believe for a moment.
Emmy: That's a story for another day. But if Father Pete is still there, tell him Emmy says hello and ask him for a shot of fortifying Irish Whiskey. He keeps some in the sacristy.
My God, this girl. If you take out the fact she stole my phone, she's a sparkling, fresh mountain brook on an otherwise shit-filled sewer of a day. I look up. The priest is at the doors of the church accepting thanks for his thoughtful sermon and wishing the last people well. I have no idea if it's Father Pete or if she just made that up. As much as a shot of alcohol right now would be welcome, I don't need to see my family with whiskey on my breath. I stand and make my way to the exit. I shake the priest's hand and then step into the bright South Carolina sun so I can head to the reading of the will.
The law offices of Ravenel & Maybank is on the first floor of the historic Sassaportas building overlooking King Street. Out the window of the reception area I can see all the brand name stores interspersed with Crogan's Jewel Box (the family jeweler) on down to Berlin's where even my twelve-year-old self remembers my grandfather used to buy all of his suits. I'm early, hoping to get my part done and dusted and not have to sit with Isabel Montgomery and have her flick her eyes over me again.
Unfortunately, the receptionist with the tight bun who introduces herself as Daisy informs me Mr. Ravenel, the family executor, is still on his way back from the reception. I park myself in a corner armchair and lament the fact I didn't bring my laptop in from the car so I can do some work. Pulling out Emmy's phone, I try and log into my email through a browser and can't remember the password because our IT guy makes me change it every month. My inability to get work done starts to make my skin crawl. Deciding I'll just call Dorothy, my assistant, I then freeze when I realize I don't have my own assistant's number memorized. Jesus. I know I know it. But I'm so agitated now I can't get my mind to bring it up. I loosen my tie and blink hard.
"Sir, can I get you anything?" The receptionist's voice makes my eyes snap open, and I become aware I've been sighing and shifting and generally climbing out of my skin. It crosses my mind I'm showing symptoms of a digital withdrawal.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"Water?" she presses, looking at me like I might lose my shit, and she's legitimately concerned she'll have to witness a grown man cry. If only she knew my agitation came from annoyance rather than grief.
She stands and moves around the desk toward the spring water dispenser in the corner, and I become aware of her tight black skirt suit and really long legs. She's cute too, in that librarian way. I let my eyes linger on her while she's not looking. It's inappropriate, I know, but I'd give my left nut for a distraction. Any distraction. She bends to retrieve a paper cup, and I suddenly veer from inappropriate to downright pervy. God, I'm going to miss my dating apps for the next couple of days. I have to catch a flight out of here tonight, get my phone back, and return to my life. Dragging my eyes away, I search the reading material on the table next to me for something to read. Golf Digest, Golf Digest, Good Housekeeping, and Golf Digest.
The receptionist clears her throat, and I look up to her holding out a cup of water with a smirk playing around her mouth. I glance back at the water machine and note the reflective plastic. Normally, not one to embarrass easily, I feel heat claw its way up my neck. "Thank you," I mumble, taking the water.
"Daisy," she says.
"What?"
"My name? It's Daisy."
"Yes, sorry. Thanks, Daisy."
No problem," she says huskily. Then she lays a hand on my shoulder. "Do you, uh, need to talk?" she asks and bites her bottom lip. "Maybe we could go out later?"
I stare at her a beat before the absurdity of her question hits me, and I snort out a laugh.
"No. But thank you." Is she seriously picking me up after a funeral? Talk about taking advantage of a situation. I'm reluctantly impressed.
She frowns, confused but not offended, then turns around to walk to the desk.
Sighing I pull out the phone again and text Emmy.
Any chance you can look up Dorothy's number and send it to me?
Two seconds later, the phone vibrates, and I see a contact come in a text. I dial Dorothy's number and check in on my messages and see about her cancelling the hotel and getting me on a flight out of here tonight. No point sticking around any longer than I have to. Then the door to the office suite opens and a tall, lanky, gray-haired man in a navy pinstriped suit enters.
"Mr. Montgomery, I presume?" He extends a hand, a fascinated look on his face. "We were wondering if you'd show up. Your grandfather always loved to have the last word. I'm sure he thanks you for indulging him."
I stand and accept his firm handshake. "Mr. Ravenel. Let's get this over with."
Mr. Ravenel stands at the door to his office ushering everyone in and indicating they should join me around the conference room table. I have already picked the prized seat halfway down with my back to the bright window when everyone else arrives.
Isabel Montgomery enters.
I stand, my insides rigid. My mother's years of schooling on manners are ingrained.
My grandmother has removed her hat, her gray hair is twisted against the back of her head, and her mourning attire of a black dress and small fitted jacket screams haut-couture. There was a time I wouldn't have recognized the lines in a well-made piece of clothing, but I do now. I've been relentless in my pursuit of only the best.
Her eyes are small and hard but somehow resigned. "Trystan." She nods.
"Isabel," I return. If she was expecting me to call her grandmother, she doesn't show her surprise. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Beau enters next, nodding at me with a small grin followed by my uncle and a young woman I don't recognize. Wait.
"Suzy?" I ask, struck with a memory of my small toe-headed cousin who followed her older brother, Beau, and me around like a shadow. I'm instantly transported back, and her soft brown eyes light up.
She could always get a smile out of me. Now is no different. I'd purposefully made myself forget Suzy and Beau, but looking at them now together, I can't understand why, for all the warm memories are right there to be picked over. Perhaps because they're interspersed with painful ones. I mentally slam the lid on the box closed.
Suzy smiles and leans over to shake my hand, giving it a squeeze. "Yep."
"Robert." I greet my uncle next, and he shakes my hand. I feel shaken and off base. I know I should have been prepared to be with these people again, but I'm not sure anything could have gotten me ready. My inner coldness toward Isabel Montgomery is only intensified in this situation.
Isabel sits at the head of the table where Mr. Ravenel has laid out a thick folder. The man quickly moves the folder to another place as if that had been his intention all along.
Then an older couple are shown in who look vaguely familiar. They're introduced as Magda and Jeremy, and I seem to remember Magda was the housekeeper and Jeremy took care of the maintenance at the Montgomery homes both in town and their country home out at Awendaw. If I remember rightly, it was a beautiful old plantation house.
"Shall we get this over with," Isabel says.
"Please," I agree. Sitting in this stifling room with people I never thought I'd have to think about ever again, much less see, is making my teeth ache. I work on my granite boardroom face. If I can stare down tight-fisted bankers and greedy venture capitalists, I can handle one old woman.
Mr. Ravenel shifts.
The sooner I can sign whatever needs to be signed, the better. Whatever token of affection my grandfather has left me to show he didn't forget my mother and me after all will be too little too late. I don't plan on leaving these offices with anything other than what I walked in with. I wouldn't even be here in the first place if I hadn't made a promise to my mother several years ago to come if I was called. But now that promise is kept, and this will be the last time I ever interact with them. I drum my fingers on the polished mahogany conference table as everyone is offered water and coffee.
"As you all know, my friend, the late Wilson Robert Beauregard Montgomery, the third, made me executor of his last will and testament. He also asked that it be read in a formal gathering of those named herein. And in two parts. Let's begin," Mr. Ravenel adds finally.