Page 48 of Unwanted Vows

“Next item on the agenda,” Richard says, “Andrew, now that you are stateside, will you take over as CEO of Lane Enterprises?”

The forkful of pancakes that had been en route to my mouth pauses in mid-air. “I’d not anticipated doing so,” I say slowly. “Do you need to turn it over to me?”

“No, no,” Richard flapped a hand at me. “Just checking. Now is not a good time for a power struggle between brothers. Leland is content with his role as Prince Ildogis, and is concerned with what to do about Mountain Hold, when the lava cools enough for people to get back to it. I believe he has in mind to pass it to the oldest Iskander brother.”

“I thought the mines were destroyed,” I say.

“You’d have to ask him. But I think he and Tulok were discussing the fertility of volcanic ash, and other bi-products of volcanic activity,” Richard commented.

“I see,” I return. Could Mountain Hold be made habitable? That was a wrinkle I’d not expected. Good to know that there is a plan in place, and that there will not be a power struggle within the family. I was personally eager to return to practicing medicine, and had no desire to run anything.

“Who is in power there?” I ask, making the fork continue its journey to my mouth. I was no longer hungry, but the body needed fuel.

“Technically, Leland still is,” Richard replies. “In actual fact, the heat from the magma is boss. I wouldn’t want to go hiking there.”

“Next thing . . .” Richard starts to say.

“I need to go have a long sit-down talk with Grandfather,” I say. “I have no problem with Leland turning it over to Cole Iskander. But the last thing this world needs is for the old man to somehow re-enact the Boer wars – here or there. I’m fairly certain he has some sort of power agenda lined up with me or Paul as the center of it.”

“Isn’t that the same thing that sent you to Africa ten years ago?” Richard asks, helping himself to the last of the pancakes.

“In broad outlines, yes,” I say, placing my fork on my plate beside my half-eaten pancakes. “I am not cut out to be a mob boss, or gangland chief, or whatever you want to call it. I have no desire to inherit Grandfather’s turf.”

“Godfather,” Paul chirps. “Like the movie.”

There it was. The very comparison I did not want to have made. But my astute son was not wrong.

I make my voice calm and conversational, despite my inner turmoil, “I do not see any Godfather-like lifestyle changes in our immediate future,” I say firmly, cutting into my pancake, just to give my hands something to do.

“What about pot farms?” my nine-year-old son says. “Pot’s legal now.”

“Paul!” Maddy exclaims. “Where and when did you hear about marijuana?”

“I overheard Slugger talking to some of the older kids about how people used to go to jail for it, but now you could get a prescription for it. So if you can get it as medicine, it can’t be so bad can it?” Paul’s eyes are big, as he answers his mother’s question.

She just drops her face into her palm.

I have mixed feelings about marijuana, and I do not want to muddy the waters by going into it here and now. Growing and selling it skates too close to some of the activities I suspect my grandfather of dabbling in, and is on the milder end of things at that. In truth, legalizing it might have much the same effect as legalizing distilling alcohol. All the same, I was glad not to be required to make a judgment call on the issue.

“Not going into farming anything,” I say. “Perhaps you might have a word with your son, Richard. He seems to have acquired some peculiar ideas.”

But Paul had hit on one of my fears about what Grandfather Aims might want. And it wasn’t even my deepest fear.

A MOMENT OF NORMALCY

MADDY

The apartment attached to the clinic was small only by Lane family standards. By inner city standards, it was a palace. It had an open floor plan, with the kitchen, living room, and dining room all flowed into one another. Soft native rugs were scattered across the clay tile floors. The walls were a neutral, soft beige, perfect for adding framed artwork.

The smaller bedroom easily accommodated a double bed, a huge dresser, and opened onto a walk-in closet. The larger one could easily double as a second living room.

I look over at Andrew as we stand in the wide hallway, and he gives me a nod, indicating the smaller room with a quirk of an eyebrow. We were quickly learning to read each other’s cues. It felt odd, but kind of good, to share decisions.

“Put my things and Andrew’s in the small bedroom,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Charles asked. “It might be a little close for sharing after a while.”

I shake my head. “Andrew and I will be sleeping in our bedroom. We will have the living room and kitchen where we can place computers or similar items. Our apartment and the attached patio will be Paul’s world until we can get this mess straightened out. He needs the space to . . .to . . .do kid things,” I end lamely.

---