Page 6 of Jordan

Jennifer was two years younger than he was and Henrietta, four years his junior. He had made one last effort to look out for them when he discovered that his mother had chosen men for them to marry.

Both their husbands were prominent lawyers who now worked for the company. Frick and frack, was what Jordan referred to them as. The two men were as humorless as corpses and had little or no opinion other than what was told to them by Harry and Jacqline Wainwright. He despised them on principle.

He could also see that his sisters were not happy. They rarely smiled and were the exact replica of their mother. It was depressing to see. Blowing smoke in the air, he tilted his head and watched as it curled and drifted towards the clear blue of the sky with the silver orb of the moon, surrounded by stars that looked as if they were near enough to be touched.

Flicking the cigar away, he wrapped his jacket around him and headed for the door.

His thoughts meandered like the smoke, drifting between memories and plans. He felt the weight of his family's expectations pressing on him, a burden he desperately wanted to shake off. He walked towards the cabin, his steps crunching on the gravel and fallen leaves. Each footfall a reminder of the solitude he craved.

Inside, the cabin was as he remembered; rustic and simple, with the smell of aged wood and faint traces of past fires lingering in the air. He tossed his jacket on an old armchair and moved to the fireplace, where a few logs were stacked. Striking a match, he felt a sense of satisfaction as the flames caught and began to flicker, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

As the fire grew, so did his resolve. He knew he needed to confront his parents. His mind was set on breaking free from the entangled web of control and manipulation. Sitting on the worn-out sofa, he stretched his legs out and leaned his head back. He was going to have to think of something fast. And the time had come for him to move out. Find a place of his own. He knew that was going to be met with strenuous objections. He had avoideddoing so before now, because he could not stand the constant argument and looks of disappointment.

But to hell with all that, he decided. He was an adult and in charge of his own destiny. Besides, the manor had started to feel overcrowded. His parents expectations were like strangleholds around his neck, something that needed to be removed. He would spend the night here, thinking of something to accomplish that. Perhaps it was time he lived elsewhere. God knew he could manage on his own and it was not like he was close to his family. He felt more like a stranger in that house than anything else. He could live anywhere. They had properties in several countries.

The weight of depression descended as he thought about his career. Wainwright Holdings was a multifaceted company that had its tentacles into everything from farming, real estate, banking, and minor investments in several vineyards. They were also into logging. Jordan was not one to sit in an office. Yes, he had one of course at the corporate building, but he was into overseeing the various renovations and acquisitions. Right now, they were building an artifacts museum, which was in its final stages of completion. He did not want to leave at this point. He had started the project and was going to see it through.

The warmth of the fire began to spread through the room, enveloping him in a cocoon of comfort. Jordan leaned back, closing his eyes, listening to the crackling of the flames, and the distant calls of night creatures. He felt a calmness he hadn't experienced in years, a calmness that signaled the beginning of a new chapter in his life. He was going to have to find a solution to the problem dogging his footsteps and soon.

Chapter 3

As if in sympathy to the occasion, the weather had taken a turn. The sun was blocked out by angry gray clouds. The small chapel had been surprisingly full. Sybil Simpson had not been a popular or well-liked woman or even a sociable one. She had preferred her own company. But her dedication to her church could not be questioned. She had not participated in any of the outreach programs, but come rain or shine, she would be seen making her way briskly to the local Methodist church. And she had miserly paid her tithes.

Julesa had a feeling that was the reason for the overwhelming support. Standing in the front pew and being greeted by people who were curious to take a look at the girl who had left Winter's Peak and made something of herself.

She responded in polite tones, discouraging any further conversation as she went through the ritual. The minister was brief and to the point, which was gratifying. And one of the church ladies had offered to read the eulogy, which was not a detailed one. She had led a quiet and simple life and hadsomehow managed to live through the scandal surrounding her brother.

Now she was alone at the graveside. Rev. Blake had left, after patting her awkwardly and insisting that she call him if there was anything she needed.

"She was one of us and so were you."

Was she? Wrapping her long, black cashmere jacket more securely around the plain black dress, she wandered over to her mother's grave. Julesa had brought flowers for her and her dad. Gladiolas and lilies. Her throat burned as she stared at the tombstone. There had been an argument as to whether he should be buried in the cemetery. After all, he had killed himself and such a thing was considered to be a mortal sin. And he had never been religious.

She recalled him laughing and commenting that religions were for people who did not know better. And he had no intention of sitting Sunday after Sunday, listening to a man who claims to know the way.

Feeling the tears trickling down her cheeks, she lifted a hand to brush them aside. Hearing the footsteps crunching behind her, she composed herself and turned to offer polite conversation before taking her leave.

"Ms. Simpson." The man was well dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece suit and a somber gray tie. His hair was slickly combed over to cover the balding patch in the middle. He looked vaguely familiar, and she realized she had seen him as she was leaving the chapel.

"Yes?"

His smile was forced and did not quite meet his pale blue eyes.

"I am sorry for your loss." She accepted the hand he extended reluctantly, feeling the dryness of his palm.

"Thanks. I have to--"

"I am here representing the Wainwright's family." Taking out a gold card holder from his breast pocket, he flipped it open and gave her a card.

"You're a lawyer."

"For the company, yes. I know this is an inappropriate time, but we want to purchase your aunt's property."

"Excuse me?" She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "Let me get this straight. You approached me while I just laid my aunt to rest and proposed a business deal? Are you for real?"

"I would like to make an appointment at your earliest convenience--"

"Leave me the hell alone. Now." Gripping her jacket around her, she sent him a blazing glance that had him walking away.

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