Page 14 of Smuggler's Cove
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Jackson had acclimated to the new circumstances rather quickly. He was excited to have a friend, and Mrs. Foster made the best chocolate-chip cookies. His mother would bring him to the Fosters’ house in the morning, then she’d go to work. He stayed with Mrs. Foster until his mother got home in time to make dinner. Aunt Betty and Uncle George brought Kirby home every weekend to keep the family unit as close as possible. Betty and Rita slept in Rita’s room, and Uncle George slept on the sofa. Kirby and Jackson were in their usual twin beds, playing like brothers should. Rita loved seeing her sons together, and she missed Kirby so much, but Betty and George convinced her that it would be no trouble for them to keep the boy with them during the week—at least until he was old enough to go to school.
Rita visited J.T. at the hospital at least once a week. And once a week, she was reminded that this was the way life was going to be for a while. Maybe forever.
This arrangement went on for the next two years. During the summers, both boys stayed with Betty and George. It gave Rita an opportunity to put more hours in and make more money. It was throughout that time when Jackson began to understand the importance of money. Rita made sure he did. Everything she did was for the sake of money. Money for food. Money for house payments. Money for electricity. Money for gas for the car. And with careful planning, money for schooling when the boys got older.
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By the time Jackson was in high school, he learned the art of finesse. If you said pleasant things to people, you could get them to do things for you, even if you didn’t mean it. He was fascinated by the Eddie Haskell character onLeave It to Beaver. Eddie always complimented Beaver’s mother, June Cleaver. He would have a line that would be akin to “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, Mrs. Cleaver.” She would respond with a “Thank you, Eddie,” and give Mr. Cleaver an eye roll. Everyone knew Eddie was disingenuous. He just didn’t know that everyone else knew. So Jackson decided he would have to be better; he honed his skill at compliments and made them sound more sincere than they were. He got particularly good at it and charmed his teachers. If he didn’t do well on a test, he’d pluck at their heartstrings explaining how his father, “a war hero,” was in the hospital, and his mother didn’t have time to help him with homework. That excuse worked for a while. His father never regained consciousness and passed away from kidney failure, and he milked that excuse until he graduated.
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Jackson also learned that dressing well got you further, and he offered to help his mother with the laundry. By now he was able to fit into his father’s clothes. Even though they had been sitting in the closet for eight years, with a little TLC, he could convert some of them into his own wardrobe. He ironed his own shirts and pressed creases into his trousers. He used Vitalis Hair Tonic, advertised as popular with upscale gents. After ridding his face of any peach fuzz, he’d splash a few drops of English Leather in his hands, rub them together, and pat his jawline. He believed if you were well groomed, you could talk your way in or out of anything.
Jackson was physically fit and played on the school’s baseball team. Most of his classmates weren’t as confident as he was, and Jackson had no trouble finding dates. He just never fell in love. That was one emotion he strategically put in a vault. The only loving relationship he observed was between his aunt and uncle. But they were a different sort. As far as he was concerned, love was for losers. He was never sure if his parents loved each other. It was doubtful.
When he turned eighteen, he got accepted to a local community college. He wanted to go into finance. The business of money. From there, he chose a four-year school where no one knew him or his family. That was his opportunity to reinvent himself. He was Jackson Taylor, descendant of Zachary Taylor, twelfth president of the United States. No one was going to check. His father was a decorated hero and died of injuries from the war. No one was going to check. His family owned farm country in the south. Not entirely a lie, but no one was going to check on that, either.
Jackson got his degree in finance and moved to New York. He took a job at a small banking firm and brown-nosed his way into management. He fashioned himself as a member of thehaut monde. One of the gentry. Cream of the crop. He would charm himself into the high life, no matter what it took.
Jackson Taylor reinvented his life, yet the harder he tried to be less like his father, the more he emulated him. He had no empathy. He was a cheat. A substance abuser. An emotional wasteland. But none of that mattered. Not to him, anyway.
* * *
It was obvious that Kirby was the opposite of his brother. He was meant to be outdoors. He enjoyed hiking in the woods and fishing with Uncle George. As Kirby got older, his uncle taught him how to handle a small motorboat. They’d hitch the craft to Uncle George’s truck and tow it to the boat launch on the bay, where they would spend the good part of the morning clamming. Kirby also learned how to set a crab trap, clean, and filet fish. When fluke, also known as “summer flounder,” were running, they would catch dozens of the popular fish. Kirby was intrigued that flounder had two eyes on one side of its head. Uncle George explained that the fish live at the bottom, and one eye eventually migrates to meet up with the other one on top. He also pointed out that the summer flounder’s head faced left, and the winter flounder faced right, and was slightly darker. It was nature’s mysteries that interested Kirby, and the way nature and wildlife adapted. Neither George nor Kirby had any interest in hunting. They saw no reason to kill animals when you could go to the grocery store.
Kirby had no interest in college or working in an office, but his mother urged him to get a degree in something. It was the typical “something you can fall back on” advice. To satisfy himself and his mother, he enrolled at the Maritime College in New York State. It was either that or risk being drafted into the army. Not that he wasn’t patriotic, but he didn’t want to serve in a fruitless war. His brother escaped it by a year.
After Kirby got his degree, he was still not the least bit interested in a desk job and went to work on a deep-sea fishing rig. It took him out for weeks at a time, but it paid good money. After five years of hazards on the high seas, and near-death experiences during life-threatening storms, he decided he’d tempted fate too many times. He was able to save enough to put a down payment on a small bait and tackle shop along the shore, and that’s where he stayed.
Kirby and Jackson led two separate lives, only seeing each other on holidays and other family events. Jackson and Gwen only lived fifty miles away in Manhattan, but it might as well have been another world. Kirby enjoyed spending time with his niece and nephew when they were young, but visiting was always a challenge. His brother had become a big financial honcho and was very particular about inviting Kirby to any events. Only family gatherings were acceptable to Jackson until their mother passed away. That’s when the brothers became estranged.
Kirby made a life for himself doing something he thoroughly enjoyed. It saddened him that he had no real family, but he always remembered Madison and Lincoln’s birthdays, and Gwen made sure her children remembered his, even if Gwen hid it from her husband.
Kirby was well-liked by his friends and his water-loving colleagues, and they were crestfallen when he died at the age of seventy-five from a heart attack. The year was 2025. His mates held a simple memorial at Bahr’s Landing, but it wasn’t until several weeks later when Madison, now forty-eight, and Lincoln, forty-six, got word of his passing. Both felt pangs of guilt, realizing their only contact with their uncle had been through the mail and infrequent phone calls over the years. They never understood why their father wasn’t close to his brother. Madison and Lincoln were thick as thieves. Had there been irreconcilable differences? Over what? Uncle Kirby was a gentle soul. Kind. Generous. What was it that their father disdained? Eventually Madison and Lincoln would discover the secrets her father had buried.
Chapter Three
Madison
Madison Taylor grew up surrounded by wealth and had little idea about the world outside of her safe and privileged orbit. Her friends were hand-picked by her parents, as were her clothes, her school, and her activities. She was to learn how to play the piano, take ballet lessons, and when old enough, tennis and skiing were on her list.
Madison was a happy child, and she enjoyed the many luxuries that were afforded to her. Her father enrolled her in a preschool when she was three. She made friends, but her favorite playmate was Olivia Martinez. She was the daughter of Sandra, Gwen’s best friend. Jackson wasn’t thrilled with the idea that his daughter was keeping company with someone whose mother married “the guy from the mailroom.” Gwen suggested Jackson could help the Martinez family with a retirement fund. “There’s a one-hundred-thousand-dollar buy-in to be a client,” he scoffed. “I doubt he has that kind of money.”
“But they’re our friends,” Gwen persisted.
“They’reyourfriends, Gwen.” For Jackson, everything was a transaction, including friendship. He saw no value unless it elevated him financially or socially. As far as he was concerned, Sandra’s family offered neither, forcing Gwen to do a work-around so she and her daughter could keep their best friends in their life. Gwen was not going to allow Jackson to interfere in her relationship with Sandra, or Madison’s with Olivia. Gwen would plan outings in places where running into her husband was remote. Gwen and Madison had their own little secret they promised each other in a pinky-swear. Gwen may have surrendered to the trappings of the rich, but she still had integrity and loyalty, something that had faded from her husband. She wondered if he had either at any point in time.
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In a few short years, Jackson had turned into an elitist snob, determined to insinuate himself into the old-money crowd. But the façade wore thin. After a year, most of the neighbors realized he was too slick for their style. He loved to flash his money around. Jackson never missed an opportunity to quote the price of something he recently purchased. As far as they were concerned, he was the personification of the wordgauche. They had no qualms regarding Gwen. She was a good sort, and a good mother, but Jackson Taylor was insufferable. It was equally tedious for Gwen, and she began to distance herself from him as much as she could.
* * *
When Madison completed kindergarten, her father planned a lavish party at the Waldorf Astoria. He invited all of Madison’s schoolmates and their parents. It was over the top, with an invitation list hovering around one hundred guests. Gwen wanted to have a simple gathering at their house, but Jackson needed a grand excuse to garner more clients, so he created an opportunity. He had his assistant make the necessary arrangements and left Gwen out of all the decisions. Jackson insisted it was to keep the details off her plate, but Gwen knew he was disingenuous. He simply wanted control, and no feedback from her.
It cost tens of thousands of dollars, complete with a basketball arcade game, a scavenger hunt, ring-toss, and clowns. But when the men with the painted faces, goofy hair, and red noses arrived, Madison freaked out. She ran from the grand ballroom, shrieking in fear. Gwen ran after her. Madison was hysterical. She could barely get the words out between sobs: “Mommy! Mommy! I’m scared! I’m scared! Please make them go away!” Gwen did her best to calm her child as Jackson stood in the doorway with a look of contempt, spun on his heel, and returned to his guests. Had he known his daughter better, he could have avoided the scene, yet he chose to be angry at his wife and child instead.
