Page 81 of Just Like Starting Over
“You know what I mean.”
“And it is areallynice car.”
Mike growls in frustration and I smile. “Don’t you care about the family business?”
“That’s a hard no.”
“I need you,” he says with heat. “I need your help with this.”
“Oh, well. Too bad for you.”
“For fuck’s sake, Jake, I’m not asking for a kidney,” Mike says, so vehement that he catches my attention. My brother is the most serene guy I know. I sit up, wondering what’s really the matter. He continues, his voice hard. “I’m asking you to attend a champagne reception, in Toronto, on behalf of Cavendish Enterprises. It’s not like signing you up for waterboarding.”
I am interested in this response. What could make Mike use a word that never crosses his lips? “You never know,” I say, mostly to be provocative. “It could be awful. Those receptions often are.” I’ve already decided to go, on the basis of that one word, but Mike doesn’t need to know it yet.
“Jake, I’m begging you.”
“Now, you sound desperate.”
He loses it big-time and I wish I had popcorn.
“I am desperate!” Mike roars, then lowers his voice with obvious effort. His frustration comes through the line in waves. “I’ve just been sick for the better part of a week, Dad is making trouble about everything imaginable, I never get a day off and the tomatoes…”
“The tomatoes,” I agree, understanding all toowell. God, I hate tomatoes. Three summers of picking those suckers for twelve hours a day in a sweltering greenhouse only made me run as far away from Empire as quickly as I could – and stay away. I still remove them from my salad. It’s a question of principle.
Maybe I should have gone to Australia instead of Toronto.
“You’re probably sitting there in a five-thousand-dollar suit?—”
“Ten,” I interject calmly, admiring the quality of the wool.
“—looking out the window of your fancy office trying to choose which yacht you’ll buy this weekend or which gorgeous blonde you’ll do first.”
Which blonde will I do first? It’s a good question. I spin in my chair, entertained.
“Plus, I’ve got Augustine Rhodes lighting fires around the perimeter, and Dad meeting him more than halfway,” Mike says. “Did you know that Luke is back? And, and – well, never mind that.”
Ooo, what was that about? Does Mike have a love interest?
“But you,” he fumes. “Youcan’t even spend two hours at a black-tie event, all expenses covered, to save me eight hours of driving to Toronto and back.” He takes a deep breath for his big finish, and concludes with gusto. “Screw you, Jake.”
I want to give him a round of applause, but he might take it the wrong way. In my view, it’s about time Mike lost it.
Past time.
“I’ll go,” I say softly before he can end the call.
There’s a beat of silence, no doubt as he seethes at me. This is not unlike tricking him out of his Popsicle when we were kids. He’s glaring at his phone, almost certainly, too pissed off to say anything more. Mike, the man of few words, can be rendered silent by anger.
I, on the other hand, become breathtakingly articulatewhen I’m mad. Furious, I will spontaneously compose and deliver a doctoral thesis. (It’s a gift.)
I make a joke to break the ice, just like old times. “But all expenses aren’t covered, unless you’re going to pay my billing rate.”
Mike exhales hard and makes a choking sound that could be a laugh. “There are moments when I think you can’t be more of a dick, then you prove me wrong.” His tone has changed, despite his words. He sounds his usual amiable self.
“Thank you.” I put my feet up on my desk, content that my work is done.
These are beautiful shoes, no doubt about it. Italian. And perfectly polished, too.
