Page 3 of I Think Olive You
Then I call for a car. A doorman rushes to open the front doors for me and I wait on the corner for a driver to take me into Midtown to the office. Thomas’s building. My father’s legacy—now technically mine. The business? I’m not sure what to call it anymore.
And up on the forty-sixth floor, my father’s—my—CFO is waiting.
Offices always smell dusty to me. And this one is no exception. No matter how often the cleaning crew comes or how strong the candle's scent in the corner is, particles sit on the back of my throat and give me the urge to clear the discomfort. But I resist, and I even go so far as to remove my sunglasses so I don’t look too rude. Though after ignoring a dozen calls from him, I’m sure it doesn’t do shit.
My father’s former lawyer-turned-CFO-turned-my-mentor—Alan—puts a lot of effort into trying to look younger. But I remember him balding when I was a kid, and no amount of expensive hair and glue can erase the image. His face is bloated with agents to smooth out the frown and worry lines that come with thirty-some years as a corporate lawyer—and a lifetime of being a tight-assed fuckwad.
“Matt Palmer, thank you for joining me.” Finally, unsaid but implied.
“It must have been important for you to go to such lengths to reach me.” Calling my mom must have killed him. I try to keep the drollness from my tone but from the tightening around Alan’s eyes, I haven’t succeeded.
It’s not my fault Alan has so much Botox in his skin he can’t frown properly anymore—or that my mother took a huge chunk of money in my parents’ divorce—money Alan would have far preferred to stay in the company for his bonuses.
“It is a matter of some urgency, I’m afraid.” Alan steeples his hands in front of his lips after he speaks, as if thinking very hard about what he plans to say next.
I stare, waiting. No sense in giving the man a reaction when I’m sure that’s what he wants. Since my father’s death, I’ve made it a point to ignore my father’s “right-hand man” after what that fucker said at the funeral. No amount of time will get him on my good side.
Alan gives in with a barely-suppressed sigh before pulling out a stack of papers from a drawer.
“As you know, it’s been a little complicated untangling Thomas’ affairs.”
Business and pleasure.
For once, I agree with my inner asshole.
“Yes, though I’d have thought by this point, you’d have handled most, if not all of it,” I say. It is his job, after all—the one I’m technically paying for now. Alan convinced the board to let him prepare me—the CEO-in-waiting and majority shareholder by a smidge.
Questioning Alan’s ability like this is enough to piss him off. I know I don’t help the situation when something big passes his desk and I have to come in to sign off. Although irresponsible, I’ve enjoyed making this “transitionary” process as inconvenient as possible for him.
“And yet what your father left behind grows messier by the day.” Alan shrugs and I’m not sure if the double meaning is deliberate.
“Just get to the point.” I’m tired of this pissing contest, the metaphorical fencing I have no desire to dodge and dance for.
“You’ve come into some property.”
Not a huge surprise. Not considering some of the other assets and responsibilities Thomas Palmer left behind. My loft is one of those, so I can’t see why this piece of property would garner such an emergent response from Alan.
“Okay?” Again, unwilling to give even an inch.
“It’s not a sole ownership situation, hence the sensitivity around timing.”
“I’m sure you’ve dealt with enough of these matters in the last year. You should be well-versed in handling this.” I shift in my chair, ready to get up. The rough woven thread digs into my palm where I grip the armrest.
Alan flushes slightly, the first indication I’ve seen on the man’s face to imply any genuine unease.
“Am I wrong?” I push, enjoying this moment far more than I should.
Alan sighs, the sound rushed as if he gulps in air out of frustration alone. “No. Er, yes.” His nostrils flare as he struggles to answer correctly.
“This is not within my purview,” Alan says. “This piece of land was purchased before your father started the corporation. As such, I have no authority over any legal decisions. Since you have not appointed me as your lawyer—and this doesn’t involve the company—you need to be the one to make the call on this.”
No way in hell will I ever appoint this stain of a person as my lawyer. Still, it’s a better outcome than I expected. I’d assumed the worst, deservedly, but this is shades better than bankruptcy or a lawsuit. Before the corporation… I struggle to comprehend a time when my father hadn’t been in a three-piece suit and five hours late coming home—a ghost more than an example. Strange, his absence doesn’t feel all that different in death.
There never seemed to be a time before all of this.
“Prior to the corporation?” It sounds stupid repeating it, but I still can’t believe it. I’ve been spoon-fed the PR piece that my father showed up on American soil with a dream and a hundred dollars in his pocket. All bullshit, of course, but it makes for a heck of a byline.
Alan gives a tight-lipped attempt at a smile and nods.