If you sow hurt, you grow hurt.
I take a breath, then answer his question. “I didn’t tell you because I’d realized you manipulated me in the same way Malcolm did, and I knew you could talk me into staying. And I couldn’t, Bran. Not if I was going to be more than a pawn. Not if I was going to survive.”
“That’s a lot of big accusations, Frankie. And none of them fair.” For the first time in the years I’ve known him, Brandon lets anger slip into his voice.
I shrug. When my shoulders come down, a wave of relief rolls over me, taking with it the shame I’ve carried for years. Shame for trusting men I shouldn’t have. Shame over running from them. Shame for not being strong enough to stand up to Brandon or Dad.
I shed it all, like a thick winter coat that’s served its purpose.
Except the only purpose I can see for all that shame is that it drove me to Serenity Cove. And that’s where I found family. That’s where I found Cal.
“Don’t ring me again, Brandon. Don’t eventhinkabout contacting me. Not by mobile. Not by letter. Not by email. Not even by telegraph.” I push end, block and delete Brandon’s number, then sink into the couch cushions.
My hands shake. This is the first time I’ve really stood up to Brandon. Hopefully it’s the last time I’ll ever have to. But I’m grateful I had the chance to. Besides regaining another piece of the confidence I once had, I’ve had a bit of a revelation about Cal and what’s different about the way he treats me.
There’s no manipulation. Only support. Even when he thinks I’ve done something to hurt Serenity Cove and his family.
Then all I can think about is Cal trying to take Junie to the beach he grew up on and not being able to because of me. And Jo-Joe losing their contracts for avocados and beef while they’re still paying solicitor’s fees from fighting BIG.
I want to fix this. I want to erase the mistakes I’ve made that keep threatening people’s livelihoods and the town I’ve come to think of as home.
But it’s going to take money—lots of it. Money I don’t have.
Or, at least, money I don’t have access to.
Even if I did have access to my trust, I have no clue how liquid it is. Most of the money was put into stocks and other investments. I don’t even know how much is in the trust. There may not be enough to buy out the other partners in Wild Coast.
The only solution I can think of is to go to the one man who has the power and influence to stop what’s happening with Sanctuary. The same man, ironically, who set all of these problems in motion. And the last man on earth I ever thought I’d go to for help.
My dad.
Chapter 24
Frankie
Before going to Malcolm, I send an email to the partners at Wild Coast about my concerns and remind them of the agreement we made when I brought the Sanctuary project to them. I don’t expect an answer from them right away. They’ll have some side conversations, I’m sure. But I’d prefer to resolve everything nicely, if possible.
After I press send, I close my laptop and take a deep breath. It’s not even ten am yet, I feel like I’ve had a full day, and I still need to have a difficult conversation with Malcolm. It’s not one I can put off either, so I tuck my laptop under my arm and make my way to Malcolm’s office.
I pass Sybil on my way, who’s on her mobile with what sounds like one of Malcolm’s doctors. I point toward his office, and she nods her permission.
Not that I need permission or an appointment to see him anymore. Most of his time is spent in the hospital bed we’ve had set up in his office, along with a portable desk. It’s too hard for him to climb the stairs to his bedroom. He’d rather be in his office anyway, working when he feelsup to it—which isn’t often. He doesn’t have the strength for meetings and business, but he still tries. If I let him, he’ll die working, Bluetooth in his ear, waiting for one last call.
He’s in a race against time, and we all know it. Which is why, for the past month, most of my time—with Sybil’s help—has been spent nagging him to rest. Even when he agrees to, he doesn’t really rest. If Sybil’s not taking notes about what needs to happen, I am. He doesn’t want his employees or board members—or anyone—to know how sick he really is. So, most of his communication is done by memo and email.
Sybil’s delegated most of Malcolm’s responsibilities to various VP’s and CEO’s, some with his permission, some for his own good. He’s not sick like he was during the chemo treatments, but he’s weak and he’s in pain. He grits his teeth through it, mostly, only taking morphine if he's desperate.
I knock on his heavy office door before peeking my head inside. He’s at his main desk, but he’s not working. His head tilts forward, his chin resting on his chest, and for a second, I think he may have actually done it—died right there at his desk.
I rush to him, grab his wrist to check for a pulse and watch his chest for movement. He startles awake, and I exhale.
“You scared me.” I rest a hand on his shoulder.
With surprising tenderness, he pats my hand. “I’m okay. Just drifted off.”
“Why don’t you lie down for a bit, Dad?”
I’ve been calling Malcolm that again. Dad still sounds strange to my ears when I do, but every time, there’s a kind of softening that happens in his face and his body. Even in the air around us—maybe in my own body, too. The title has a sort of healing effect on our relationship.
