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“So first, I entered into a deal with a man with dementia,” he scoffs. “And then I talked him out of a deal he originally wanted to make. Which is it?”
“What if he did have dementia?” I ask slyly.
I hope I make him wonder if I am telling the truth.
“Then the original deal he wanted to make with you is void, too,” he says without batting an eye.
“It wasn’t a deal. It was a will, signed and recorded when he was of sound mind,” I say.
“Who are you?”he asks. Now he’s the one backing up. “Where do you come from?”
“John Mair was my mom’s brother,” I say.
And that’s all I say. I don’t give too much away. I watched Jack squirm. But then he takes a slow, deep breath through his nose and leans close to me.
“Did he have dementia?” he asks, barely above a whisper.
“That would be a matter of his medical records, wouldn’t it?” I ask, struggling to keep my cool. “Because I don’t think justhaving a prescription of something would be enough proof to satisfy you.”
I never lift my gaze from him. It is a contest of wills that can only end when one of us explodes in passion or rage – one or the other. This man is messing with my head – and while he’s at it – my core. Another day and time, we might be having a very different conversation. Or not doing much speaking at all.
“Better not play with me, little girl,” he warns smoothly.
“I am not a little girl,” I reply. “I am a grown woman.”
Jack’s face sparks with surprise. I think he’s so rich that people are afraid to talk to him like I am now. Or maybe no one’s suggested he’s middle-aged before.
“And I am a college graduate,” I say.
“Who lived with her uncle,” he mocks.
“I took care of him,” I coldly corrected him. “It’s called compassion. I might be speaking over your head at this point.”
For some reason, we are still but a breath apart. As if unnerved, Jack stands up straight. He looks around. He slumps.
“Guys, apparently, I wasn’t clear when I said you could go earlier. I think we can wrap up for the day,” he says.
The camera crew quickly lowered their equipment and walked toward their van.
“You too,” he says. “I want you to leave.”
“Where?” I ask. “I live here.”
He has a thing he does when he is caught up short. He bats his eyes like he is signaling in Morse code.
“I bought this over a month ago,” he says. “You can’t be serious. There’s no water or electricity.”
I gaze at him silently, waiting for him to catch on. It’s fun to see him so easily wound up.
“Are you telling me that no one shut off the utilities?” he asks.
“Yes, and all my stuff is still there,” I say. “Would you like to come inside?”
Jack does a double take. I squint.
“What do you think I meant, Mr. Houston?” I ask. “Jeezus, I was just asking if you even bothered to tour the Calypso.”
“No, I never did,” he admits.
