Сергей Редькин – Hide-and-Seek (страница 11)

My mother and Lucy had been inseparable when they were young until Lucy got swept off her feet by a young dashing motorist, George, who happened to stop by the chateau one summer day for a cold drink. Apparently, the feeling was mutual because only a few weeks later they announced their engagement to everyone’s surprise. What was supposed to be a magnificent love story ended up abruptly with George’s sudden death in an unfortunate car accident just before they were going to get married. He loved speed and fast cars. Lucy never found another man who could win her heart and had been keeping his photo in a silver locket on her person ever since.

We used to go to Chateau de Rossignol often when we were kids. Even though, it was much smaller than our house, I quite liked the ambience and my French-Russian grandparents when I was a kid. When I became a teenager, however, the place didn’t seem cool enough for me to spend my “precious” time away from my friends. It was a decision I regretted later when my grandparents passed away and I didn’t have a chance to see them anymore.

After what happened to Charlie, my mother insisted on moving to the chateau and my father reluctantly agreed. He didn’t want to leave his ancestral home, but he loved my mother more. At the time, Lucy was taking care of the place. My parents took the valet and the housekeeper with them. The rest of the employees were given generous severance payments and had been let go, except Harry and Benny. I hardly visited them there, being more occupied with whatever I thought was important at the time.

This time around I tried to spend as much time with my mother as I could, but the preparations for the funeral, the burial itself, a few meetings with our lawyers and the subsequent paperwork took up pretty much all my time over the next a few weeks. I was glad that she had her elder sister Lucy around. I liked Lucy. She was a nice lady who didn’t mind us kids singing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” every time we saw her. She would laugh and sing along. She couldn’t care less what other people thought about her being a spinster. She had been with my grandparents until they died and then took care of the estate.

The clock on Jared’s offer was ticking and I–as the new owner–had to make the decision. When my father was finally resting under the black marble tomb my mother had ordered at the back of our French estate and the endless stream of visitors finally seemed to dry up, I decided to have a chat with her.

Lucy was out and my mother and I were sitting in the library, with some of the books from our house, and having a drink. After being married to my father for forty years, my mother never took up having scotch as her nightcap, but that evening she asked me to pour her some. She was holding the glass, smelling the aroma from time to time but never touching the drink itself.

“Now that you’re the owner, what are you going to do with the house?” my mother asked as if she had read my mind.

“That’s what I was going to talk with father and you about when I told you I was coming.”

“Out with it then,” she said and smelled the scotch in her hand.

“Well, I think I’m going to sell it. Do you remember the construction project I mentioned to you some time ago? Cottages for some well-off folks in the eastern part of the estate.”

“Your grandfather’s pig farm?”

“Yes. I want to build a small community there.”

I did not feel like sharing all the details of the deal with my mother; she wouldn’t have been interested anyway.

“As much I want to get rid of it, I still don’t understand why you’re selling the house. It’s at least a mile from there, isn’t it?”

“You see, Mother, I got a good offer for it. I’ll have some disposable cash for the project, and I have a few other things I’d like to invest in, like bitcoin and property. Besides, with your share, you won’t need to think about money for…” I stopped, not knowing how to end the sentence.

She smiled. “For the rest of my life?” She looked at me and put her hand on mine. “Mon chéri, I don’t want you to worry about me. Besides, I don’t think I have too many years left in me, and I will be following your father soon,” she said.

“Don’t say that.”

“Sell it!” she said and finally took a sip from her glass.

I looked at her reaction and admired the determination with which she swallowed the drink she hated. She wrinkled her face at the strength of the drink.

“Who’s buying it?” she said when she regained her composure.

“Jared Shannon,” I said, and I was about to tell her the whole story when she suddenly put her glass down.

“Susan’s son?”

“Do you remember him?”

She looked away for a minute, without saying anything, and then she gave a chuckle.

“Might as well. We reap what we sow, don’t we?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she said and stood up. “I’m rather tired and I think I’ll go to bed now.”

She was on the way out of the library when she stopped and looked at me.

“You know, he sent a card with condolences and a big bouquet of flowers.”

“Who did? Jared?”

“Yes,” she said and left the library.

Chapter 11

Mr. Goldberg was waiting for me outside Jared’s office building—as always, on his phone, checking the latest developments in his small legal empire. He was wearing his body armor: a dark blue Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suit and a red silk tie by Dege & Skinner with a washed red snail design. He had a white custom-made shirt from the same shop. This fact wasn’t supposed to be known by outsiders, as one of the oldest tailors on The Row kept their client list confidential. “Easy does it” was Mr. Goldberg’s motto, and the snails were a reminder of it. He knew his threads well, and I respected him for that even more than for his outstanding legal skills and knowledge.

I had expected his attire and wanted to match his style with a look from The Row myself—somewhat contemporary and sleek British style. I wore my trusted Richard James double-breasted grey suit with a pale blue cotton shirt. No tie. My feet were guarded by a pair of chukka boots in suede from the same shop. I was ready to sign the deal and start the project.

The last time we had seen each other had been at the funeral, and, outside the family, he was the first person I notified of my intention to sell the house. I didn’t think he was happy about that, but he was a professional and I was the owner and his client. The client was always right.

“Ready?” he asked, putting down his phone and shaking my hand.

“Let’s get it over with.”

When we went in, we were greeted by Jared’s assistant, an attractive young woman in black pants and a tight white blouse that complemented her upper torso rather nicely, who was waiting for us in the hall.

“The team is upstairs. Mr. Shannon might join us today as well,” she said.

Mr. Goldberg and I looked at each other. It wasn’t planned but wasn’t unexpected either. We had discussed the probability of that on the phone the day before, along with the content of the agreement we were supposed to sign today.

“It’s an honor to finally meet him,” he said to the assistant.

I don’t think he really felt that way, but he was a polite man and had to say something.

“Right this way,” she said, showing us to the elevator.

Once again, we found ourselves in the meeting room with the same long table and some delicious looking hors d'oeuvres and a variety of beverages. I didn’t remember this abundance at our last meeting, but it was nice to see this sort of hospitality. Someone obviously wanted to keep us fed and happy while finalizing the deal. I would rather see an ice bucket with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and, perhaps, some Beluga Caviar.

The team was ready indeed. Half a dozen men and women, mostly in their thirties, with their laptops and serious faces were waiting for us in the room. We shook hands with everyone. They were all wearing smart casual outfits and the pair of us looked a bit overdressed and much older.

“Shall we get this show on the road then?” I said with a smile, rubbed my hands and sat down at the table.

The contract and the transfer deed were ready on the table to be reviewed and signed. I noticed that there were Montblanc Rollerball pens next to Mr. Goldberg’s and my copies. My father liked those. Being one of the old-school pen lovers, he preferred fountain pens though. I picked it up and looked at the assistant.

“A small gift from Mr. Shannon,” she said with a smile.

I nodded and looked at Mr. Goldberg. He was happy with it. We both were.

“Shall we sign now, or should we wait for Mr. Shannon?” I asked, unscrewing my new pen’s cap.

“Mr. Ford here,” she pointed at a man in blue jeans and a lighter blue blazer over a black T-shirt with a tiger print on it. “He will sign the contract on behalf of the company, but you can sign it first,” she said.

So we did. No fuss. It took a minute. The deal was half done. Then Mr. Tiger-on-my-T-shirt signed his copies.

“The keys will only be handed to the buyer once the paperwork and money transfer have been completed, which will take a few weeks,” the assistant stated, collecting their copies of the documents. “Mr. Shannon, however, is willing to wait for a month or more to give you sufficient time to relocate your belongings.”