“Well, do better. For him.” Cal tilts his head toward the picture above the fireplace.
I let out a shaky breath. The photograph was taken during a family trip to Dreamland when my brothers and I were kids. Grandpa smiles into the lens despite my tiny arms wrapped around his neck in a chokehold. Declan stands by Grandpa’s side, caught in the middle of an eye roll while Cal raises two fingers behind his head. My father shows a rare sober smile as he wraps an arm around Grandpa’s shoulder. If I try hard enough, I can imagine Mom’s laugh as she snapped the photo. While the memory of her face is fuzzy, I can make out her smile if I think hard enough.
A weird scratchiness in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.
Residual allergies from spring in the city. That’s all.
I clear my irritated throat. “He would have hated this kind of show.” Although Grandpa was in the entertainment business, he disliked being the center of attention. The idea of all these people driving out to the edge of Chicago for him would have made his eyes roll if he was still here.
Cal shrugs. “He of all people knew what was expected of him.”
“A networking event disguised as a funeral?”
The side of Cal’s lips lifts into a small smile before falling back into a flat line. “You’re right. Grandpa would be horrified because he always said Sunday was a day of rest.”
“There’s no rest for the wicked.”
“And even less for the wealthy.” Declan stops by my other side. He stares at the crowd of people with an unrelenting scowl. My oldest brother has intimidating people down to a science, with everyone avoiding his pitch-black stare. His suit matches his dark hair, which only adds to his cloak and dagger look.
I’m somewhat jealous of Declan since people typically talk to me first, mistaking me as the nicest child because I happen to be the youngest. I might have been born last, but I most certainly wasn’t born yesterday. The only reason guests take the time to speak to us is because they want to stay within our good graces. That kind of fake treatment is to be expected. Especially when all the people we associate with have a moral compass pointed permanently toward hell.
An unknown couple walks up to the three of us. A woman pulls out a tissue from her purse to dab her dry eyes while her counterpart offers us his hand to shake. I look down at it like he might transfer a disease.
His cheeks flush as he tucks his hand back into his pocket. “I wanted to offer my condolences. I’m very sorry for your loss. Your grandfather—”
I tune him out with a nod. This is going to be one hell of a long night.
This one’s for you, Grandpa.
I stare down at the white envelope. My name is written across the front in my grandpa’s elegant cursive. I flip it over, finding it untampered with his signature Dreamland’s Princess Cara’s Castle wax seal.
The lawyer finishes passing out the other letters to my two brothers. “You’re required to read his individual letters prior to me reviewing Mr. Kane’s final will and testament.”
My throat tightens as I break the seal and pull out my letter. It’s dated exactly a week before Grandpa’s accident three years ago that led to his coma.
To my sweet little Rowan,
I choke back on a laugh. Sweet and little are the last words I’d use to describe myself since I’m as tall as an NBA player with the emotional range of a rock, but Grandpa was blissfully ignorant. It was the best thing about him and the absolute worst depending on the situation.
Although you’re a man now, you’ll always be the same little lad in my eyes. I still remember the day your mother gave birth to you like it was yesterday. You were the largest of the three, with these fat cheeks and a head full of dark hair that I was sadly jealous of. You sure had a pair of lungs in you and you wouldn’t stop crying until they handed you over to your mom. It was like everything was right in the world when you were in her arms.