I take a chair near daddy’s desk, Ginny and Malcolm at my side. Felix squeezes my shoulder as he moves to the back of the room, fading into the shadows.
“If everyone is present,” Harding begins. He shuffles a stack of papers and looks around expectedly.
“We are.” Malcolm sounds exasperated like Harding has already worn him down.
Judd Harding is a man who sticks to the rules. It’s a wonder he held his job as my father’s attorney for so many years, given that Angus MacLaine wasn’t one to follow any rules. I suppose since my father didn’t have a conscience, he had to employ one. Now Harding is Malcolm’s censor, and my brother doesn’t look happy about it.
I shift in my chair, crossing my legs at the ankle. A perpetual, and seemingly inexhaustible, energy vibrates in my bones. It’s been buzzing through me for the last week, and I can’t seem to release it. Even now, moments before one of the most important events in my life, I can barely hold still. I want to believe it’s a symptom of grief, but it hadn’t started the day my father died. It began at his funeral. It began with an entirely different problem and that problem has a name—one I won’t allow myself to think, even though I can’t get him out of my head.
“Stop fidgeting,” Ginny hisses under her breath. “I swear you’re as bad as Ellie.”
“It’s a MacLaine thing,” I say sweetly, knowing she hates it when I remind her that she’s not an actual MacLaine.
“This is the last will and testament of Angus MacLaine,” Harding reads, oblivious to us. “To my son, Malcolm, I bequeath the following…”
My brother tenses with anticipation. In a way, this is the ultimate Christmas morning and we’ve been on the verge of it our entire lives. Every present my father bought himself is now up for grabs, including this house. We’ve spent our entire lives toeing the line, like most children do, in anticipation of Santa Claus. Better watch out. Better not cry. Our father was always watching. Now we would see which one of us did a better job. I hold no illusions about which of us held our father’s favor.
“My collection of cars except for the Roadster. I also leave to him the office in Nashville. A fifteen percent stake in MacLaine Media, and my membership at the following clubs…”
It’s not what any of us expect. Malcolm clutches the arms of his chair, white-knuckled and rigid waiting for Harding to finish the list of memberships. When the lawyer pauses, Malcolm asks in a strained voice, “Is that all?”
“There’s more, of course.” Harding uses his best stay-calm, lawyer voice, which only indicates Malcolm should worry.
Maybe it’s my father’s last test of patience. Dangle the ultimate carrot over our noses and see who snaps at it first.
“To Adair, I bequeath the 1956 Jaguar XK140 Roadster, the penthouse at The Nashville Eaton, Bluebird Press, and a fifteen percent stake in MacLaine Media.”
Some of my inheritance I expect. Some of it I only wished for. The question remains, though, what about the rest?
“What about the house?” Malcolm demands, sounding torn between anger and confusion. “You’ve only accounted for thirty percent of his holdings. What about the rest? What about the house in Tuscany? The flat in London?”
Harding’s lips turn down in a grim smile. He doesn’t sound nearly as calm this time. “There’s more.”
“Your father wished this to remain a secret until the reading of his will in the hopes that the situation would be resolved before his death. Most of his real estate assets were liquidated over the last few years to buy back as much of the company as he could. Unfortunately, death holds no respect for unfinished business.” He pauses, the silence ominous. “As of right now, forty-nine percent of MacLaine Media is in the hands of private investors.”
“What?” This finishes Malcolm. He jumps from his chair and begins to pace the room. “Forty-nine percent?”
“I told you that MacLaine Media divested itself of some of its holdings,” Harding explains. He slips off his reading glasses and stares at my brother.
“No one warned me how much he’d sold,” Malcolm seethes. “Who bought these shares?”
“I believe you met one of the parties at his funeral last week.”
Considering Malcolm’s obsession with the family business, I understand his shock. Who spoke with Malcolm at Daddy’s funeral? Why had he kept this from me? My father prided himself on retaining MacLaine Media for the family. It’s one of the reasons we remain privately owned.
“He said he’d never allow the family to go below a sixty percent stake in the company,” I say slowly. Fifty-one percent: that’s all we have left under our control. One wrong move and we’ll lose the majority share and, more importantly, the majority vote. We could lose control over the company entirely if that happens.
“Why would we sell any of the company?” Ginny asks.
Malcolm’s nostrils flair as though angry that she deigned to speak.
“It was the only way to survive in the wireless age,” I explain, recalling the journalism class I’d taken at Valmont University my first year. “Newspapers were never going to compete against social media. If we wanted to keep the company privately held we had to bring in venture capital so we could diversify. It was the only option.”
“You’re an expert on this now?” Malcolm says with disgust. “I don’t remember seeing you at any business meetings.”
“Was I invited?” I ask coldly. “You and Daddy assumed I didn’t keep up with the family business.”
Realization
