“Nonsense. You’re on the board. You bought 30 percent of the shares from Irene and Clara when your father died. It was your cash that enabled us to move the premises out of your father’s house. Of course you have a say.”
“Perhaps, but to be honest, I doubt I have any ideas to contribute. Clara, you, Irene—you’ve been here, you’re involved in the daily operations, you know what the competition is doing, you’ve got your fingers on the pulse of it all the time. In the newspaper business, that’s vital. I’m just a silent investor who’s been thousands of miles away.”
As he spoke, he felt again that familiar restlessness of spirit that had haunted him for so long, and the frustration that always came with it.
What do I want from life?he wondered. A question Marjorie had asked him, one he’d been hard put to find an answer for. If heaps of money and total freedom weren’t enough to satisfy him, what would be?
“You’re far more than an investor,” Rex said, bringing his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Deverill Publishing was supposed to be yours by right.”
“Right of primogeniture, you mean?” Jonathan grinned. “That’s your aristocratic lineage talking, Lord Galbraith. The Deverills are much too middle-class for such things.”
Rex chuckled. “Nonetheless, Clara, Irene, and I all agree that you have the right to be involved.” He paused and took a swallow of whiskey. “If you want to be.”
The comment was offhand, casual, and yet, Jonathan sensed it was nothing of the kind. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not just inviting me to sit in on a board meeting while I’m passing through town?”
Rex hesitated. “Clara, Irene, and I discussed your return in depth before you arrived,” he said at last, “and we all agreed that if you wanted back in, you’d be welcome.”
Jonathan blinked, taken aback. “Come back into Deverill Publishing in an active role?”
“Yes. You mustn’t think I’m jumping the gun by telling you this. Clara felt you might be more open to the possibility of returning if she was not the one presenting it.”
“And she’s all right with this idea?”
“She was the one who suggested it,” Rex told him, much to his amazement. “But she said she didn’t want you to feel obligated to accept out of any misplaced sense of guilt. Nonetheless, she and Irene want you to know that there’s always a place for you here.”
“But I’m going to South Africa.”
“This is an open offer, naturally. You could take it up on your return. I’m presenting it now as food for thought, something to consider while you’re away.”
“But what would be my duties?”
“Editorial director is one possibility. Or perhaps you could start a magazine division. Or books. Whatever you wanted would be on the table.”
“Whatever I wanted,” he repeated thoughtfully, staring down into his glass. “There’s the rub, as they say.”
Rex didn’t comment, and the silence allowed Jonathan to consider the offer without interruption. He was tempted, he had to admit. A big part of what he’d once hoped so desperately to regain handed to him on a silver platter, just like that. Such a simple solution, so easy, so safe. The past all wiped out, like wiping a slate clean.
Uncertain what to say, he laughed a little. “You’ve caught me by surprise. I didn’t think Clara would let me anywhere near the company, after I bailed on her last time.”
“Your sisters want you involved.”
“You mean they want me home,” he corrected, smiling a little.
“That, too. But they feel it’s only right, since the whole thing was supposed to come to you anyway. Your grandfather wanted it that way.”
“Then the old boy should have made a will.” Oddly, he felt none of the old bitterness as he spoke. His words were a mere statement of fact.
“That’s a mistake we can rectify, at least to some extent. We can make a place for you.”
“Ah, but that’s just it,” he said, realizing that although he might not know what he wanted, he knew what he didn’t. “I don’t want a place made for me.”
“I’ve phrased it badly—”
“No, no. It wouldn’t matter how you phrased it, or who presented it, or what the responsibilities would be. The truth is—” He broke off, considering what he was about to do, then he did it, tossing the last shred of all his old dreams out the window because they were dead and gone and could not be made to live again.
“Deverill Publishing isn’t mine anymore,” he said. “Yes, I know, I own 30 percent, and so does Irene, but the person the company really belongs to now is Clara. She’s the true captain of this ship. She’s earned it, by her guts and her years of hard work. And perhaps it’s terribly plebeian of me, but I think the one who’s done the work and taken the risks, not the one who walked away, should be the one to reap the rewards.”
“I see.” Rex was silent a minute, then he said, “So, it’s off to Africa, then?”
