Jake swears, flicking open each drawer in turn. “This will take forever,” he says under his breath. “Can you get me a table, Mike? Maybe one of those big folding ones, set up there.” He points to the Oriental carpet before the French doors.
“Are you seriously giving me a job?”
“Are you seriously trying to delay it? The sooner we figure out the exact state of the corporation and uncover whatever plans Dad made for its future, the better.”
“Just seems a little fast.”
“And what’s going to change if we sit here and cry for a day?”
I shake my head and look across the room before meeting his gaze again. “You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and it’s too late for me to teach you that fine art, so just find a table, please.”
“Anything else, your majesty?”
Any sarcasm is completely lost on Jake. “No. That’ll do for a start.”
I head out and find a table in the basement. Amazingly, Madison is up and dressed. She helps me carry it into the study. “Hey Jake,” she says, but Jake dismisses her with a wave.
He’s loosened his tie and is scowling into the very crowded desk drawers. “I need an extra lifetime to sort this out,” he mutters.
“Ethan will need a ride home from the hospital,” Madison says quietly and leaves. I assume that means she’s going to Havelock.
“Why don’t you open that bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch I gave Dad a decade ago.” Jake points with precision. “It’s in that liquor cabinet, sealed like the day it came from the distillery.”
“Hardly seems like the time for a celebration,” I say.
Jake braces his hands on his hips. “All right, how about this: there’s no point in buying the really good stuff if you’re going to keep it locked away until you can only use it to clean your drains. I’ve had a shock. You’ve had a shock. I’ve driven half the night. You’ve been up all night. We deserve a shot, not any bloody coffee.”
There is logic in that. I turn away tofind the bottle.
“What did you say to him anyway?”
“Me?”
“You look freaked. Tell me.”
“Well, first I quit. That was earlier in the evening.”
“Probably not without provocation.”
“I don’t think so.”
But Jake isn’t listening to me. He’s frowning at a piece of paper. “Who keeps a receipt from a barber? It’s four years old.”
I shrug, because the answer is obvious.
“Then I took issue with him keeping my daughter from me and threatening her.” I crack the seal on the bottle, get out a couple of glasses and pour.
Jake looks up and blinks. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Then Ihavetaught you something. Definitely worthy of celebration. Make mine a double,” Jake says. “No ice.”
I’m tempted to tell him that I’m not a waiter, but he’s shaking that receipt.
“And who pays fifteen bucks for a haircut?”
