Can’t, not ever.
“Daddy?” His voice is choked. Gasping. Thick. Small. “Dad, no.”
I get up. At some point, the hospice nurse turned off the machines. She’s waiting in the other room. Waiting to do…whatever happens now. For once, I choose to not be in charge of it.
I push past Dell but stop in the doorway, a foot away. Don’t look at him. I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.
Words bubble in my throat:
You missed it.
He died and you weren’t here.
Where were you?
But nothing comes out. The word died on my tongue.
“Delia?” It’s a whisper, thin, from Dell.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I just shake my head and walk away.
Chapter Four
Delia
I straightenmy blazer as I stand up. Quentin Albright Quince has called us into his office for the reading of the will—Mom, me, and Dell.
Mr. Quince needed a few minutes to get everything ready, so we’ve been in the waiting room outside his office. Mom and I are in side-by-side chairs, and I’m holding Mom’s hand. Dell is as far away from us as the room will allow—he’s scrolling on his phone, but I can tell he’s not really seeing anything. It’s just so he doesn’t have to look at us.
I put Mom between Dell and me, when we sit opposite the lawyer’s desk.
There’s shuffling of papers, and Quentin clears his throat. He’s old—he was Dad’s friend first, from childhood. He looks as emotional as I feel. Being a man, and an old-school traditionalist, he keeps it together.
“Ginny, Dell, Delia.” He scrapes a liver-spotted hand through his thinning hair, which is still as black as it is gray, despite his age. Funny how people age at different rates—Quentin could pass for ten years younger than he is, even though he’s six months older than Daddy. “No speeches, no reading the legal nonsense. Doug would’ve wanted me to cut right to the chase.”
Dell fidgets, his hands twisting a thread on his jeans. Mom rests a hand over his, as if we were in church and he was five all over again.
“What I will read is the important parts.” He clears his throat. “I, Douglas Bryan McKenna, being of sound mind and failing body, all that stuff.” Another hem and haw. “To my beloved, darling wife, Virginia, I leave the home and property, the acreage in Montana, and all of our other nonliquid assets. You’ll divvy them up or sell them or leave them to the kids as you see fit, in your own time, in your own way.” Quentin pauses, adjusts the gold wire-rimmed octagonal reading glasses on his nose. “To my children, Cordelia and Cordell, I leave the company, split fifty-fifty between them. I purchased back all the shares from Boyd and the others, for more than they’re worth. So now, you two own it, totally. Delia—Dee-Dee.” Quentin glances at me. “His words, not mine.”
“Dee-Dee. Quit your hollering. I know, and I’m sorry. It’s not fair, but it’s what I feel I must do. Dell—you get fifty percent of the company you haven’t spent a single second working for. Why? Because you don’t get a cent from the rest of my will if you don’t take possession and go to work earning it. Learn from your sister. She’s in charge. Listen to her. Work with her. Make me proud.” Quentin pauses. Looks from me to Dell and back. “There’s, um, a rather enormous sum of liquid assets that he’s divided between the two of you, but it’s conditional upon you working together for a period of at least six months before it’s released.” A pause. “Dell, the condition here applies specifically to you. Work with your sister for at least six months, or you forfeit the rest of your inheritance. Meaning, the total sum goes to Delia.”
I’m speechless.
McKenna Construction is MINE. It’s fuckingmine.I’veworked there as a paid employee since I was fourteen and legally able to be employed, and I was Daddy’s shadow before that.Iput in the thousands and thousands of hours.Ibuilt up the client base.Iexpanded operations as far south as San Diego and as far north as fucking Redding.
Idid all that.Me.
What has Dell done? Not a damn thing.
Spent money.
Fucked women.
Drank booze.
I strive for calm, and go maybe a little beyond it—my voice is quiet, thin as a razor, and colder than dry ice. “Is that all, Mr. Quince?”
He blinks at me. “The sum to be divided—”
