Jaxon
Two hours later we’re in the third-floor great room, the storied post from which my father commanded his business empire. There’s a desk set up with state-of-the-art broadcasting equipment.
I eye his very kingly chair. It’s bad enough that I’m reading a speech his PR guy wrote in order to calm the empire he built. No way will I sit in his chair. Too on the nose. “That chair. No. Get one from the dining room.”
Servants scramble.
Charley has taken the easy chair by the roaring fireplace. “Did nobody tell Uncle Cliff about the newfangled invention known as Zoom?” Charley asks.
“He would have no use for Zoom,” I say. “That would require showing his face and seeing and hearing others.”
“Ouch,” Charley says, wearing his usual good-natured grin.
A PR guy hands me a sheet of paper. “The address, Mr. Henningsly.”
I skim it. Frown. “We must not despair but rather soldier on toward a brighter future?” I read. “Who am I, Churchill?”
“This is the style your father preferred. People admired him deeply,” the PR man assures me, a subtle dig.
I stare down at the words, remembering self-important, high-handed proclamations like this addressed at me. Part of his fake image of goodness everybody fell for. It made me feel crazy growing up, everybody admiring my father when I knew the truth. Even Charley didn’t get it.
“This is bullshit,” I say.
“This is the style they are used to,” Barclay says. “It’s what the circumstance requires.”
“If you’re not going to do it right, why bother?” Charley says.
“Five minutes of your time,” Barclay says. “You keep the stock price nice and high for when you choose to sell.”
“Yes, I understand the concept,” I say.
“It’s good you’re doing this,” Charley says. “Reaching out a helping hand.”
“Don’t pretend I’m something I’m not,” I growl, adjusting the microphone, hating myself for doing this.
