SC-Epilogue, Part 6d

Feb – Jun 2002

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy’s art income and the inheritance from Nana C. changed our lives, although not the way money usually did. My salary alone was more than enough to cover household expenses, including what we put into investments and the girls’ college funds. We could travel when we wanted and afford luxuries like a private plane, so we decided to keep Christy’s money separate. At Fred’s suggestion, we hired a financial advisor to manage everything for her.

Moira Burns was a Scottish expat who’d been a British Army officer in her former life. She was a no-nonsense woman who reminded me of a self-portrait I’d seen once of Artemisia Gentileschi—slightly plump, red-cheeked, and with a wary expression that seemed habitual.

“Before we talk about a salary and monthly allowance,” she said, “let’s talk about a spending spree.”

“Yes, please,” Christy chirped.

“Tell me about the big things you want to buy and we’ll discuss them.”

Much to my amusement, Moira was serious about the discussion part. She immediately shot down some of Christy’s wilder ideas, like a private island, a yacht, and a ski lodge.

“None of those are practical,” she said. “You aren’t Richard Branson. Not yet, at least. Besides, they all require upkeep. I’m talking about a new car or—”

“Oh, oh, I know!” Christy said. “I want a Mercedes convertible. A red one!”

“That’s more like it.” Moira wrote it down. “What else?”

Christy wanted to replace her minivan with a new one. She also wanted shoes and purses and maybe some dresses.

“Oh, and a watch for Paul,” she added. “Maybe a new plane, too.”

Moira read my reactions before she answered, “Yes to the watch, no to the plane. What else?”

“Things for the girls, I suppose.”

“Good. What else?”

“Do you want a new car?” Christy asked me.

“No, but thank you.”

“Do we want to build the boathouse?”

“We can,” I said.

“We’d need something to put in it,” she hinted.

“Right,” Moira said. “What kind of boat?”

Christy actually bounced in her seat. “A ski boat. A fast one!”

“Anything else?”

Christy thought for a long moment but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Okay,” Moira said as she underlined things on the list. “I’ll set up a line of credit for the boathouse. I’ll arrange the financing for the cars and the other big purchases. And I’ll set up a new account for everything else.” She glanced at me. “Now, about this watch… Timex, Rolex, or Patek Philippe?”

I winced a little guiltily.

“Right.” She made a note. “Patek Philippe.”

“Why?” Christy wondered. “How much do they cost?”

Moira answered without looking up, “As much as a Mercedes convertible.”

“Oh, okay.” Christy’s blithe reaction earned a tight-lipped sigh from Moira.

“That’s why we hired you,” I said.

“I understand.”

She arranged everything over the next couple of weeks. She paid off Christy’s old credit cards and gave her a new one. Then she put her on a strict allowance. My jaw dropped when she told her the amount, but Moira acted like it was nothing.

“But I need to warn you,” she told Christy, “this is all you get for the month. You won’t get any more once you reach your limit, even if it’s still the first of the month.”

Christy normally would have argued, sulked, or simply “forgotten,” but she actually listened to Moira.

“Oh my gosh, Paul,” she said later, “she was so disappointed when I spent too much on the car.”

I barely controlled my reaction. I’d done the same thing! Why hadn’t it worked for me?

Do you really wanna know? the little head asked wryly.

Oh, shut up! No one asked you.

Christy still had a checking account and debit card for household expenses, but she stopped overspending with them too. At first I thought she must’ve balanced her checkbook, but she’d never done it before, not in the twenty-plus years I’d known her.

The answer was simpler, which made me wonder why I hadn’t thought of it. Moira had taught her the trick of calling the bank’s automated number to find out the balance. She’d even programmed the number into her cell phone for her.

Our lives improved dramatically once Christy had her own bank account. I still thought she spent too much, but I kept it to myself. It was her money, after all, and it made her happy. Besides I benefited from most of it, especially the lingerie and jewelry.

Looking back, I wish I could’ve frozen our lives at that point, the summer of 2002. Christy and I were both happy. Our marriage was healthy, and our careers were going well. She’d been sober almost a year and was determined to stay that way. She and Rich went to regular AA meetings at their church. The girls were happier than they’d been in a long time. Even the dogs seemed content.

Then we received a phone call from my mom.

✧ ✧ ✧

We headed to the airport the next day. My parents were already at the private terminal when we arrived. Trip and Wren were too, along with their kids. Our girls popped their seatbelts as soon as the SUV stopped moving, and Laurie and Emily opened the doors.

“Whoa! Take your bags with you,” I told them. “Dad’s taxi doesn’t do luggage.”

Laurie immediately reached into the back, but Emily looked like she wanted to argue. She saw me watching and grinned sheepishly. Then she retrieved Susie’s backpack and handed it to her before she grabbed her own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Laurie start to run toward the terminal before she realized that Davis would be watching. She was more self-conscious around him lately, and she slowed to a ladylike walk instead. Davis was thirteen and just like his father—tall, good-looking, athletic, and popular. He and Laurie had grown up together, almost brother and sister, but she’d begun to look at him differently.

Susie slammed the car door with the force of a gorilla. Then she and Emily raced past Laurie without a second thought. They didn’t care about Davis or boys or any of that mushy stuff. They just wanted to compare Bratz doll outfits with Missy.

I sighed. “This is just a big adventure to them.”

“They’re young,” Christy said. “No one close to them has died before.”

“Nana C.”

“She was old already. Besides, they remember 9/11 more than the funeral.”

“True.”

“What about you?” Christy said after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“No. But yeah.”

We talked for another minute before we headed inside with our suitcases. My mom had been crying, but I barely had time to hug her before my dad and Emily interrupted. She wanted to fly copilot, and he was fine with it.

He could handle the plane by himself, but two pilots were always safer. Emily had sixty hours of student flight time, but never in a plane as big as the King Air.

“Are you sure?” I asked Dad.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “She handles the radios and nav better than you do.”

“Gee, thanks!”

“Come on, Short Stuff,” he said to her. “Let’s go do the preflight walk-around.”

We boarded the plane about twenty minutes later, and I was glad I didn’t have to fly. I sank into a funk and didn’t snap out of it until we landed. The flight could’ve been one hour or five, but I wouldn’t have known the difference.

“Are you really okay?” Christy asked as we drove to the hotel.

“I will be,” I said. “We just have to get through the next few days.”

“Mmm. Why don’t I take the girls swimming before dinner?”

That made me smile. “You just want to go swimming yourself.”

“So sue me. You could come too. It might take your mind off it.”

Trip and Wren and their kids joined us at the pool, and we spent the rest of the afternoon acting like a couple of families on vacation. We weren’t, of course, but we pretended anyway.

We ate breakfast with my parents the next morning and then returned to our rooms to get ready. The memorial service was scheduled for eleven, and we wanted to arrive early.

Emily and I were dressed and ready by ten, but we were the only ones, as usual. Christy was putting on her makeup and Laurie was still in the shower. I wasn’t sure where Susie was, so I went looking for her. I found her in the corner in the adjoining room, staring out the window. She was dressed except for her shoes, although she hadn’t fixed her hair.

“Hey, Suse, it’s supposed to be hot,” I said. “Do you want to put your hair up?”

She didn’t react.

“Suse?” Nothing. “Susie?” Still nothing. “Hey, Boo,” I called, a little louder.

She blinked and looked away from the window. “What?”

I repeated my question in a normal voice, “Do you want to do anything with your hair?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Want some help?”

“Yes, please.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, and she moved to stand in front of me. I took a brush from the nightstand and pulled it through her dark hair. It was the same color as mine, but thick and naturally wavy, like Christy’s. Her eyes were Christy’s too, while the rest was all me, including her tendency to brood. At least I knew how to deal with it.

“Britney Spears?” I asked, shorthand for pigtails.

Susie shook her head.

“High pony?”

Another headshake.

“Okay. Then… how?”

“Hillary Duff, please.”

“Chopsticks?”

She nodded.

“Can do.”

I brushed for another minute before I pulled her hair into a ponytail-bun. She tugged a hairband from her wrist and handed it over her shoulder without a word. I snapped it around the ponytail and reached for the chopsticks. They were made to be hair ornaments, with little rhinestones on the thicker ends. I stuck two of them at right angles through the ponytail and then fluffed it out.

“Check in the mirror?”

Susie shook her head.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, although she was working up to something.

“Dad…?” she said at last. “I’ve been thinking… about my name.”

“What about it?”

“I think you should call me Susan now.”

“Why, sweetie?”

“Because she’d like it. Susan, I mean. Up in heaven.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Four days earlier, Susan MacLean had been sitting at a red light when a Ford F150 rear-ended her Cherokee. The other driver had been distracted by his cell phone. The impact knocked Susan’s car into the intersection. An oncoming tractor-trailer didn’t even have time to swerve. It slammed into the Cherokee on the driver’s side. Susan survived the second impact, but she died from her injuries before the medevac helicopter arrived. She was sixty-two, still so young.

Susan had never wanted to be a public spectacle, in life or in death, so her sons held a private memorial service by the lake at the Pines. The place looked much the same as it had six years earlier, when she’d announced that it would remain a nudist camp. Even the people were the same, although we wore somber looks instead of smiles, suits and dresses instead of sunscreen.

Kirk and Doug thanked everyone for coming and said a few words. They looked like I felt, haggard and still in shock. They reminded us that Susan’s graveside service would take place at Arlington National Cemetery. She wanted to be buried with her husband, Jack.

Several others spoke. I wanted to say a few words myself, but I couldn’t do it. I literally couldn’t. I tried several times, but my throat closed up and I had to blink back tears. I finally gave up and trusted that Susan would know what I felt in my heart.

Someone began singing “Amazing Grace.” Christy squeezed my hand and gave me a teary, comforting smile. Then she sang for both of us.

“Thank you all for coming,” Kirk said afterward. “The women from the shelter made lunch. It’s waiting for us in the clubhouse.”

I eventually found my voice, and I joined the others as we reminisced about Susan and her life. I heard more laughter than tears, but there were plenty of both.

Doug’s wife, Olivia, appeared beside me. She pressed a bracelet into my hand. The metal was warm from where she’d been holding it, and I knew what it was without looking at it.

“I took it from her jewelry box,” Olivia said. “She— Sorry. We talked about it. She gave me a list. She wanted you to have it.”

“Thanks. I…”

“I know,” Olivia said. “Me too.”

The charm bracelet didn’t have any real value—it was just a silver chain with six P’s—but it brought back a rush of memories. I had to suppress another wave of grief, so I dropped it into my pocket. It landed with a little jingle.

Susie tilted her head. “What was that?”

“Just a keepsake.”

Her forehead creased.

Olivia knelt and said, “It’s something to remember her by.”

“Susan?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Hey, Suse,” I suggested, “why don’t you tell Olivia about your name.”

“No,” Susie replied with seven-year-old dignity, “I think I should wait. It’s too soon.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“But she knows. God probably told her.”

Olivia stood as Doug approached.

“What’s this?” he asked. “About a name?”

“Susie was thinking about changing her name,” Olivia explained.

“I’m named after your mother,” Susie added, “but everyone calls me Susie. Or Suse. Sometimes Boo. Well, only my dad and sisters. Mom never calls me that. She only ever calls me Susie. Unless I’m in trouble. Then she calls me by my full name.” She did a pretty good imitation, “Susan Renée Hughes,” to amused chuckles. Then she turned serious again. “Only, I think she’d want everyone to call me Susan. Now, I mean.”

“I—” Doug managed a smile. “I think you’re right,” he said at last. “And she’d be proud of you for speaking up.”

Susie’s bright eyes glinted, just like her namesake. “I take after her, you know.”

“You do,” Doug laughed. “You certainly do.”

✧ ✧ ✧

Christy and I were fashionably late when we arrived at the attorney’s office the next morning. I gave the receptionist our names.

“Of course. Mr. Wei is expecting you. I’ll take you back.”

We followed her to a conference room, where a middle-aged man with Asian features rose to greet us. His salt-and-pepper hair was conservative, and he wore a dark gray linen suit. He looked respectable and even-tempered, exactly how I’d imagined when he’d told me on the phone that he was Susan’s executor.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hughes,” the receptionist told him.

We shook hands.

“Nathan Wei. Thanks for coming.” He was friendly and informal, and his accent was generic, California with a hint of South Carolina in the vowels. That made him a local instead of a recent transplant. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It was… a shock.”

“To say the least,” he agreed.

I glanced at the others around the conference table. Kirk and Dawn, Doug and Olivia, and Stacy and Jason all smiled or waved. Vonda Jarvis sat by herself and nodded a greeting. We’d seen everyone at the memorial, so we didn’t need to catch up. The attorney gestured toward a younger Black woman seated at his left.

“You’ve spoken to Tanisha, my assistant.”

“Yes.” We exchanged polite smiles. “Nice to meet you in person.”

“You too.”

“I believe you know everyone else,” Nathan finished. “Please, have a seat.”

“Sorry we’re late,” I said as I pulled out Christy’s chair for her. “We had a mix-up with childcare.”

“And by ‘mix-up,’” she admitted, “he means that I lost track of time.”

“That too.”

The others chuckled and the mood felt lighter, if only for a moment.

“Thank you again for coming,” Nathan said as he returned to his own chair at the head of the table. “And I’d like to reiterate my condolences.”

We murmured thanks, and he nodded to Tanisha, who began passing out slim binders.

“Here are copies of Mrs. MacLean’s will,” he said. He waited until we each had one before he continued, “She named many of you as beneficiaries…”

The attorney summarized the first part, which was standard stuff. Susan’s sons inherited the camp itself, all the undeveloped land, and her tangible personal property. She set up trusts for each of her grandsons, enough to pay for college and buy a house after they graduated, but not so much that they’d never have to work.

“Kirk and Doug each receive a 7.5 percent share of the total estate,” the attorney went on. “Vonda should have an updated number for us.”

She did, and Trip had been right about Susan’s net worth. Her sons’ combined 15 percent was still an eight-figure inheritance. Vonda was stunned to learn about her own 3 percent share, while Stacy and I each received 1 percent, which also came as a surprise.

“You know how Mom felt about you,” Kirk said to the three of us. “Vonda, you especially.”

Doug agreed with a somber nod.

“Indeed,” Nathan chimed in. Then he began reading where he’d left off, “The residue of the estate shall be placed in a trust, to be used at the discretion of the York-MacLean Foundation.”

She named five of us to the board: Kirk and Doug, along with Vonda, Stacy, and me.

“The foundation will continue Mrs. MacLean’s work,” the attorney read on, “to support women and girls, minorities and immigrants, and anyone who exists at the margins of society.”

That was typical Susan. She’d always done her best to help people, and she’d done it as long as I’d known her. She’d woven it into her life, an unbroken thread in the warp and the weft of everyday existence. Sometimes she’d done it with a personal touch, like with Stacy and me. Other times she’d used money and influence, like the women’s shelter, job training center, and day care.

I thought about all she’d done and felt her loss more keenly than ever. She’d been part of my own life for decades, from before I could even remember. And in the years since that fateful summer, the one of the storm and frozen peas, she’d been a lover and a friend, a mentor and a boss, a client and a business partner. Throughout it all, she’d been someone I admired, the kind of person I wanted to be.

I eventually returned to the present and realized that my life was at a crossroads. I could stay on my current path and enjoy a comfortable life, or I could follow Susan and do what she’d always done. I sat there and thought about it for what seemed like a long time, although it was probably less than a minute. Then I sighed and felt a profound sense of calm.

I’d made my choice long ago, back in the summer of 1978. I chose to grow up, and that has made all the difference.

✧ ✧ ✧

The End

✧ ✧ ✧

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Big Ed Magusson.

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