Reverb (35 page)

Edward must have known, must have felt my distance. There were surely many times he tried to reach me, but I wasn’t receptive, or outright rejected him, his mere presence a glaring reminder I was with him because my parents were dead.

Sun stretches across the study and lights up the face of the grandfather clock against the far wall near the walnut doors. I see my father standing in front of it, setting the shiny brass hands to the proper time. He turns to me as he shuts the glass door. ‘Time is all we will ever really possess, James. Use it wisely.’ I’m thirteen, and don’t care what Edward says. I was shut down, and he retreated. Howard nailed me. My father and I were one and the same.

“I’m so very sorry, Edward.” And my voice catches in my throat.
I’ve missed the opportunity to love you.
And I sit on the floor and weep, grieve his loss.

Don’t know how much time passes before I get it together and stop crying, wipe my face with my shirtsleeve and stand, slide
Rewards and Fairies
back on the shelf. It’s well into the morning when I finally leave the study to shower and shave. Just make the 10:00a.m. convening time, joining Elisabeth, Howard, Miles Bartlett, one of my father’s solicitors, along with a small team of others I don’t know, in the library for the reading of Edward’s Will. We all sit around the enormous maple table, Miles at the head doing the reading. The language is contractual legalese directing distribution and management of the family assets—companies, properties and holdings that are all part of the Whren Trust collection. I only understand about ten percent of it.

Elisabeth sits next to me. Hold her hand on the armrest of my chair. I’m made acutely aware I’m squeezing too tight when she twists my hand to unlace her fingers from mine, puts my hand on the armrest to squeeze, leaving her hand over mine.

Miles drones on, ultimately confirming what my father had told me—the Whren Trust has been left to me, but is to be overseen by Howard and managed by his team. The individual companies are to retain their current boards and to continue to function in their present incarnations. Upon Howard’s retirement or death, the management of the conglomerate will become my responsibility, or that of a suitable replacement for Howard with my consent.

Only one stipulation was directed solely at me. Upon my death, the Trust transfers to my blood heirs, or it will be dissolved as a distinct entity, its assets dispersed. The Castlewood estate, and a few other real estate and art holdings in the Whren family for many generations are secured in registry trusts. With the dissolution of the Trust, they’d be awarded to the Crown and deemed national historical treasures.

Miles Bartlett stands after the reading. Everyone rises, and they cue up to shakes his hand, and mine. One by one, the entourage I do not know, all wearing hangdog faces, introduce themselves with their condolences. They are lawyers, CEO’s, and the like who have worked with my father for years. They extend their sympathies, then drifted away, gather in groups and talk discreetly amongst themselves.

Miles gives me a warm smile and hands me a bound copy of the will. “Questions? Comments? Concerns? Email or call. I’m at your service.”

“I will. Thank you, Miles.” I tuck the inch thick document under my arm.

“You’re welcome to join us.” He sweeps his hand towards a small group of men. Only men, most rather older men, and know I have no place among them. I meet Howard’s disdainful glare.

“Can’t stay. Sorry. We’ve got a flight to catch.” I look at Elisabeth. She meets my eyes and slips her hand in mine.

“We’d like to know your plans, James.” Howard addresses me from across the room.

“My immediate involvement isn’t required here, so for now I’m going back to the States. I’m going to marry ‘Lisbeth, if she’ll still have me.” Glance at her. She smiles and squeezes my hand. “And adopt her beautiful son, if she agrees.” Stay fixed on her. Her smile turns into a wide, acknowledging grin. “Then work at establishing a relationship with Cameron that eluded me with my father.” I look at Howard. He glares back at me.

“Congratulations!” Miles smiles at me, then Elisabeth.

“Yes, congratulations,” one of the men I don’t know says, followed by a few other well-wishers.

“Thank you,” Elisabeth and I say in unison then look at each other and smile. Howard stares at us but remains silent.

“Well, let us know where you settle and how to contact you,” Miles says. “I look forward to working together in the future. Good luck to you both.”

“And to all of you as well.” Elisabeth speaks when I do not. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

I watch Howard. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Then bow my head slightly as I grip her hand tighter and escort her from the library.

“You okay?” She asks as I lead her down the dark hallway.

I nod. “Yeah.” It’s about all I can manage to say and she must get that because she does not question me further. We walk the maze through the drawing room, then the music room, then the solarium to the leaded French doors of the rose garden where we find Cameron splashing in the pond.

“Is that the real one by Rodin?” Elisabeth marvels at the Madonna.

“Yes.”

“Oh, your son is just precious,” Rina, the caretaker says to me in her thick Cockney accent as we approach. “And he’s such a curious child. He’s been running around non-stop exploring just ‘bout everything, but I think this may be his favorite spot. He really is an angel.”

“Thank you.” Feel no need to correct her about Cameron’s parentage. “We’ve got him from here. Thanks for all your help, Rina.”

“My pleasure, sir.” She stares up at me a bit too long, then finally looks at Elisabeth. “Mum,” she says softly as she crosses in front of us to leave the garden.

“Look, look.” Cameron points to a Koi swimming in the pond.

I kneel next to him, on one of the large slate slabs surrounding the pool. Cameron moves in front of me, nestles into me, joyfully pointing out every fish he sees. Wrap my arm around him, pull him to me so he doesn’t fall in.

“Look ‘Ames. Fis. Wow!”

“I see ‘em, Cam. They are beautiful.” We sit silently watching the fish, and I revel in his warmth, his scent, his wonder.

“Our flight’s in two hours.” Elisabeth speaks softly. “We have to leave here soon if we’re going to make it. You ready?”

“Yeah. I am.” I stand Cameron up next to me, then I stand and clasps his waiting hand. Love the feel of his warm grip on my fingers. Look around the garden. The air is sweet, but rustic, like good brandy. Reminds me of Edward.

Elisabeth watches me. “Is there anything you want from here?” She’s wearing a simple knee length black dress that shows her curves.

Is there anything from the estate that I want to take back to the States? There is only one thing I can think of at the moment. “You ready to go?”

She nods.

“Give me a minute. I’ll meet you and Cam in the foyer gallery, okay?”

“Okay.” She kisses me softly, takes Cameron from me, and goes back inside.

I look around the rose garden another moment then go to my father’s study, pull Kipling’s
Rewards and Fairies
off the shelf and tuck it under my arm along with Edward’s will. Then I go meet Liz and Cam.

We pile into the limousine. Cameron is instantly amused with all the electronic gadgetry. We let him explore, though Elisabeth’s tracks his every move making sure he stays safe. I hold her hand and stare out the window as we drive around the green square of perfectly manicured lawn in the massive central courtyard of Castlewood, then down the gravel, tree-lined drive, finally turning onto Covet Ln, leaving the estate behind.

I do not look back.

*****

EPILOGUE

JAMES

Don’t know why I chose this particular afternoon to stop. Must have passed by the house twenty times on my way into Hollywood, or Santa Monica for a studio gig since moving back to Southern California. On an impulse, really, I turn onto Heathercliff off Pacific Coast Highway when I get out to Zuma Beach.

Sun is setting over the coastal hills. Sagebrush is tall and tan from the long summer, the small pines dark green against the azure sky. Turn onto Cliffside and pull to the side of the road across from my old house. Someone has fenced the place. Seven foot tall, inch thick poles with twisted spikes at the tops surround the property. Two tall brick pillars guard the entrance to the gravel drive. What an asinine thing to do. 

I know Mitchell Tesch, the producer, bought the house from the feds. Never met him, though I’ve heard the stories, and for the moment I pretend they’re all true since I want to hate him. I mean, what kind of jerk puts a wrought iron fence around an acre and a half of chaparral overlooking the Pacific. And what the hell does a film producer need with a SSL 48/24 digital recording studio anyway?

Sit in the Jeep, staring at the house through the iron bars fighting my mounting outrage. They obliterated my life. All of them. Each took a part of me. Mr. Mitchell Tesch, the DEA, the UK, Langside, Parker and her cronies, my father. They put me through hell, and stole my house. And even though five years have passed, a part of me still hates them all.
This house is mine
.

Other than the fence, the only change to the front of the place is the row of small lights that border the drive to the base of the stairs. Flashbulb images begin popping in my head, so many,
so fast
. I see myself going up the slate steps—running in the pouring rain, lugging equipment in summer heat, holding Julia’s hand as we cut a path through thick fog. Fragmented images, snapshots of moments whiz by. It becomes surreal, like watching a movie at a drive-in.

Don’t know how long I sit here in the Jeep, staring at the stained glass doors, recalling time after time coming home and retreating inside, but it’s almost dark when I get out of the car to catch my breath, and come back to the moment at hand. I lean against the front fender and stare across the street at my beautiful, custom-built, five-bedroom Craftsman Ranch.
Mine
.

It’s mine.

Not anymore. Focus on what I came for.

Cameras mounted on top of the brick pillars follow as I cross the street, blinking red eyes at me. When I get within three yards of the gate, a motion sensor floods the area with light. There’s a small monitor inset into the side of the left pillar. On the screen blinks an access code that dials the house. Press the appropriate sequence. The screen prompts, ‘One moment, please.’ Then a man, maybe in his mid-fifties, almost bald, with a stubbled, athletic face appears on the monitor.

“What can I do you for?”

“I’m looking for Mitchell Tesch. My name is James Whren. He may know me by James Logan.”

“James Logan…” He rubs his stubbled face. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Because I used to own this house.”
Too harsh.
Back off. “Sir.”

“No. That’s not why.” He says it with a wave of his hand. “That’s interesting, but I’m thinking of the musician. That you?” He squints into the monitor, ostensibly at my image on his end.

“Yes, sir.” Guess he’s heard stories of me as well. “Are you Mitchell Tesch, sir?”

“Drop the sir. I’m barely old enough to be your father. Come in.”

Hear a click. Iron gate rolls apart and I walk through, along the gravel drive. Front door opens, and the warm light from inside silhouettes a man coming out. Gate behind me clicks shut and suddenly I’m caged.

No way out.
Don’t panic.
Nothing bad is happening here.
Relax. Focus on the sound of the waves echoing against the cliff behind the house.

But in my head I hear screaming. My screaming.
My stomach goes hard, my entire body tightens. Then searing pain through my hands, guts and groin, and I think I may be sick. Slow my pace, swallow back the nausea, close my eyes and suck in the dense ocean air, feel it on my skin, the weight of it in my lungs, taste the salt on my lips.
It’s okay.
I’m fine.
Open my eyes and see the man from the house cross the slate deck to the redwood railing, watching me approach.

This guy’s not going to hurt me. No one here wants to hurt me. Breathe. Just Breathe.

Navigate the paving stones without tripping, I get to the base of the stairs and stop. He stands on the landing, leaning against the railing, holding a beer and smoking a cigar.

I hate cigars.

“So you used to own this house? Explains the recording studio. I’ve wondered about that.” He takes a deep draw off the cigar. Red embers flare and he flicks them on the deck.

It’s odd he doesn’t know I was the previous owner, with all the paperwork that changes hands when purchasing property. “Are you Mitchell Tesch?”

“Nope. He’s on his way home from Burbank where they’re editing his new star search series. He should be here within the hour, depending on traffic. I’m his brother, Elliott. Come in. I’d be honored.” He moves aside revealing the open door with this big, happy smile on his face. He’s cultivated California chic, tan and tight, shorter than me, but compact, even buff.

My heart’s still pounding hard. Nauseating smell of cigar smoke hangs in the crisp fall air. Walk up the gray steps slowly, recalling every crack, noticing some new ones. Feels so familiar, yet bizarrely distant, like crossing over a dimensional time warp, but not all the way.

This is my house
. No. It’s not.

“I heard you were back around. Aren’t you working with the Damsels over at Capital?” Elliott snubs out the cigar on the railing that borders the landing and leaves it there.

“I’m sorry.” I look at him carefully when we get close. “Do I know you?”

“We never met formally, but I saw you at Dylan’s house around the corner a few times. I played with his band years ago. And your reputation precedes you. Elliott Tesch.” He extends his hand.

“James Logan. Good to meet you.” I shake his hand and meet his eyes for an instant, but am drawn to the open front door.

“Come in.” Elliott sweeps his hand towards the door. “Can I get you a beer or something?”

“No, thanks.” Step across the threshold and stop breathing. The sonofabitch has barely changed anything. The long, low agate table I bought at that Asian gallery with Julia in Laguna is still up against the glass bricks that separate the entry from the dining room. In the living room,
my
leather couches still sat in the L shape Julia’s younger sister, Rachael, had insisted was best for the fireplace and the view.

How can someone just adopt another’s life like this?
What is wrong with this guy?
What a twisted fuck.
I imagine him coming through the door and punching him, lay the guy out for taking my home, my property. But what’s the point? It won’t get me my house back.

“Look familiar?” Elliott asks from behind me. “Mitch hasn’t changed much since he bought the place, including the recording studio that he practically hasn’t opened the door to since he moved in.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Want to see it?”

I nod, and with a wave of his hand he lets me lead him down the hall to the control room. Again a tidal wave of memories flood my senses, and I hear Dave, alone in the studio, wailing on his D-35 Martin; the smell of Sheryl’s perfume lingers, like her melodic voice drifting down the hallway back in the day; Kurt’s wicked bass vibrates the walls and reverberates inside me. And I’m massively humbled by the spectacular talent that has graced this place.

The solid oak door with the long thin window opens with a suctioned-swish ushering us in, and suddenly I’m back in the rubber room, restrained naked and spread on the quilted floor. I shiver, then compulsively shake my head to dislodge the image, then comb my hand through my hair as I flip several light switches on the wall.

Recessed lighting along the top of the walls cast the silent room in muted tones of creams, browns and metallics. Thick layer of dust covers the SSL 9500 console. Two of the five flat screen monitors have been removed. Dust is so thick in the black Yamaha speakers mounted in the front, side and back walls that they look gray. The studio is dark and hard to see into through the window with only the ambient light from the control room.

“Told ya. Exactly like you left it, right? Mitchell hasn’t been back here in four years.”

I assume Elliott’s question is rhetorical so I don’t say anything. Then the three remaining monitors light up in my head and digital music streams across their screens. And the guys from the Zone are in the studio, Max’s electric pulsing the speakers, vibrating the long window and carpeted control room walls, resonating in my chest, my lungs, my breath, sucking me into their sound. And then I see Julia, sitting on the couch that last night, and the weight of my neglect grounds me with shame.

Elisabeth comes to the fore, waiting for me at home with the kids, safe, sated, and there’s a moments peace. Red numbers on the electronic clock I’d mounted above the window between the speakers years ago changes to 6:40. At this rate, I won’t make it back to Montecito until after eight o’clock.

“What the fuck are you doing in here, Elliott?” A smoker’s throaty voice shouts from the doorway, startling me. “I told you to stay the fuck out of here, and you’re
bringing people in here
? Who the hell is that?” Then he turns on me. “Who the fuck are you?”

Late-fifties, maybe even L.A.-sixties, with a buzz cut and a tanned, chiseled face stands with hands on his hips, filling the studio doorway. Think he may be drunk, though I’m not sure. The smell of alcohol permeates the control room, but it may be Elliott’s beer.

“James Logan.” I extend my hand. Heart’s coming through my chest. Never got on with drunks, and I really don’t want to mess with this guy. Though he may be double my age, we’re the same height, he’s easily thirty pounds heavier, and it looks like muscle to me.

“Well, I don’t really care who you are.” He doesn’t take my hand. “I don’t want you in here. Get the hell out before I call the cops.” He glares at me from the doorway.

Every part of me tenses and I feel my fingers fold into my palms as I clench my fists.
Relax.
I was invited in. Let him call the cops. No one is after me. He can’t hurt me.
I fight the rising panic and focus on why I’ve come. “Mr. Tesch? Mitchell Tesch?”

His eyes narrow, and he scowls at me but he doesn’t answer. He turns away abruptly and walks back down the hall.

Elliott gives me an apologetic grin. 

“GET THE FUCK OUTTA THERE, Elliott!” He yells from the hallway. “NOW!”

Hear a lot of slamming around in the kitchen as I follow Elliott there. The man I assume is Mitchell Tesch stands by the kitchen sink, glaring at his younger brother. Only thing changed in the kitchen is that the granite top on the center island is now butcher block.

“I told you I didn’t want any drug dealers in this house.” Mitchell scowls at Elliott.

Feels like he’s delivered a blow to my jaw. And I have the impulse to slug him back, set him straight.
Forget it, James.
What the hell did he know. We all believe what we want to.

“I thought we had an agreement, Elliott.” He shakes his head and turns away, looks out the picture window behind him that frames the Santa Monica bay, all the way out to the lights on the Huntington Hills. “What do you want here?” He speaks to me.

“He’s not a drug dealer, Mitch.”

“I know who he is, Elliott. And I know what he did. How do you think I got his house?” He spins around and glares at me. “You’re not getting this house back.” He gives me an opening for a comeback, but I’m not about to go there. “Or I’ll be dead, and you’ll be old by the time you do.”

Years ago I would have told him to fuck off. “I’m not here to lay claim to this house, Mr. Tesch.”
Asshole
. Relax.
Deep Breath.
“I’m hoping you’ll be interested in a business proposition— with a lot of tax free cash.”

He laughs. “Why on earth would I ever get in bed with you?”

“I’m not suggesting a union, sir. This is a one-time thing. A quick exchange, and you’ll never see me again.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the counter top and waits for me to continue.

“Some instruments that are very important to me were mistakenly included in the sale of this house—two acoustic guitars. And I would pay quite a bit to get them back.” To hell with tactical negotiations.
I want out of here.

“Are they your guitars?”

His question throws me. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Yeah. I think so. If no one moved them, they’re still in the studio room.”

“Let’s go check.” He walks past me. Elliott and I follow him back to the studio. He flips on the florescence upon entering, lighting up the menagerie of drums, giant speakers, full-scale keyboards, mini soundboards, mics on stands, stools, amps, cluttering the space. I spy both guitars still sitting in their stands against the cork wall, covered in dust so thick I can write my name on them. Instinct is to grab them, clean them, cradle them, but I just stare at them from across the room, much the same way I watch the twins sometimes.