*Winter - 1984*
The morning fog rolled in, moving across the Pacific Ocean, elongating over
the Palos Verdes Peninsula, and winding up the rolling hills of an elite
Southern California town. Like a methodical pattern, the fog ascended up the
curved lane of the Robert Brownell's estate in time to follow alongside
Milton Haight's Lexus.
When Milton stepped out into the courtyard, the thickened haze cast an
ominous view, and this stirred him to reflect on the recently deceased. If
wealthy ghost existed, surely Robert Brownell hovered here to fondle his
vast riches.
Milton approached the encroaching entrance and the fog whiffed near him.
Perhaps Robert had tarried for this; an eventful show was about to unfold
all due to Brownell's last will and testament.
Just as suspected, once the hired help beckoned him in, Milton noted the
mystical cloud vacillating near him. Perhaps Robert had stains of regret.
Regret at the uncomfortable news Milton had come to deliver. "But I'm only
the messenger," Milton reminded himself.
Yet his body continued to stiffen as the damp mist guided him past the
ornate entrance, the marble lobby, Persian rugs, and the vast array of
museum-quality paintings and sculptures. As the dense fog swirled along,
keeping stride with the escort, Milton concluded that a critical family
member had indeed arrived.
Once they reached the entrance, the hired help opened the French doors
revealing Brownell's expansive study, and a sudden light-headiness swept
over Milton.
From the room two pairs of eyes stared at him. One set was a dim gray,
belonging to the stern, protective face of Rick Downley, Robert's close
friend. The other eyes sparkled green, brim with tears, and belonged to
Becca Brownell, Robert's fifteen-year old daughter.
Milton drew in a breath. "Hello," he heard his small voice fade across the
elongated room.
Rick reached for Becca's hand; then his voice boomed through the silence.
"Where's Wagnall?"
Milton inhaled again, only to feel the fog expand inside his head, but this
time he also felt the chill. Amid the ornate artifacts, elegant furniture,
and artist masterpieces, a window beckoned in the muggy ocean air; coldness
settled between him and the two that stared at him.
"Where's Wagnall?" Rick asked again.
Milton cleared his throat and managed to mumble, "He couldn't make it."
Rick refused to arise. "Why?"
The true reason legendary Attorney Max Wagnall was not there was because he
was a coward. His law firm brought uncomfortable news, the type that Wagnall
could delegate to the newest member of his practice. Now as Milton faced
Rick, it appeared that this man also understood the meaning of Wagnall's
absence.
Wagnall had been Robert Brownell's attorney for years; he had managed
absorbent amounts of legal documents centered around Brownell's vast
portfolio of wealth. In a way, Wagnall was one of the few men who could say
he knew Robert well. Or rather he could say he knew the recluse as well as
any man could know him, other than of course Rick Downley. To Wagnall's
knowledge, which had been passed on to Milton, Rick was the only living
person Robert had invited into his quiet, private world. And Rick had
embraced the open door policy; he had walked in Robert's footsteps, invested
as he had, traveled where he went, lived as he lived, and acted like a
surrogate father when Robert fell short in his fatherly duties to Becca.
Over the years, Rick held the great trust of both Robert and Becca.
Wagnall did not fully understand the Brownell's odd arrangement. Yet what he
did understand was that the legal document, which his office possessed,
would not be well received. That is why at precisely 9:32 a.m., Wagnall had
thrust the document in Milton's briefcase and pushed Milton out the door
alone to face the grieving Brownell clan.
For all the humidity the fog offered, Milton's voice felt surprising dry.
"Wagnall had a conflict, and so he asked me to deliver this."
Rick looked at Milton's thinning blond hair. Then he examined Milton's eyes,
his nose, his mouth, throat, torso, knees, and finally his toes. Milton
regretted not succumbing to the early morning consideration of wearing his
prized Pierre Armando suit on this particular day. Instead, he stood
completely unprepared, too inexperienced to know how to face the erupting
tension.
Although Rick had not offered him a seat, Milton took the only spot open,
the sleek office chair stationed behind the large executive desk. He had
hoped such placement would bring him a feeling of authority, yet the fog
raced ahead, greeting Milton again precisely as he sat across from Rick's
stone-focused face.
For a mere half-dozen seconds, Milton entertained this powerful stare, then
he reached for his briefcase and shuffled through the bag. The file was
right where Wagnall had placed it, clearly labeled, easy to find. However
Milton used this delay time to search through the unbearable fog trapped
within his mind. Through sluggish thoughts, he questioned if the opportunity
for small talk had ever existed. If so, it was nonexistent now.
At last Milton raised his eyes, only to see the anger bubbling in Rick's
face. "What did Wagnall tell you?" Milton asked cautiously.
"What he didn't tell me is that he was sending you."
"Yes, well. . . he's concerned that before Robert passed away. . .he may not
have conveyed to you all the details of the will. Everything might not be as
you had hoped."
Rick glanced at Becca. Fear covered her face. So he placed his arm around
her. His movement was like a father, like the guardian that the will
specified him to be. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm here to take care of
this."
The lines of concern lifted from her face. "Do I need to be here?" she asked
Rick, but watched Milton.
Rick shook his head. "Not if you don't want to."
"I don't."
She stood, as did Rick. "Since Wagnall isn't here," he said. "We can discuss
all this later."
Becca nodded. Then she hugged him. "Thank you."
A smile crept across his face, and his lips grazed past her ear. "Why don't
you go lie down," he whispered. "You look tired, and I know you didn't sleep
well last night."
Something in this exchange disturbed Milton, almost like there was more to
be seen than what he saw. It was a slight illusion, an erroneous trick
preformed by the fog. As quick as the inappropriate thought came, Milton
dismissed such a scandalous speculation. Certainly, the family was odd,
however Downley was at least twenty-years her senior.
As soon as Becca exited the room, Rick's limited soft demeanor also fled.
Now he turned and looked Milton directly in the eyes. "You know Wagnall
should be here."
"Yes." Milton answered the statement.
"And you know that I was there when Rob and Wagnall drafted that will."
"I know that Wagnall understands your concern--"
"No," Rick cut him off. "You know if there's been any change--then there's
been a mistake."
Milton heaved out a sigh. "Wagnall and I wish there was. As I was saying,
Wagnall tried to find a loop hole. He's looked. And his only consolation to
you is to walk away from this. You don't have to fulfill Robert's wishes."
"Let me see the will."
Milton did not protest. Instead he handed over the file, the previous will
signed in 1980, which everyone had come to accept, value, and regard, as
well as the one-page handwritten will with last year's summer intern
shamefully listed as the witness. Prior to Wagnall's most recent discovery,
no one else knew of the change.
But Milton watched now as Rick's neck muscles tightened and the gray eyes
narrowed. Then silent fury followed.
He tossed the file back at Milton. "What about Becca?"
"You don't have to be the executor over the estate, and you don't have to be
her guardian either. You don't have to fulfill any of Robert's requests."
Rick glared at Milton. "What happens to Rebecca?"
Milton casts his eyes down at the papers. Carefully his fingers scooted the
stack into an orderly pile. Then his fingers picked up his Wagnall &
Bartel's Law Firm ball point pen. Twice he tapped the pen against the
documents, then he set the pen down, only to finally glance up at Rick.
"Because she has no living relative, she'd go into the care of Child
Protective Services."
"No." Rick stated firmly. "She has me. And that's enough." He walked away
from the desk and strode over to the window, and for a long period stared
out over the fog- covered peninsula.
Meanwhile, Milton glanced back at the will. The message had been delivered.
Robert Brownell had still requested Rick Downley to be the executor over the
estate, to be Becca's legal guardian, yet the terms had been changed. Robert
had left his friend with nothing. Now, Rick had read the will and he knew
the impact of these changes. At the moment, no answer was needed. Milton's
task was complete. He tucked the file back into his briefcase and prepared
himself to leave. "Wagnall will be in touch."
"Wait."
Milton sighed and sank back into his seat. "Yes."
Slowly, Rick turned around and in a controlled voice said, "I want to show
you something." Then, without looking at Milton, he strode past the antique
books, the gallery of fine art, the exquisite statues, and the custom
furniture, until he stopped at an enclosed curio cabinet in the far corner
of the room.
"Do you see that?" Rick pointed at a small terracotta statue of a woman
holding a young child. "400 A.D. from Teotihuacan, Mexico. Do you know what
Teotihuacan means?"
Milton shook his head.
"'The City of the Gods', or 'Where Men Become Gods'. Rob said he purchased
this at auction in Zihuatanejo. He had bought it for Mia while they were
staying in La Vida Que Cubra and he had learned that she was expecting. A
symbol of his love," Rick studied the statue, and then finally, after a long
moment, glanced back at the young attorney. "But then she died, when Becca
was only two. Did you know that?"
Milton shook his head.
"Mia died when Becca was two," Rick repeated. "And Rob needed a friend - so
he turned to me. He relied on me. It was me who gave him the strength to
cope. Yet in exchange for all I offered him, he promised me a chunk of his
portion. We discussed this, just like we discussed all our business affairs.
He mentioned stocks, bonds, gold, and specific property. All this in
exchange for the friendship I offered him.
"I gave him a great deal, Mr. Haight. Our lives intertwined in business, in
travels, in personal affairs, in the caring for his daughter. He needed me,
and I was there. I was always there."
Milton nodded, unclear of how to bring this conversation back to a legal
wrap-up.
Meanwhile Rick remained absorbed in his thoughts. "I did everything I could
for Rob. I tried to save him. But it was clear he was past any point of
help. He was miserable, clinically depressed. It wasn't a question of
*if* he was going to take his life, but rather
*when*. That was why our discussion of Becca cared such weight. When he
asked me to care for her when he was gone, I understood. I knew what would
be required of me. It was I who accepted that duty. Of course it's a huge
responsibility...but I love that girl."
Rick's tone bothered Milton. He placed his hand on his briefcase and glanced
at the door.
"Let me see the document again." Rick ordered.
Milton bit down on his lip. Against his wishes, he turned to look back at
Rick. Slowly he opened his case and retrieved the will. He handed it over,
only to painfully watch as Rick rescanned the words that minimized his past
and alienated his future.
After the verification was done, Rick dropped the document onto the desk and
whispered, "You'll pay Brownell." Then in haste he strode over to the curio
cabinet. With one jerk of the wrist he flung the cabinet door open, reached
in and grabbed the Teotihuacan statue. For long, heavy seconds, he stared at
the figure. Through tight, short, heavy breaths, Rick let his fingers glide
over the statue's ceramic hair, nose, lips, and breasts. Then his eyes
scanned the entire room, as if taking in the array of world wonders. Yet
none of it was his.
When his eyes returned back to the statue, he touched it one more time. Then
the breathing stopped and an evil grin twisted across his face. Suddenly he
launched his arm back and then threw the statue across the study. It flew
high, freely soaring. Until it hit an obstructing wall and a deafening crash
filled the room. Chunks of plaster fell to the floor. "Enjoy hell, Rob."
Milton flinched, which caused Rick to smirk.
"What's wrong, Mr. Haight? Does hell bother you?" Without needing a reply,
and with complete composure, Rick turned back to the cabinet. He swung the
door shut and tenderly snapped the latch back into its place.
A knock sounded from the study's entrance.
"Yes," Rick said coolly.
Becca's head appeared in the doorway. "Is everything all right?" Her voice
sounded shaky.
He looked at her and smiled. "Yes." Then his index finger beckoned her back
into the room. "You didn't lie down, did you?"
She kept her eyes on Milton.
"Come," Rick ordered.
She obeyed, and he approached her, locking her into a hug. For uncomfortable
seconds, Milton watched the hold with Rick caressing her back, pulling her
in tight. In time, she succumbed to the hug, and wrapped her arms around
him, until a sob escaped her.
At that point, Rick grabbed her shoulders and held her at a distance. "Your
father took care of you." He smiled. "And," he wiped a tear from off her
cheek, "it's official. He's made it possible for me to be your guardian."
Through moist eyes, Becca glanced at Milton, then back at Rick and smiled.
"Thank you," she said to both men. She returned Rick's hug and whispered in
his ear. "This is good."
"It's very good," Rick stated.
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