Bud took a step back as though he’d been slapped. “Mr. Mc-Nally? Since when have I become Mr. McNally?” He widened his light gray eyes, set deep into puffy, drooping eyelids. “You’ve known me since your mama brought you here in your stinky diapers.”
“Well, I’m actually here in a professional capacity.” It was more difficult than Jeremy expected, presenting himself as an adult to people who still carried associations of him as a child.
Bud raised his eyebrow. “Professional capacity? Well, that’s fine, but I still prefer Bud, even in a professional capacity. Maybe I’m kiddin’ myself,” Bud said, sitting down on his leather chair, “but Mr. McNally makes me feel old.”
“You certainly don’t look old.”
“A charmer. Just like your mama.” Bud smiled, but in the next instant he was serious. “If you don’t mind, Jeremy.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice as though there were people around who might overhear them. “Before we get on with the reason for your visit, I must ask. How’s your sister? She seemed terribly upset at the funeral.”
“She’s doing a little better, thank you.”
“I understand she was the first on the scene. That must have been very traumatic for her.”
“She doesn’t remember much about what happened. It’s like she’s blocked it out.” Jeremy pulled on his collar. “I guess that’s a good thing.”
“Yes. It’s a godsend how our minds protect us from pain.” Bud folded his hands. “And you, Jeremy? How are you dealing with everything?”
“I’m just trying to get through one day at a time.”
“Of course you are. Of course you are.” Bud leaned back in his chair. “So tell me, my boy, what can I do for you today?”
Jeremy was caught by the abruptness of the transition and took
a moment to compose himself. “You mentioned at the Castillos’ to let you know if there was something you could do to help me and Elise.”
“And I meant that, Jeremy.”
“Well, I just found out my parents’ wills appointed me Elise’s guardian.”
Bud’s facial expression didn’t change.
“I guess you know, I haven’t exactly been the stay-at-home type. I took some time off from school, and I’ve been traveling.”
“Understandably. Senior year can be a terrifying time. Wondering what you’re going to do next. Whether your parents’ lives is what you want for yourself.”
“Exactly. And honestly, I wasn’t ready to make those decisions.”
“Sometimes distancing yourself is a good way to see things more clearly.”
Jeremy was surprised how well Bud understood him. If only his father had tried a little harder. “Well, it’s helped me,” Jeremy said. “And, of course, with my parents gone— obviously, there’s been a big shift in my priorities.”
“Tell me how I can help you, Jeremy.”
“I’d like to work here— at PCM,” Jeremy said. “I was majoring in accounting at NYU.”
“I recall your mama telling me you were an A student.” Bud picked up a thick pen and rolled it between his fingers. His shirt cuffs were monogrammed and held closed with gold cufflinks. “I think she was hoping you’d join the firm one day.”
“I’d very much like that opportunity now. I feel that if I’m going to be Elise’s guardian, I need to start behaving more responsibly.”
Bud had the intelligent, understanding demeanor of a clergyman. The desk phone bringed softly. “Hold my calls, please, Gladys,” he said into the speaker box. He looked at Jeremy, waiting for him to continue.
“I was hoping you’d consider hiring me as an intern or an assistant auditor. Until I graduate, of course, and can sit for the CPA exam.
Bud put the pen down and brought his fingers to a steeple in front of his face. He had big, strong hands covered with freckles and golden hairs. “And how do you plan on graduating?” Bud said finally.
“I thought I’d take a couple of evening courses at Miami Intercontinental,” Jeremy said. “That is, unless you think it might interfere with my work here.” His mother had once told him if you want something, give the impression you already have it.
“Of course you know we want to do everything to help out you and Elise.” Bud let his chair snap forward, signaling that the meeting was over.
“I’d really appreciate it,” Jeremy hesitated a split second, “Bud. My mother often spoke about how much she admired you.”
Bud’s mouth twitched, as though he was containing a smile. “Did she, now?”
“She once said a gifted salesman could sell ice to Eskimos, but only Bud McNally could turn a company that sells ice to Eskimos into one of the hottest stocks on Wall Street.”
Bud let out a full-bodied laugh. “Your mama really said that?”
“She did.” Jeremy picked up the pawn he had been holding earlier.
“You play?” Bud said, still smiling.
“Excuse me?”
“Chess.”
“Oh, yeah. My dad taught me.”
“Take a move.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Go ahead. I always have a game in progress, but I’m usually playing both sides. It’s nice to deal with a fresh move from time to time.” Bud nodded toward the board. “Go ahead.”
About half the pieces had already been taken. A black rook was exposed to Jeremy’s bishop, but if he took it, he’d lose his bishop to Bud’s queen. But that would give him a shot at the black king. Jeremy took the rook.
“Interesting,” Bud said. He took Jeremy’s bishop, as though he’d been anticipating the move. “Thank you, Jeremy. That changes the direction of the game.”
Jeremy wasn’t certain whether he had done something right or wrong, or whether Bud expected him to take another move. But Bud leaned back in his chair. He was smiling, fatherly. A bond had been established.
“Tell you what,” Bud said. “Go out and buy yourself a few new suits, shirts, and a pair of wingtips. If you want to be an auditor, you’ll need to look like an auditor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And get your butt over to Miami Intercontinental. You’re going to finish getting your degree, and when the time comes for you to sit for the CPA exam, I expect you to get the highest grades in the state. Y’ hear?”
Jeremy nodded.
“We owe that to your mama,” Bud said.
Chapter 8
Jeremy stood outside the registrar’s building with his class schedule. He had come here directly from Bud’s office, changing into jeans and a tee shirt in the car so he wouldn’t look out of place among the students.
Miami Intercontinental University. His father’s turf.
Jeremy’s parents had wanted Jeremy to attend MIU, but he had always known it wasn’t an option for him. The professors and students would all have recognized him as D.C.’s son and made comparisons, which Jeremy feared would have found him lacking. It was ironic that circumstances had brought him back here after all.
Imposing oak trees shaded the broad grassy areas and winding paths. Quite different from the urban campus of NYU where classes and dorms were housed in gray and red brick buildings that were indistinguishable from the rest of the city. Here at MIU, the administrative offices were in the original Spanish-style buildings. As though part of a master plan, the subsequent buildings had been constructed with the same red barrel-tiled roofs and beige stucco walls, which made the campus look a lot like a Spanish monastery.
Planning. Jeremy was surprised by how well his own plan was working out. He had a job at PCM and was now enrolled at MIU— giving him opportunities to get on the inside of both his parents’ worlds. Plant a mole, he’d suggested to Lieber the day before. He hadn’t imagined it would be himself.
Students were walking to class, some in groups, many hurrying along by themselves. Jeremy wondered as they passed him if any had known his father. Professor Stroeb had been very popular amongst his students.
“D.C.,” his mother had once said, “you need to turn some of your charm on the administration.”
“Why bother?” his father had said. “Their minds have rusted shut. But the youth, Rachel, the youth are hungry and eager to learn. I have an opportunity to shape them, to mold them, to teach them how to think.”
“But the students aren’t the ones you should be trying to impress. Just because you’re tenured, D.C., doesn’t mean you’re untouchable.”
Unpopular with the administration. Could anyone at MIU have had a motive to kill his father? Had his father’s outspokenness been a bigger deal than Jeremy had realized? And once again Jeremy was angry with himself— like the time in second grade when he had refused to pay attention to a story his teacher was reading. Only toward the end of her recitation did Jeremy become engaged in the protagonist’s plight. And then, he was curious to know what had happened at the beginning. But the story was over, and Jeremy would never know what he had missed.
Jeremy headed across the campus to his father’s office. Air-conditioning units stuck out of windows in the three-story building and dripped water onto the hibiscus bushes and croton beneath them. The entrance door stuck as Jeremy pushed it open, layers of chipped paint creating the friction. Terrazzo floors, cracked and in need of polishing, lined the narrow hallways. Bulletin boards covered all available wall space, each buried under layers of announcements.
The air was mildewed, but it was a familiar smell and comforting to Jeremy as he ran up the steps to his father’s third-floor office. The door was closed, and it didn’t occur to Jeremy to knock. In
fact, it hadn’t occurred to Jeremy that the office might be in any condition other than the way his father had left it. So when he pushed open the door, he was taken aback by the cartons, piles of papers, and general state of disarray. Then he saw a pair of worn army boots sticking out from behind his father’s desk. They were attached to legs in tight, rolled-up jeans. A head popped out next, like a jack-in-the-box, and the expression on the young woman’s face was pure horror. What had she been doing that he’d disturbed with his sudden appearance?
The woman’s face settled as though in relief. “
Merde.
Do you know how much you resemble him?” She had an accent— probably French— and pale eyes flecked with hazel, like a cat’s. Her hair was a mass of copper curls gathered up on top of her head, but dripping over her forehead and shoulders.
She patted off the dirt or dust from the back of her jeans. She was petite and delicate— built a lot like Elise. “You’re Jeremy, no?” she asked, extending her hand. She had small hands with bitten-down nails. “I’m Marina Champlain. I worked very closely with your father. I’m his graduate assistant. Was, I mean.”
Marina Champlain.
You’d remember her if you’d met her
, Lieber had said.
Jeremy hadn’t released her hand. He dropped it, self-conscious.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” Marina said. “At the … at the Castillos’ house, you had a beard— like
Miami Vice
, no? And long hair. I saw you get out of a limo. You missed the funeral. Someone said your flight was delayed. But they should have waited for you. His son. Their son. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but I want to tell you how much I grieve for you and your sister.” Her eyes were watering and her narrow nose had turned red. She opened a booklet that was lying on a pile on the desk, but Jeremy could tell she wasn’t seeing it. “He spoke of you and Elise all the time,” she said.
How well she seemed to know his father, but Jeremy hadn’t even been aware of her existence.
“So you’ve come to say good-bye to your father’s office?”
“Actually, I just registered for a couple of night classes.”
“I thought you were traveling. Finding yourself.”
“Is that how my father put it?”
Her black bra strap slipped off her shoulder and stuck out of the sleeve of her white tee shirt. She adjusted it. “He was hoping you’d come home. So now it seems you have.”
“Yes. I suppose I have.”
“To take care of things, yes?”
“Kind of like that.”
She waved her hand over the papers and cartons, reminding Jeremy of a conductor cueing an orchestra. “I’m organizing,” she said. “It’s a lot of work. Your father was a great man. But one thing he wasn’t was organized.”
“Shouldn’t his family have been invited to go through his things first?” Jeremy said.
She covered her mouth, looking genuinely dismayed. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know, Jeremy.” She pronounced his name with a soft ‘j’ as though she was saying it in French. “Dr. Winter asked me to go through your father’s papers. But I’ll stop if you’d like to do it yourself.”
“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, annoyed by the dean’s eagerness to get the office cleared out. “Just keep doing what you were doing.”
He flipped through some files behind his father’s desk. The corner of the credenza was blackened and the wall behind it was shades of brown.
“You know about the fire, yes?” Marina asked.
Vaguely, Jeremy remembered his mother e-mailing him about a fire in his dad’s office a couple of months ago. “Tell me,” Jeremy said.
“It was this past November, just after your father’s paper against the Cuban embargo came out. It’s believed some students— anti-Castro extremists— set the fire. Many Cubans are upset with your father’s politics.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said slowly, thinking, “but why would anyone think extremists set the fire? Maybe my dad just left a cigarette burning.”
She shook her head adamantly. Her lips were disproportionately small and round— like a perfect red circle. “They spray painted the door,” Marina said. “
Cuba Libre
. The battle cry of the Cuban exiles.”
“Was anyone caught?” Jeremy asked.
“It seems not.”
“Did my father write anything else after that that might upset them?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then froze.
“Can I help you, sir?” said a tight male voice in the doorway. Jeremy recognized his father’s former boss, Dr. Winter. Winter was wearing a navy blazer, pressed gray pants, and a blue shirt. The uniform of the cognitive elite. On his feet, small for such a tall man, were tasseled leather loafers.
“Ah.” The dean’s face changed in recognition, as he stroked his shiny bald head. “You’re D.C.’s son, right?” Winter extended his hand. “You can’t miss the resemblance. I’m so sorry for your loss.” He paused for a second. “Jeremy, isn’t it?”