No One in the World (4 page)

Sissy stood frozen. She could not believe what she heard. “For over fifteen years my father planned on me heading this company. Now you're saying there is a chance you will hire someone else? Who?”

“We have no one in mind,” Mrs. Williams, a regal-looking woman with beautiful styled, short gray hair said. “But there are individuals we can consider.”

“So you expect me to fail?” Sissy said, trying her best to suppress her anger.

“No, Ms. Winslow,” Mrs. Williams said. “There is nothing further from the truth. But if we feel you aren't capable of doing what's required, we will do everything in our power to find someone who can. We believe that's what your father would've wanted, too.”

N
ot a week after the funeral, Sissy and I sat in a small office with our family attorney, Mr. Rochester.

The slender, balding man pushed his glasses up on his nose as he continued to read from my father's will.

As our parents' only children, everything would be left to us. The mansion in Chicago, and the three homes in DC, New York, and California were now ours.

There was a trust fund of $20 million, plus valuable shares of company stock that I was to inherit on my thirty-fourth birthday, which was just forty days away. It was the same fund Sissy would inherit when she turned thirty-four in two years.

All this we had always known, but not until that moment was I informed of the single stipulation.

Mr. Rochester looked over his glasses at me, cleared his throat, and then continued reading. “In order for you to take possession of your inheritance, you, Cobi Aiden Winslow, must be lawfully married to a woman, by your thirty-fourth birthday, for a period of at least two years. On the date of your wedding, you will receive one hundred percent of your shares and twenty-five percent of your monetary inheritance. Another twenty-five percent will be given to you on your one-year anniversary, and the remainder will be given on the second-year anniversary.”

I shot up from my chair.

Sissy grabbed my hand tight. “What is this? There must be some mistake,” she said.

“I can't believe him,” I said. “He could never accept me when he was alive, now he's trying to force me to be who he wants from the grave. Fine. If he wants to hold on to his money that badly, I don't need it. He can keep it.”

“No, Cobi, Daddy wants you to have it, otherwise he wouldn't have left it in the will,” Sissy said, still holding my hand. She turned to Mr. Rochester. “I'm sure there's some way around this.”

“I'm afraid there isn't,” Mr. Rochester said.

“Like I said, I don't care,” I spat at Mr. Rochester. I walked out the door and paced down the hallway. I heard the door open and close. A moment later, Sissy was standing beside me.

My father adopted a son because he wanted someone to take over the family business when he stepped down. He told me as much, and I remember him always talking about it, what I needed to know for when that fateful day finally came. But the day in the garage came first, and all the grooming stopped then. Sissy then became the person who would succeed him. Funny thing is, she should've been the one from the beginning.

She was a whiz with numbers and had a mind like a supercomputer. She earned both an MBA and a law degree from the University of Chicago, where she graduated top of her class. She approached the most daunting situations with optimism and the tactical mind of a five-star general.

“We're going to get your trust, Cobi,” Sissy said, taking me by the shoulders.

“Whatever you say. It's not like I earned it. If Dad didn't want me to—”

“Cobi, stop it! He wanted you to have it, so you're entitled.”

“Okay. So what do we do now?”

“We think about whatever we have to do to get it. And I mean whatever. It's that important.”

“No. It's not that important. I make enough money to—”

“This is not just about you, Cobi,” Sissy said. She lowered her voice. “Do you want the company to stay in our family?”

“Of course, I do. It always has and it always will.”

“What if we lose it? You know the company hasn't been doing very well. There have been other companies interested in the success we've had in the past, in the millions of people who buy our products.”

“I know, but I thought we were getting that under control. We are getting—”

“We could lose it,” Sissy said, narrowing her eyes at me, tightening her grip on my shoulders. “Do you hear me? If things aren't played perfectly, we could lose Winslow Products. So that money, it might not be a lifesaver for you, but those shares, Cobi, we have to get those shares, because they might play a major role in whether or not we keep Winslow Products. Do you understand?”

I looked sadly at my sister. “Yes, I understand.”

T
he next day, during my lunch break, I sat in front of a desk at the True Home Adoption Agency. I was waiting on Ms. Aims, the large, well made-up woman with a beautiful smile. I had spoken to her moments ago, and she had gone to look up some information for me.

I told her I had come with the intention of finding my brother. I also felt compelled to tell her about the recent death of my parents and how much I missed them.

“That was your family?” Ms. Aims said. “The hair products people?”

“Yes.”

“I'm so sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man.”

“Thank you. I know,” I said. “Do you think you'll be able to help me find my brother?”

“I truly hope so. Do you know his name?” Ms. Aims said, her eyes smiling sympathetically behind her stylish eyeglass frames.

“I don't. But I have this,” I said, digging my adoption certificate out of my briefcase and presenting it to her.

She read it, looked up at me. “This was your name before it was changed?”

“Yes. Everette Reed.” I felt strangely outside myself.

“Have you seen or spoken to your brother since you were separated?”

“I haven't.”

“Okay,” Ms. Aims said, standing from her desk. “All the information I should need is on this certificate. I'll be right back.”

Ten minutes later, Ms. Aims returned with a manila folder. She sat down behind her desk with a smile and opened the file.

“Did you find something?” I asked, hopeful.

“Your brother's name is Eric, Eric Reed.”

“Eric. Okay,” I said softly, feeling a smile appear on my face. “Where is he?”

Ms. Aims chuckled. “I wish it were that simple, Mr. Winslow. But we don't keep track of the children after they leave us. So there's no way we would know where he is now.”

“Can you at least tell me the name of the family that adopted him?”

“Legally, I wouldn't be able to release that information to you if he had been adopted, but . . . he wasn't.”

“What do you mean, he wasn't adopted? Where did he go?”

“If a child is not adopted by his or her tenth birthday here at True Home, they automatically go into the foster care system,” Ms. Aims said, the smile no longer on her face.

“Foster care,” I said, feeling badly, knowing that when I was Eric's age, complaining about my father never being home, my brother was living with strangers in foster care. “Can you please give me any information you have on the foster care system and the contact numbers of anyone who might have an idea of where my brother might be.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Winslow,” Ms. Aims said.

After work, I stood in one of the foster care offices downtown, looking for answers regarding my brother.

“I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have that information to give you,” a thin, overworked woman wearing a slightly wrinkled dress said.

“This is very important,” I said, feeling as though I was on the verge of losing my patience. “You don't have it to give to me, or you
won't
give it to me?”

“We purge all records of individuals who have been out of our system for ten years. I'm sorry, sir.”

I stood there staring at her, anger boiling in me. I calmed down
enough to say, “Is there
any
information you can give me? Anything at all?”

“I'm sorry,” the woman said, looking at me with concern, as if expecting me to go off, run around, and start flipping tables over. “All I can do is suggest you write the Social Security Administration, or go online, and maybe check the phone book for all the Eric Reeds you can find.”

That evening, I came home and parked behind Sissy's BMW 750, which meant she was visiting. I had spent much of the day trying to get information about where my brother Eric might have been and wound up with nothing. Seeing my sister would make me feel better.

I walked in the front door of the eight-bedroom mansion I had lived in all my life (and now owned). It was built in 1912. The ceilings were twenty-four feet high, the walls were a warm, medium brown wood, and the floors were a beautiful deep cherry color.

Every room was decorated with expensive leather and upholstered antique furniture, with ornate carvings. An iron chandelier hung high in the living room.

After I closed the door, I was met by Stella, our housekeeper of twenty-five years. She was a woman in her early sixties, with flawless skin and graying hair that she always brushed and pinned back. She was like a second mother to me.

“Evening, Mr. Winslow,” Stella said, taking my briefcase as she always did. “How was your day?”

“Horrible. I hope yours was better.”

“Despite our challenges, every day is a blessing, more beautiful than the last.”

I looked at Stella a moment, hugged her, and kissed her on the cheek. “You've always had a way of putting things in perspective.”

“Thank you.”

“I just wished it worked this time,” I said, walking toward the stairs. “Where is my sister?”

“I'll give you one guess.”

“My father's study,” I said, climbing the first stair of the long, curved stairway.

“Shall I bring your dinner up to you, or will you take it down here?” Stella asked.

“I'll come back for it. Thank you, Stella.”

At the door to my father's study, I knocked.

“Come in,” I heard my sister say.

I entered to find Sissy, with her back to me, watching the wall-mounted flat-screen that displayed financial news.

“The new president has taken office,” I said, loosening my tie.

Sissy turned, her arms crossed over her chest. “Interim president,” Sissy said, sounding offended.

“Don't worry,” I said. “I'm sure it's just a matter of time. The position will be yours. They know it belongs to no one else.”

“Thank you, but that is based solely on my performance in this situation. I spoke to one of our brokers again today, and Procter & Gamble has bought more of our shares.”

“What?” I said. “Is there really a chance of them taking us over?”

Sissy said in her most calming voice, “Don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it. You know that.”

Rattled, I walked over to the bar to pour myself a quick shot of Scotch. I lowered myself into one of the two leather chairs in front of my father's desk. I took a sip of my drink. “So exactly how are you taking care of it?”

“We need your shares to help ensure that no one can come in and take over Winslow.”

“Doesn't the will say I have to get married? How are we—”

“We get you married.”

“Yeah, right,” I laughed.

Sissy's face was stone. “I'm not joking. There is no other way. You marry, or the shares will be given to me in two years on my thirty-fourth birthday. By then, it might be too late. Winslow Corporation might already belong to someone else. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you'll simply have to marry to save the company.”

“Fine. What guy do you have in mind?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“This is serious, Cobi. I've been thinking about women high in Chicago society, and although I haven't approached any of them yet—”

“Sissy, I was joking,” I said, standing. “This is my life, my future we're talking about. I'm not just going to give it up to—”

“To save Daddy's company? To save our way of life? Everything he worked so hard for over the years?” Sissy walked over, stood right in front of me. “If this company is taken from us, no, we probably won't go hungry, but do you really want that to happen? To lose Winslow the moment Daddy dies, when he and Granddaddy managed to keep it going for fifty years?” Sissy was two inches shorter than me, but with her heels on, she was staring me directly in the eyes.

“What has he ever done for me?” I said under my breath, still burning about him withholding the knowledge of my brother. “Other than condemn me for being gay.”

“What did you say?” Sissy said, shock in her voice.

I didn't respond, just turned away from her.

“No!” Sissy said, stepping in front of me. “You know what he's done? He worked till his death, trying to maintain a company that provided for his wife and children. Children that he adopted, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. I'm sorry he didn't accept your way of life. And whether you believe it or not, he did love you and provide for you, as he did me. Now if that's not good enough for you, and you don't want to help me try to save this company, then tell me now, and I'll find another method.”

Sissy had a point. I was being selfish, letting my anger potentially decide the future of the company. Would I feel as though I gained some form of retribution from my father by allowing us to lose it? Would it be worth my sister losing her job, as well as all the other Winslow employees? And what about all the great things the company did in our community? All that would just disappear because I was still angry with my deceased father.