The Gatekeeper's Son (2 page)

CHAPTER

2

Grandpa had about as many books as a small public library. Tall bookshelves covered every wall—well, except for the walls with the large picture windows and the wide stone fireplace. But he had something the library didn’t have: a rolling ladder that ran along the bookcases on a steel track. When I was a kid, maybe seven or eight, I’d run it along the track too fast and derailed it. I think William was angrier about it than Grandpa was.

I stood by the ladder and ran my hand over the smooth varnished wood. I still felt a buzzing, humming energy, proof that I hadn’t just imagined the weird events outside. With a sigh, I sank into the soft brown leather of Grandpa’s large chair, tilted back, and lifted my feet onto his desk.

For as long as I could remember, two Saturdays every month, I’d come here to visit. After William served tea and sandwiches, Grandpa would sit back in this chair and tell me the most outrageous stories while the fire crackled and the shadows grew longer. He told me about far-off places where beautiful women with long swords watched over the shrines of ancient gods, of shamans who lived in the desert, of spies and thieves stealing secrets and gold.

These days he told different stories in a not-too-subtle attempt to educate me about his business. I didn’t mind. It was interesting to watch him buy a company or build an office tower and turn it into another piece of the Thompson empire.

A computer sat on his desk, yellowed with age. I slid the keyboard out and gave it few taps. No response—it was either turned off or dead. But when I shoved it back in, something fluttered to the floor—a yellow sticky note. On it, in Grandpa’s curving writing, was a list of usernames and passwords. I rolled my eyes and put the note back under the keyboard.

“James!” a voice boomed from the doorway. “Get your feet off my desk!”

I jumped out of the chair.

Grandpa stood in the doorway, hands on hips.

“You do look good in that chair though,” he said, his voice softer but still loud enough for William to hear in the kitchen. A smile started to lift the corners of his mouth, but it died. He looked tired.

“Sorry, Grandpa.” I turned his chair around and wiped the desk where my shoes had been. He walked into the room and waved away my apology.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. Business …” His voice faltered.

I looked away, and that’s when I noticed his assistant, Ms. Lin, standing in the hallway with a black leather notebook held to her chest. Ms. Lin was in her late twenties, maybe thirties—I didn’t know, or care. She was gorgeous, the sexiest
real
woman I knew, and the subject of more than one late-night fantasy. Today she wore a short blue skirt with a matching blazer and dangerously high heels. My eyes started at her feet and traveled up. When I finally made it to her deep brown eyes, she was staring straight at me. She smiled like the stewardess she once was.

“Happy birthday, James.” Her voice was silky smooth, with a slight Asian accent.

As usual, my brain stopped communicating with my mouth, and heat flooded my face.

“Uh … thanks.” I stumbled over to sit in my usual spot near the fireplace.

Grandpa scowled at me. “When are you going to get that hair cut?”

“Leave him alone, Chairman,” Ms. Lin said, gliding like an angel across the rug to rescue me. “Let him be young and carefree while he can. Were you any different at that age?”

He hitched his thumbs in his vest pockets. “This isn’t the sixties, and I was never carefree.”

Ms. Lin looked skeptical.

He broke into a sly smile. “At least, not that either of you will ever know about.” He turned toward the door. “There’s a change of plans today, James. Let’s go downstairs. William!” he bellowed as he strode down the hall, his back straight as a soldier’s.

Ms. Lin turned to me. “You better not make him wait.”

I ran after him. Halfway down the stairs, I stopped and gaped: there was a crowd of people in the foyer below.

“Happy sixteenth birthday!” they called out, not at all in unison—obviously they hadn’t rehearsed. And I
was
surprised. Even my dad was there. My mother—my
okaasan
—clung to his arm, as if keeping him from running away.

Besides my parents, the only other people I knew well were William; two of the maids; the old Japanese gardener, Mr. Sugimoto; and John and Miles, two of Grandpa’s regular bodyguards. That guy who’d flattened me earlier wasn’t around—probably lurking near the gate, waiting to jump someone else.

The rest of the group was senior executives from Grandpa’s company. A few I knew in passing, but most were faces I’d seen only on the boardroom walls. And, of course, there was Ms. Lin, standing so close behind me on the stairs that the scent of her—a hint of perfume and lipstick—made me blush again.

“How’d you all sneak in here?” I said.

“Maybe while you were napping in my chair,” Grandpa said, chuckling at the bottom of the stairs. “Come on down, my boy. I promise this won’t hurt a bit.”

Okaasan met me at the bottom of the stairs. She wore a kimono, peach-colored with a trail of small flowers cascading from a wide silk belt. The color complemented Dad’s tie.

Okaasan bowed to me, her smile changing to something more mischievous.

“You must pay attention, Junya,” she said in Japanese. “What if we were ninja, coming to kill you?”

“You’d already be dead,” I said, also in Japanese.

“You wish, little apprentice.”

I heard Mr. Sugimoto chuckle.

I glanced at my dad and rubbed the fabric of his suit jacket, trying to get a read on him. “Looking pretty spiffy, Dad. I didn’t know you owned a suit.”

“I may need one for a funeral—yours, if you keep this up,” he said, but he gave me a small smile.

I moved on to shake the hands of the people I hadn’t met, knowing Grandpa would expect that, but I was still close enough to hear Grandpa address my dad.

“It’s been a long time, Robert. Thank you for coming.”

There was an awkward pause. I held my breath.

“Good to see you, too.” Dad sounded tense. “The house looks good.”

I released my breath and moved on.

Mark Smith, president of the Thompson Group, greeted me with a warm smile, a firm handshake, and a pat on the shoulder. Next to him was Mr. Barrymore, Grandpa’s security chief and a former Marine sergeant. He was gray-haired and in his fifties—by far the most intimidating man in the room after Grandpa.

Near the back of the group, turned away from us and whispering into a phone, was Walter Roacks. He was Grandpa’s chief financial officer and the longest-serving employee of his company. And since I knew Grandpa was probably watching, I went over to shake his hand.

He snapped the phone closed and extended his hand. It was cold and clammy.

I turned away from Walter and bumped right into Ms. Lin. I reached out to catch her, afraid she’d fall off her high heels, but before I could touch her, she steadied herself. I paused, my hand in midair.

“Sorry, Ms. Lin.” Not knowing what else to do, I thrust out my hand. To my surprise, she moved in close. Her delicate hands reached for my shoulders and she kissed me on the mouth.

“That’s my present to you,” she whispered, her lips beside my ear. “I wanted to be the first woman to kiss you now that you’ve become a man.”

She pulled back, a bright smile on her face. I was pretty sure she’d done that to tease me because of the way I’d checked her out upstairs. I also knew I was glowing like a stoplight. I glanced around, wondering if anyone saw, but everyone else had drifted into the parlor.

The parlor was big and bright, with overstuffed leather furniture and glass doors opening onto the back gardens. Balloons and banners hung from the ceiling, and a string quartet sat near the doors. They broke into “Happy Birthday” when they saw me. I winced—this was getting ridiculous.

Ms. Lin pushed me past them and into the dining room, where caterers in crisp white uniforms were placing trays of hot food on the table. It was a birthday brunch. Grandpa had gone all out, something he’d never done before.

“Sit beside me, James,” Grandpa said from the head of the table.

Okaasan sat next to me, with my dad beside her. All conversation ceased as we dug into brunch. Eggs Benedict, German sausage, Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream and maple syrup from Quebec, even Japanese miso soup and broiled fish for Okaasan. And as promised, there were William’s croissants, soft and buttery.

William was on hand to enjoy his creation, as were John and Miles, Mr. Sugimoto, and the maids. I was happy to have them there—I’d known them so long that they were almost like family. But why were there so many suits?

“Slow down, Edward,” Okaasan said. “Didn’t you have dinner last night?”

“Oh, Misako,” Grandpa said with a laugh, a forkful of sausage on the way to his mouth. “That’s what I like about you—and Lin. I wish the rest of my employees were so candid.”

“She doesn’t have to worry about getting fired.”

The voice had come from down the table. When I looked up, John was whistling, looking outside. Everyone laughed, but Ms. Lin cut in.

“You do need to look after yourself better, Edward,” she said, using his name for the first time that I could recall. “I’ve been saying that.”

Grandpa grinned. “I know, but these sausages are so damn good.”

“Yes, they are,” Mr. Sugimoto said in accented English from across the table. “Would you pass them here, Junya?”

“Why’d you call him Junya?” Mark said.

Grandpa answered before anyone else had a chance.

“His
real
name is James Edward Thompson.” He looked so proud. “His father named him after me.”

I always suspected that Dad had slapped the name on me with about as much thought as a store clerk putting a price tag on a can of tuna. Just something to keep Grandpa happy, I suppose.

“
I
named him Junya.” Okaasan’s voice was low but strong. “It means ‘the pure one.’” Then she looked up, perhaps becoming aware of the sudden silence. “And he’ll stay that way if I can keep the young ladies away.”

Someone chuckled, and then others joined in, a release of tension. I blushed again, my eyes still on the table. Okaasan had never called me James—like anything she disagreed with, she made her own way around it.

If anyone had bothered to ask me, I’d have said I preferred Junya. The older I got, the less comfortable I was with my borrowed name. It felt like a hand-me-down.

Grandpa started clinking a spoon against his coffee cup. I groaned as a man in a baker’s hat carried in a huge cake, complete with the requisite sixteen candles.

“Make a wish, James,” Grandpa said as he leaned back and loosened his tie. As if that were her cue, Ms. Lin walked around from her end of the table and placed a small wrapped package beside me.

I tried to smile. Maybe it was just this whole over-the-top party, but something about the gift felt … formal.

“James,” Grandpa began as he watched Ms. Lin walk back to her seat. “When your father returned to San Francisco, bringing you and his beautiful wife, Misako, I promised I’d do things different with you.”

I glanced at my dad. He was staring at the table.

“I’ve tried to teach you what I think is important about life, and about my business, and you’ve learned well.” Grandpa addressed the room. “Are you all aware of his bookstore project?”

There were a few grunts.

“I’m not,” my dad said.

“James found the classic undervalued property, an old building in a good neighborhood. Of course, I wanted to bulldoze the place, but he insisted on a heritage renovation. James led the project and it was a success.” He chuckled. “I expected it to fail—which would’ve been a good lesson.” Before I had a chance to process the insult, he continued. “Do you know how much profit you’ve earned?”

The question surprised me. I’d had fun working on the design and even hoped to impress him, but I never even considered the money it might make.

He hit the table so hard the cutlery rattled. “You’ve made one hundred and ten thousand dollars so far.”

There was a whistle from the other end of the table.

Okaasan cleared her throat. “Edward—”