Timothy Lynch braced himself for the encounter. Dr. Michael Tiernan, the new CEO of Oisín Pharmaceuticals, was unpredictable and often unpleasant. He straightened his tie one last time before he buzzed his secretary.
“Ellen, please show Dr. Tiernan in.” Extending his hand, Lynch got up to greet him. “Dr. Tiernan, I’m so sorry for your loss. Your father was a remarkable man. Please, have a seat. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Tiernan. “So, why couldn’t this have waited until the estate hearing?” He sat down in the comfortable leather chair, crossed his legs and waited for the explanation.
“Your father left very specific instructions and, as his attorney, I’m obligated to carry them out,” said Lynch.
“Well,” said Tiernan, “let’s get on with it.”
Lynch opened his safe, removed a silver key and handed it to Tiernan.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a key to a safety deposit box. Your father never told me which
bank housed the box – said you would know where to go.”
Tiernan searched his mind briefly. “Nothing’s jumping out at me. Didn’t leave a hint, did he?”
“I’m afraid not, but perhaps when you have time to think, you’ll remember. When you do manage to find it, you’ll need to present these documents to the manager,” said Lynch, handing Tiernan a sealed envelope. “They’ll need to see a death certificate and the papers proving that you’re the executor of the will before they let you in.”
“Alright,” said Tiernan, taking the envelope. “So, until Wednesday?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be at the mansion immediately after the funeral, as you’ve requested.”
“Very good,” said Tiernan. “Thanks for the key.”
The door closed behind Tiernan. Lynch sighed in relief.
***
Tiernan was on his third bank before the manager at Global Commerce confirmed that Richard Tiernan had, indeed, procured a safety deposit box there. After the security check, the manager escorted Tiernan into a private room where he could examine the contents. Tiernan closed the door and waited a moment before proceeding. He didn’t know what to expect and, despite the grim circumstances, was excited to see what his father had left him. He lifted the lid slowly. A sealed manila envelope sat squarely in the center; seven sealed vials of purple liquid lined the sides. He picked one up and held it against the light, tilting it slowly back and forth, examining the viscosity. A rubber stopper sealed with wax kept the liquid airtight. Putting the vial gently back into the box, he reached for the manila envelope and tore it open. A thick, ornate, leather portfolio slid into his hands. He untied the strings, opened to the first page and immediately recognized his father’s handwriting.
I hope that you will never have to read this, and hope is a powerful force.
My life’s work is now yours.
I love you,
Dad.
Tiernan flipped through the first few of the handwritten pages. Equations of increasing complexity were scribbled helter-skelter around the margins. Tying the strings together tightly, he closed the portfolio, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and left the empty box behind.
***
Tiernan centered the Last Will and Testament on the meticulously organized desk and poured himself a glass of bourbon. His father’s scent still lingered in the air and it filled him with an awful, empty feeling. He stood very still and looked around the room at objects he had seen countless times. His gaze fixed on the bronze statue standing unassumingly on the bookshelf. It was a plain statue of a gravely injured man propped up against a tree stump. He had made a mental note several times to ask his father about the strange piece, since it was peculiar and simply too morose to be decorative – he’d never gotten around to it. Seeing the statue again, he was acutely aware that his father was dead; he would never ask him anything again.
Tiernan poured himself another glass of the bourbon from his father’s crystal decanter and slugged it down. He looked down at the Will and a wave of emotion washed away the warm feeling the bourbon had so kindly left, replacing it with an icy realization; he was alone in the world. He threw back the amber liquid and welcomed the burn.
“Michelino?” said Marinella. The diminutive but robust elderly woman didn’t wait for an invitation to enter the den. Still vested in the traditional Italian black funeral garb, she walked in and placed a cup of tea on the coaster. “Tesoro,” she said adoringly. “Povero ragazzo. Ti voglio bene amore.” Tears streamed down her face as she clung to Tiernan. “Il mio cuore.”
“Grazie, Mari,” said Tiernan, fluent in Italian since he was a teen. She hugged him tightly, pressing his cheek to her bosom, the physics of which caused him to bend awkwardly from his standing position. Yet, he succumbed to her motherly embrace gratefully, heaving a sigh and momentarily relaxing his body despite the ungainly dynamics. There was no pretense with her. She was, after all, the woman who had raised him from the time he was a boy, and it was her firm hand and unconditional love that had carried him through the loss of his mother. Sarah Tiernan had only been ill for a few weeks when ovarian cancer had claimed her. Just a week after his 13th birthday, Michael had become a motherless child. At 36, he was an orphan.
The doorbell sounded throughout the mansion, which seemed much emptier now, and Marinella went to the door.
“Good afternoon, I’m Timothy Lynch. I have an appointment with Dr. Tiernan.”
***
As Tiernan signed his way through a mountain of documents, Lynch produced from his briefcase an addendum to the Last Will and Testament.
“Dr. Tiernan,” said Lynch, “there is one more item we need to discuss.”
“And what’s that?” said Tiernan. Lynch handed him a two-page document.
“Your father had a few assets that were kept off Oisín’s books,” said Lynch. “I know very little about them – your father insisted on his privacy.” Tiernan skimmed over the highlighted portions.
“A house and a vineyard in Sardinia? When did my father buy a vineyard? And for what?” He pictured the vials of purple liquid sitting snugly in the desk drawer just a few inches from him and wondered if they were samples of wine. “How much are these assets worth?”
“I’m not certain,” said Lynch. “But I can get you some figures.”
“Yes, do that, and then just sell the damn place! I’m too busy to deal with this. Isn’t that what I pay you to do?”
Lynch felt the back of his neck heat up. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before continuing. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” he confessed. “Two weeks before your father passed away, he asked me to make a few small changes to the Will. From your reaction, I assume this is the first you’re hearing of it.”
“What exactly did he ask you to change?” said Tiernan, still reading.
“He wanted to leave half of the Sardinian assets to someone named Ivan Falters,” said Lynch.
“Who?”
“Ivan Falters,” repeated Lynch. “Apparently, Mr. Falters and your father had some business dealings over in Sardinia. As Oisín’s financial situation worsened, your father couldn’t pay Mr. Falters without raising a red flag with the accountants, so they compromised.”
“Alright, whatever,” said Tiernan. “I knew he was dipping into our capital. Anyway, this is what I want you to do. Sell my half of the property to Falters. Start by offering it for 5 percent below the market value and allow him to haggle you down to 10 percent. I have a company to run; I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m afraid you must make time, sir,” said Lynch nervously. “I spoke with Falters and tried to negotiate another arrangement, but he made it clear that he will only deal directly with you, and it needs to be in Sardinia. He’s expecting you as soon as your schedule permits.”
“Expecting me?” said Tiernan. “I should be expecting him. Arrange a meeting at Oisín for sometime next week.”
“Again, I’m sorry, sir,” said Lynch, “but you’re going to have to travel to him. As I’ve said, I tried to get him –”
Tiernan abruptly cut him off. “Goddamn it, Lynch! Now I have to clean up this mess too? Did my father leave any more surprises for me?”
“I can make the travel arrangements if you’d like,” said Lynch.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Tiernan. “Is there anything else?”
“Just the travel arrangements, sir,” said Lynch. “When would you prefer to depart?”
“I’d prefer not to go at all,” said Tiernan. “But, since that seems beyond your ability, book a ticket for Thursday and make it an evening flight.”
“Very well,” said Lynch. “I’ll have the itinerary sent to your secretary. Have a good evening, sir.”
Tiernan was reluctant to leave his father’s den. He refilled his glass with bourbon, weakening it with some seltzer. What the hell is in Sardinia? he thought as he paced the room.
He sat back down at his father’s desk and examined the leather portfolio. He held the rich brown leather up to his nose and inhaled its strong, distinctive scent. He ran his hand over the cover, touching the intricate stitching around the edges. The case was soft and well-worn, yet sturdy and elegant.
His life’s work, he thought. He wanted to untie the strings and let the portfolio spill its secrets, but could not bring himself to do it – not just yet. He felt a mixture of shame, regret and anger, thinking back on all the wasted opportunities to spend time with his father, the petty arguments and the times he could have been a better son, a better friend. Would he ever manage to forgive himself for calling his father a coward?
He pulled open the heavy drawer and extracted a vial of the purple liquid. He sat it atop the portfolio and rolled it back and forth. He was about to break the wax seal and investigate the liquid when she called.
“Michelino, pronto al tavola!” yelled Marinella Santarelli. “Devi mangiare qualcosa.”
“Eccomi,” responded Tiernan. He wasn’t hungry, but it wasn’t worth the hassle that would ensue if he were to refuse dinner.
As he left the den, he whispered heavenward, “Please, just don’t let me find a mountain of debt towering over those damn grapes.”
Excerpt. © All rights reserved.
