“Any chance he was kidding?” My twin brother Elijah would have joked like that just to rile me up. “What does he do now?”
“He’s a bougie Silicon Valley lawyer, negotiating all sorts of fancy …” she tilted her head, a laugh bubbling on her lips. “Oh shit, was he was trolling me?”
Back in my office, I realized that’s who I was about to call: a Humperdinck apologist.
Maybe he had a dry wit and had been trying to annoy his gullible little sister.
But maybe, just maybe, he believed it was okay to murder your fiancée for political gain.
With that story in mind, I pressed the button to call him.
It rang and rang, then went to voicemail.
I tried again: ring, ring, voicemail.
I tried again: straight to voicemail. He declined the call.
Well, this wouldn’t work.
I opened my computer, minimized my color-coded to-do list, and googled, 'alexander clarke lawyer california.' The eighth result showed a man with broad shoulders in a navy suit and crisply knotted tie. His inky dark hair was swept back, not a lock out of place, and his cocky mouth rose into a crooked grin similar to Bruce’s. Blue eyes the same shape as Mallory’s pierced the screen with a sharp gaze.
Bingo! Alexander J. Clarke, Esq., Senior Associate in Mergers & Acquisitions. You can’t avoid my calls forever.
I dialed from my desk phone, hoping the hospital number might help my case.
“Good morning, Mr. Clarke’s office, this is Connor.”
“I’m calling from Saratoga Hospital with an urgent matter about Alexander’s father.”
“He’s locked in negotiations, but let me send a quick message.” Frantic typing. A pause. Frantic typing. Another pause. “Hold please.”
I imagined the man from the photo rushing out of a conference room, frantic with worry for his beloved father, breathless when he says —
“This had better be good.” The coarse voice interrupted my daydream. “This is Alexander Clarke. I’m balls-deep in a multi-million dollar deal, so this had better be worth it.”
“This is Grace Alvarez calling from Saratoga Hospital —”
“I know, get to the point.”
I sputtered before I spit out: “Your dad collapsed. It might be a heart attack.”
An intake of breath. “When?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
He muttered a curse word. The bad one, the one that rhymes with duck. “Is this why my kid sister was calling so insistently?”
“That was me, calling from your sister’s phone. I work for her and I —”
“Let me get this straight: My dad fell. It might be a heart attack. Now my flaky sister’s assistant is interrupting my negotiation to tell me that she doesn’t have any details. Is that accurate?”
I felt like I was an inch tall. He grunted, ready to hang up.
Then I remembered: This was about Bruce. Not my feelings, not his ego.
“No, that’s not accurate. I was with your dad all morning,” I rushed, uncertain he’d let me finish. “He was sweaty and pale. The doctors used a defibrillator, this is serious.”
The silence was deafening. I wondered if he’d already hung up. I was ready to call back when he spoke, so calm it felt deadly. “Why were you with him?”
“He was at the hospital for a ceremonial ribbon cutting.”
“Shit, Mom told me about that. This is what he gets for being philanthropic.” He released a heavy, put-upon sigh. “He knows I’ve got this acquisition to finalize, and partnership promotions are in six weeks. I’m swamped.”
That ticked me off. Before I knew what came over me, I snapped, “Listen, you don’t want to regret not being here if something goes wrong, and your mother will need your strength. You should come home.”
The challenge buzzed like a tuning fork, vibrating across 2500 miles.
After a fraught silence, his voice was calm and detached, every consonant clipped. “Connor, give Lacey my work cell number so she can call back when she has more details. If she shares it with my sister and I get texts about my favorite boy band, I’m holding you accountable for getting me a new number.”
“Of course, sir,” his assistant said, startling me as Alexander hung up. “Are you still there?”
I wasn’t sure. I felt dismissed and devalued, like when I was scolded by my father for fidgeting at church. I touched my face to confirm I still existed. “His sister warned me, but nothing could have prepared me for that. Is he always like that?”
“Not always.” Connor rattled off a number which I scrawled onto a post-it.
I couldn’t help myself: I went all social-worker on my best-friend’s-brother’s-assistant. “You say he’s not always like that. What’s going on?”
When he hesitated, I said in my kindest voice, “Connor, today has been a nightmare. Bruce was doing me a favor when he collapsed and the doctors rushed him into emergency surgery and I don’t know if …” My breath hitched but I pushed through. “Then his ungrateful son bit my head off. I won't tattle. Heck, I’m probably never going to talk to him again after today.”
