The Collectibles by James J. Kaufman Read Free Book Online

too fast, slammed doors too hard, and apologized too slowly. He resented it when his friends implied – and some expressed directly – that six months was time enough to get on with your life. How the hell did they know? How could they possibly understand the life he and Ash had? How many had ever experienced that? Time might diminish the scar, but no time would ever be enough where Ash was concerned.
    While he wanted to cling to everything to do with Ashley, he also knew he had to do something, make some change. He kept being drawn to the pain he’d felt when Lettie told him that God had taken his mom and dad, and they were in heaven now. Looking back, he knew he would have joined them if not for his aunt and uncle. He remembered Lettie’s last words to him, that she loved him, and
“whatever you do, don’t forget Jesus.”
What Joe wondered was whether Jesus had forgotten him? Joe had faced danger and risk of death many times. After all, he would die at some point anyway.
Why not now?
    When he pushed these away, his thoughts turned to Howard and the mountains. Joe could feel the spray from the waterfall on his face. He could hear the rush of the brook and taste the trout. He could see Howard’s smile, hear his voice, as if he were still alive.
    There’s a certain truth in these mountains
. . . They’re beautiful, but they ain’t forgiving. Only the strong survive . . . Treat the mountains
with respect . . . you’ll be all right, and never alone . . . If you make a mistake up here, you can die
. . . It can be cold and raw and windy and whipped. It can also be calm and clear.
    Uncle Howard was long gone. So was Aunt Lettie. So were Joe’s mom and dad. And now Ashley. They were all gone. All except the mountains. They were still there. It was time to go home.

 
Chapter 5
    T he limo driver dropped Preston Wilson and Casey Fitzgerald, his chief financial officer, on the south side of 1575 Broadway. They passed by the green marble walls and floor into the spacious elevator and up to the thirty-eighth floor. The elevator door opened directly into the venerable law firm of Whitcock, Stevenson, Brookfield, Berry and Brown.
    Preston stormed into the reception area, General Patton in a pin-striped suit. Casey waddled behind. The receptionist, apparently used to clients under stress, quietly called Andrew Brookfield, a senior partner heading the firm’s fixed assets commercial group. At the same time she directed Preston and Casey to the waiting area: an antique sofa accented by a table with an assortment of neatly stacked financial magazines, softly lighted by brass and leather lamps. As he waited on the sofa, Preston bobbed his knees up and down while he noisily flipped through the pages of
Fortune 500.
Casey studied two bound financial reports.
    Brookfield was the attorney supervising Wilson Holdings, Inc., the parent company of Preston’s vast new and used car network. Under various names and in various locations, including Atlanta Motors, San Francisco Autoplaza, East Bay Porsche & Audi, Manhattan Mercedes, Charlottetown Motors, and Houston Automax, Wilson Holdings was one of the largest multi-state mega-dealers in the country.
    Preston threw the magazine back on the table and thought about making calls on his cell phone, but the hushed atmosphere discouraged him. The only reason Preston was sitting here was the urgency of Mr. Brookfield’s tone in calling the meeting.
    Preston hated the way Casey looked, but there was no man he trusted more with his money. Casey’s horn-rimmed glasses with thick lenses fell down his reddish, bulbous nose. Thin blond hair stuck out from underneath his khaki hat. He wore a rumpled, gray three-buttoned suit. The buttons on the vest struggled to contain his shirt, red-and-blue striped tie, and massive belly. Over his suit he wore a khaki raincoat, even though the skies were clear that morning.
    It was Casey’s sharp eye