Chapter 3: DAMON - A Very Good Bad Idea

Early Saturday morning, when the sky is still gray and the sun’s rays haven’t yet peeked over the horizon, I go for my run. I lock the door of my top-floor, one-bedroom apartment and head down the sun-bleached exterior wood stairs. The place is sparse, outdated, and in desperate need of an interior upgrade, but the roof, plumbing, and electric are solid. And the location is a knock-out—one block from the beach, with rooftop ocean views. I also own it free and clear, and rent out the first-floor apartment to a family of five for an extra income stream.

I hit the pavement and start out in a warm-up jog down the sidewalk. I turn right on Ocean Boulevard, passing the tiny capes and bungalows that were vacation homes back in the ’60s but are now full-time residences. They’re not much to look at—chipped siding, broken windows, overgrown yards, and sagging roofs. But I get a jolt of adrenaline every time I see them.

Because part of why I went into real-estate development was to kick old man Buchanan’s ass. But I also get a rush from possibility, from the prospect of what could be, the potential of magnificence. It’s like being able to look into the future—I see opportunity where other people can’t.

Four blocks down, I turn left and head up the ramp to the boardwalk, picking up my pace. The Shore Haven Boardwalk is like the quieter, shyer kid sister of Atlantic City’s. Riley, Gage, Ian, and I may have lived at Saint Andrew’s, but we grew up on these faded planks. We had our first jobs here—Ian was the fortune teller’s assistant, Riley pulled saltwater taffy, Gage ran the merry-go-round, and to this day I can ace the ring toss with my eyes closed. We tried smoking cigarettes here, thinking we were cool—a short-lived habit, because Brother John caught us and threatened to break our collective fingers if we did it again—just like Jesus would do. The first time we got drunk was on the damp sand under the East Pier, and I lost my virginity to Ashley Macaveigh in the same spot the following summer.

I hang a right down the steps and hit the beach, pushing myself into a full sprint toward the water, the salt air sharp in my lungs. My breathing ratchets up and sweat trickles down my back. It’s cool for early October, but running on the beach requires full body exertion.

It’s the same workout my father used to do.

I named the company Burke Developers, and the guys let me, not because it’s my last name—but because it was his. He was a construction guy, a builder of things. He liked working with his hands, being out in the fresh air and sun, exposed to the elements. He used to talk about starting his own company one day.

He was the kind of dad every kid dreams of having. Firm but fun, simple but dignified, with a quiet, gentle strength that infused his every word and deed. I had him for nine years. The guys think I was a lucky bastard to have had him for that long, but to me . . . it wasn’t even close to long enough.

After my run, I walk several blocks from the beach to cool down. And eventually find myself outside the wrought-iron gates of Saint Andrew’s. I don’t visit often, but today I do.

The main building is a former rectory that was conferred to the Brothers of the Sacred Heart, a congregation of the Catholic Church whose members take vows of poverty and celibacy, but technically aren’t priests. The Brothers turned it into a group home for boys—because they don’t call them orphanages anymore. It’s not the kind of place any kid wants to end up, but the ones who land here are more fortunate than they know.

As I walk through the gate and up the path, two teenage boys are painting a small shed a few yards away, and the echo of footsteps and chatter comes from the open windows of the dormitory. It’s still early, but even on Saturdays laziness isn’t allowed. Because boredom breeds trouble and the devil is always on the lookout for idle hands.

The path weaves around the lush, green lawn and down to the back garden, where I rest my hands on the high chain-link fence.

“How were the tomatoes this year?”

Sparkling eyes look up at me from beneath the brim of a beige gardening hat.

“Excellent. At least the ones I was able to harvest.” Brother Mateo holds up a ruby-red, half-eaten tomato the size of his palm. “A groundhog and three offspring have gotten past every barrier I’ve put up this season. They seem to be enjoying them.”

“My kind of groundhogs,” I joke. “Highly motivated.”

He comes out of the garden, closing the gate behind him, and gestures to the chairs a few feet away. “I’m chalking it up to ‘The Lord provides.’”

There are some Brothers at Saint Andrew’s who would’ve electrified the fence. Not because they’re bad men, but because they’re hardasses—old school, regimented, with high expectations and harsh, swift punishments at the ready. But Brother Mateo was different. He grew up in Queens and was an amateur boxer before joining the brothers, and yet he was kinder, more understanding, with a well of patience that never seemed to run dry.

Or maybe that’s just the impression that’s stuck with me. Since the day he scooped up a sobbing nine-year-old and carried him out of a hospital room.

“Clarabelle Spicket’s burial is this afternoon. Though I assume that’s not news to you.”

I nod. “I’ve kept track of the situation, yes.”

Mateo reaches into the cooler on the ground beside him and pulls out a bottle of beer. “Want one?”

I said he was kind . . . I didn’t say he was a saint.

“I’m good for now, thanks.”

He cracks it open, takes a swing, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem right. She lived a long, full life—why would Clara want a private service? There’s nothing sadder than a gravesite without mourners. The whole town would’ve turned out for her.”

All that’s just a show, Damon. A way for people to make themselves feel better after the fact. If they didn’t come visit me when I’m alive, they shouldn’t bother visiting when I’m dead. And for those who did, like you, there is no need. I won’t be there. I’ll be somewhere else.

“She didn’t need anyone to turn out for her,” I tell him. “She knew what she wanted.”

“I suppose.” Mateo sighs solemnly. “And now the fight over her estate begins.”

I smirk. “It’s not going to be much of a fight.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“That’s me—cold as ice and right as rain.”

He chuckles. “You’re not nearly as cold as you try to be, son.”

“A lot of people would disagree.”

“A lot of people don’t know you. You’ve made sure of that.”

If Mateo has a flaw, it’s his stubbornness about seeing the good in people. Believing there’s a light in all of us—that can be nurtured and grown—no matter how dark the rest of their soul may be.

“If you say so.”

* * *

I was notified last night that the reading of the will is scheduled for this afternoon, at the law office of Stymie Williamson. Stymie’s a lifetime local who’s almost as old as Clara was.

Five minutes before go time, Riley and I pull into the rear parking lot of Stymie’s office. Like his hairline, the place has seen better days. It’s a pointy-roofed, one-floor, little shack of a building tucked away on lower Main Street, with white brick and black shutters that cry out for a fresh coat of paint. The parking lot is where the money is—eighteen spaces, smooth asphalt—he should be renting it out on the weekends to the Asian-fusion restaurant five doors down.

Despite his advanced age, or maybe because of it, it makes sense that Clara picked Stymie to represent her last wishes. He’s always had a reputation as an old-school, steel vault of a lawyer who’d sooner get his ancient ass tossed in a jail cell than break a client’s confidentiality. As Riley and I get out of the car and close our doors, a sleek, shiny red Porsche tears into the parking lot, cutting into the space next to me in a sharp turn—coming to a stop half an inch from the toe of my shoe.

Incidentally, cars are a terrible investment, a depreciating asset. This car is not one you typically see cruising around Shore Haven, so before the door opens, I already know who’s sitting behind the blacked-out tinted windows.

The devil’s daughter: Jade Buchanan.

She gets out and walks toward us, all polished sophistication in black high heels, taupe slacks, a sheer-sleeved blouse, and 24K gold jewelry. It’s a sin that someone so hot has such ugly DNA. Her beauty is deceptively delicate—creamy skin, elegant bone structure, long, lithe limbs with sweet curves in all the right places. She moves with the grace of a snowflake as it drifts down from the sky . . .

“What the fuck are you doing here, Burke?”

. . . with the personality of an iceberg.

“Hello to you too, real-estate Barbie. And I could ask you the same question.”

A lot of men are intimidated by Jade—by her looks, her business acumen, and her last name.

I’m not one of them.

“Hi, Jade,” Riley interjects. Because he likes to get along with everyone—especially women.

She flashes him a smile. “Hi, Riley.” Then she blasts me with a scowl. “I asked you first.”

Fair enough.

“I’m here for the reading of Clarabelle Spicket’s will.”

She takes that in, folding her arms across her chest, looking surprised, but unconcerned. “What a coincidence, I’m here for the reading of Clara’s will too.”

“Oh yeah?” I reply. “You knew Clara?”

“I did. Very well, in fact.”

“That’s nice. Maybe she left you some granny panties. You seem like the type who’d use them.”

Her plush, pouty lips curve into a slow smile that’s equal parts vindictive and irritatingly gorgeous. “I have a feeling it’s going to be something more . . . substantial. But I’m glad you’ll be here to hear it. That’s gonna make it even better.”

This right here should’ve been my first indication that the situation was about to take a nosedive straight to hell. But while my confidence has always been my greatest strength—it also makes for a massive blind spot.

So I smirk back, “Ditto,” figuring Jade was here because Clara bequeathed her an old broach or maybe some cash from her freezer. Nothing to worry about.

Oh past Burke. You sad, sorry son of a bitch.

* * *

We make our way into the reception area of Stymie’s office.

With his cane in hand, Stymie greets us. “Good. Everyone is here. We can begin.”

Before I reply, I’m engulfed in a six-foot-five, two-hundred-and-sixty-pound bear hug of sobbing German.

“Mr. Burke, isn’t it terrible? Poor, poor Miss Clara!”

Gunther Braun was Clara’s foreign exchange, live-in nurse-housekeeper—an au pair for the elderly. He’s kindhearted, compassionate, and built like a brick shithouse—like The Rock’s long-lost German brother.

“It was so unexpected.”

Awkwardly, I pat his back. “It’s a shock to us all, Gunther. Totally didn’t see it coming.”

He straightens up for just a moment—before turning and swallowing Jade in his arms, lifting her off the ground and pulling her right out of one of her shoes.

“Oh, Miss Jade! She was like an Oma to us!”

Sob, sob, hiccup, sob.

Jade’s green eyes go wide over his shoulder, kind of bulging, and she scrapes out an airless, “There, there.”

I grab a tissue from Stymie’s reception desk and wave it at Gunther. “Here you go, big guy.”

He releases his death grip and blows his nose into the tissue with the force of a thousand honking geese.

Stymie leads us into his office and takes a seat behind his desk while the three of us sit in the dark leather chairs opposite him.

The old lawyer opens up a folder on his desk, clears his throat, and begins to read.

“‘I, Clarabelle Dorothy Edith Spicket, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament. I direct my executor to pay all debts and liens that remain in my name or against my estate. I wish my jewelry collection to be sold for its fair market value and the proceeds to be donated to the New Jersey Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial Foundation. The balance of my treasury bonds and savings account, I leave to my nurse, Gunther Braun. I know Gunther has plans to return to Germany after my passing, and I hope these funds will help provide him with some measure of comfort in his life—the same comfort he worked so hard to give to me.’”

Stymie pauses as Gunther sobs it out for a solid minute. When he eventually manages to pull himself together, Stymie goes on.

“‘My house, all its contents, and ownership of the property on which it stands has great value, both financially and sentimentally. For this reason, it is to be divided—’”

Divided?

Divided?! Suddenly Tom Hanks is yelling in my brain, ‘There’s no divided in baseball!’

“‘—between Jade Buchanan—’”

I grunt audibly. Like I’ve been kicked in the balls and stabbed in the back at the same time. There’s also an excellent chance I’m going to puke all over Stymie’s ugly shag rug.

“‘—and Damon Burke—’”

“What?!” Jade gasps, her tone a mirror image of my own.

Except much more annoying.

“‘—contingent upon the completion of the following requirements.’”

Way too much like the creepy twin ghost girls from The Shining for my comfort, Jade and I say at the exact same time, “What requirements?!”

Stymie’s eyes dart up at us from behind his glasses. “I’m about to read them. Unless you two would prefer to keep interrupting?”

I snap my fingers at him impatiently. “No, no we won’t interrupt. Continue.”

The old man clears his throat and takes his sweet time finding the spot where he left off, then reads on.

“‘1. In order to qualify for ownership of the Spicket property and all it entails, Jade Buchanan and Damon Burke must live on the Spicket property for no less than four months, beginning at sunset, twenty-four hours after the reading of this will.

“‘2. Jade Buchanan and Damon Burke will be fitted with ankle monitors. If either exceeds the property line, the executor will be notified and that party will be disinherited. The remaining party will inherit full and exclusive ownership of the property upon completion of requirement one.

“‘3. If both Jade and Damon complete requirement one, they will each own fifty percent of the Spicket property.

“‘4. If neither Jade nor Damon complete requirement one, the property will be donated to the Brothers of the Sacred Heart of Shore Haven.’”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Shhhh!” Jade hisses.

“‘5. No cellular phones or outside communication or technology devices of any kind are permitted on the property during the four-month period.

“‘6. Jade and Damon are to designate one person who will exclusively bring supplies every two weeks. Requests for supplies can be made in writing and left in the mailbox.

“‘7. Any violation of these requirements at any time during the four-month period will result in immediate disinheritance and eviction from the property.’”

When Stymie closes the folder, Jade pops out of her chair. “That’s insane. I can’t stay in that house for four months. I have a career and responsibilities, and, and . . . a life! And I’m certainly not going to be forced to cohabitate with him of all people! I’d rather live among a herd of goats with a raging case of irritable bowel syndrome.”

“You’re not my top pick for a roomie either, sweetheart,” I volunteer.

Jade shakes her head, all flustered and jittery. Not getting her way is probably a rare occurrence for the apple of daddy’s evil eye.

“There’s no way this is legal.” She sits down in the chair and whips out her phone. “I’m calling our lawyers.”

I turn to Stymie. “All right, Jade’s out. So that means the house goes to me, right?”

Princess Pain-in-the-Ass pauses her finger mid-dial. “I didn’t say I wasn’t doing it.”

“I think you did.”

“That was your first mistake—thinking.”

“Cute.”

“You’re welcome to contact your attorneys, Miss Buchanan,” Stymie explains. “But there is a codicil that if any beneficiary contests Clara’s wishes, they are immediately disinherited.”

And I chuckle. Not because any of this is remotely funny, but because that’s an OG move if I ever saw one. The ultimate final word. So fucking Clara.

Jade puts her phone back in her pocket.

Stymie holds up a sealed, sepia-colored envelope from the file. “Mrs. Spicket wrote a letter, that she instructed me to read to you at this time.”

Stymie slices open the envelope, unfolds the single piece of paper, and begins to read the letter written in perfect penmanship.

“Dear Damon and Jade,

I’m guessing you aren’t very happy with me right now. But I am too old for apologies, so if you’re expecting one, you’re going to be further disappointed. I’ll remind you that I did not lie. I kept my word and left you my home—I never said it would be left only to either of you, or that it would be without stipulations.

The truth is . . . I could not choose one of you over the other. Damon, you remind me of my son Willie, of the man he might have grown up to be if he had come home from the war. And Jade, you remind me of the daughter I might have gained if Willie had fallen in love and gotten married.

So, I decided to let you sort it out between yourselves. Knowing you both as I do, I’m sure it will be an entertaining process.

Jade, stop picking at your cuticles, you’ll make them bleed. And Damon, stop frowning so hard, you’ll give yourself a migraine.”

I run a hand across my mouth and Jade sneakily folds her hands in her lap.

“I hope, one day, you will see this for what I mean it to be. A gift from my heart.

To both of you.

Yours,

Clara”

And that, literally, is all she frigging wrote.