The Parent Trap Read online

  “Dad.”

  “I’m dying, sweetheart. I’ve been hanging on for months, and I’m about ready to let go.” A sigh. “I just want to see you and your brother getting along, first. I want…I want Dell to step up.”

  “If you want me to face up to the fact that you’re… that you’re dying, then you have to face up to the fact that Dell isn’t going to step up.”

  “He has to.”

  “He won’t.” I blink hard. “He knows you’re…” I can’t say the words again. “He knows, Daddy. And he’s visited you, what? Once? Twice in the last six months? He’s too busy spending money and collecting sluts.”

  “I want to talk to him. Get him here. Say whatever you need to, do whatever. Just get him here.” A pause, a slow breath. “I have one last plan.”

  I sigh. “Okay, Daddy. I’ll get him here.”

  His eyes meet mine. “I know you’ve been expecting me to turn over the reins to you, make you president and CEO.”

  I have been. I don’t know what he’s waiting for—I’ve been de facto CEO for a year and a half, now.

  He sighs. “Just…just let me talk to Dell, first.”

  I kiss his forehead. “I’ll go call him.”

  He nods. “Okay, sweetheart. Thanks.”

  “You rest. I’ll bring him in when he gets here.”

  I close the door behind me and head out to the back deck. It’s evening, and the sun is setting onto the tops of the trees. I call Dell.

  It goes to voicemail.

  “Fine, cocksucker,” I mutter. “I’ll just spam you until you answer.”

  So, I call him again. Voicemail.

  I send him a text: Call me. NOW.

  Copy the text, paste it, send it again, and again, and again.

  Call him.

  Text him.

  Call him. Text him.

  Finally, after twenty-two voicemails, each one saying “CALL ME, DELL MCKENNA,” and forty-one repetitions of the same text message, my phone finally, finally rings.

  “What Delia? Jesus fucking Christ.”

  “Don’t speak to me that way, one. Two, you need to get home. And I mean now.”

  “But, I’m—”

  “I don’t give two shits what you’re doing. I don’t care if you’re having dinner with the fucking Pope—GET…HOME…NOW.”

  “Is Dad…?”

  “Still alive…for now. But get here.”

  “I’m in Miami, so It’ll take a while.”

  “Charter a private jet, then. Use the family account for all I care. Just get here.”

  “You took away my access to the family account.”

  “I didn’t, Dad did.”

  “Because you told him to.”

  “I’m not having this argument with you. Use your own goddamn money. Just get here.”

  “God, fine.”

  “I know, Dell, such a hardship, having to come all the way back home to see your dying father.”

  “Fuck you, Delia. Seriously.”

  “Right back at you, brother.”

  I’m woken by the sound of tires on the gravel drive—I’m in the chair on the back deck, still, sprawled out, slumped low, head hanging backward. I start upright at the door closing. I check my Apple Watch—12:41a.m.

  I work to my feet, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and meet my brother in the foyer—he has a Louis Vuitton overnight bag on his shoulder, Versace sunglasses on his head, holding back his thick black hair, and he looks exhausted.

  “Took you long enough,” I snap.

  “Lay off, Dee,” he mumbles. “I couldn’t find a last-minute charter. The soonest flight I could get was a three-stop going to Atlanta and then Minnesota and then LA, and then I had to get another flight to San Francisco and then rent a car to get up here. I swear, I did my best.” He rolls his shoulder. “I had to pay through the fucking nose to upgrade to first class, or I’d have been stuck in the back row of fucking economy.”

  “Poor you.”

  He just sighs. “Is he awake?”

  I shrug. “He’s in and out pretty much all the time, now.” I head for the study—Daddy’s room, now. “He’ll want to see you.”

  Dell shifts from foot to foot. “I, he—if he’s resting, maybe—”

  I ignore him and open the door to the study. “Come on.”

  Dell sets his bag down and follows. Dad is asleep, mouth open. I panic for a split second, but the monitor still beeps steadily, if more slowly than it should. According to the doctors, there’s nothing specific wrong with Dad, it’s just…age. I perch on the edge of the bed and touch his shoulder.

  “Daddy.”

  He stirs. Blinks awake. His eyes go to me, and he smiles—and then his gaze flicks past me, registering Dell. “You showed up, finally.”

  Dell’s shoulders slump, and he flinches as if struck. “Yeah.” He rallies, and goes to the other side of the bed. “I’m here, Dad.”

  Daddy eyes me. “Can we have some time alone, Dee-Dee?”

  “Sure, Dad. I’ll be in there. Just let me know if you need anything.”

  He pats my knee. “Go home. You need sleep, honey-bunny. You have a company to run.”

  I nod. “Okay. I love you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I lift my chin at Dell. “Night.”

  It’s the nicest thing I can think to say to him.

  He just nods.

  When I close the French doors to the study, Mom is hovering at the end of the hall, a blue silk dressing gown not quite closed all the way, revealing a little more of my mother than I’d like to see, but she’s half asleep.

  “Is that Cordell?”

  Mom is the only person on the planet who still calls him that. He’s been Dell since we were two, just like I’ve been called Delia since the same time, even though technically the name on my birth certificate is Cordelia. No one ever calls me that, and I don’t think many people except Mom even know our names aren’t actually, legally Dell and Delia.

  I tug the robe closed and tie it for her. “Yeah, that’s Dell. He’s talking to Dad.”

  “Oh, good. About time that boy got his act together.”

  I don’t correct her. “He’ll be here a few days, I think. You can go back to bed.”

  She frowns. “I want to see Cordell.”

  I hug her. “I’m going home. I’m not sure how long they’ll be talking.”

  Mom hugs back, her arms thin and brittle and soft. “Good night, Dee-Dee. I love you.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Despite what I said to Mom, Dell is nowhere to be found the next morning.

  Dad won’t tell me what they talked about.

  Mom spends every waking second at Dad’s side, in his bed with him. They watch old movies together and don’t talk.

  FIVE DAYS LATER

  Dawn, or just past. Dad’s favorite time of day. Since I was a little girl, too young to tie my own shoes, I’ve been waking up at dawn to have coffee with Daddy. When I was little, it was chocolate milk in a coffee mug. By thirteen, it was actual coffee.

  Past few months, we’ve had our coffee together in his bed in the study.

  Today, there’s no coffee.

  I bring it to him anyway. He can’t sit up to hold it.

  He just attempts a smile. “I think…we can skip…the coffee…Dee.”

  I set it aside. “Okay.” I hold his hand instead.

  “Where’s…Dell?”

  I texted him last night, called him. Told him it would be today.

  Dad spent most of yesterday holed up in here with Quentin Albright Quince, the family attorney. Dad wouldn’t say about what, the only thing he’s ever kept from me, that I know of.

  “He’s…he’s not here,” I whisper.

  Daddy pins me with a look, and even now his blue-blue eyes can pierce, hold authority. “Call him.”

  I stand up. “Okay.”

  He grabs my arm, holds on. “Here. Now.”

  I dial Dell’s number. It goes to voicemail. Daddy takes
the phone from me, holds the bottom end to his mouth. “Dell, this is your father. I’m about to die, son, and you’re not here. This is a moment I swear you’ll regret for the rest of your life.” He pauses for a long time, catching his breath. “I love you, son. I wish I could say I was proud of you, but…I’ll be watching over you from heaven. Try…try to make me proud…Cordell. I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what. Goodbye, son.”

  That’s the only time I’ve ever heard Dad refer to him by his full name.

  He presses the red end call button and the phone drops from his hand. “I’ve done all I can do,” he says. “The rest is up to him.”

  A question lingers in my mind, but I refuse to ask it. Not now. It doesn’t matter.

  He closes his eyes and the monitor beeps, beeps, beeps.

  Mom sniffles.

  After a while, he looks at me. “I love you, Delia. I’m so, so proud of you, of all you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

  I blink away tears. “I love you, Daddy. I learned it all from you.”

  He squeezes my hand, surprisingly strong. “Learn one more thing from me.”

  “Okay?”

  “Have fun. You work too much.” He tries a smirk, mostly succeeds, but it’s faint. “And get laid!”

  “Daddy!” I scold, but my heart’s not really in it.

  “For real. You’ve never brought a boy home.”

  “I go on dates. I’ve had boyfriends. I’ve just never met anyone worth bringing home.”

  “Oh. Well, find one. A good one. Someone…someone who’ll make you laugh and…force you to relax.”

  I snort. “Not likely, Daddy. I was born grumpy, remember?”

  He laughs, and in something out of a cliche Hallmark movie, it turns into a dry, rattling cough. “You were. You came out yelling and you never…stopped.”

  “I don’t yell.”

  “You don’t need to. Your attitude does it for you.”

  “I’m a top boss, Daddy. You taught me.”

  He pats my hand, squeezes it. “For your next trick, try being…just a girl.”

  I shake my head, tears falling. “I don’t know how.”

  He sighs. Eyes close. “You’ll meet a man who can show you. Let him.”

  “Okay, Daddy.”

  He fixes me with that stern, knowing look, rising a little. “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  He nods. Closes his eyes again, sinking back into the pillow. “That’s a promise you’re making me on my deathbed, Delia. You break it, I’ll haunt you.” A smirk, his eyes still closed. “In my underwear.”

  I laugh through tears. “I’ll keep it, I promise I will.”

  He looks past me, to Mom, who’s sitting in a chair, watching, dry-eyed but only just barely. “Now let me talk your mom a bit before I go.”

  Like he’s taking a trip.

  I kiss his forehead, and leave the room. When I’m halfway down the hall, almost to the kitchen, I collapse backward against the wall, clapping my hand over my mouth to stifle the sobs.

  I can’t.

  God, I can’t.

  I make it the rest of the way into the kitchen. Above the fridge, there’s a bottle of Blanton’s Dad has kept there for years. It’s his emergency get-your-shit-together-and-deal-with-it whiskey.

  I pour a couple fingers into a juice glass and toss it back, hissing as it burns on the way down. I hate whiskey.

  It jolts me, as it’s supposed to, and I breathe. Gather my nerves.

  A few minutes later—ten? Twenty? An hour? I have no idea—I was dazed, or dozing, or just spaced out, I don’t know—Mom calls me, her voice soft and weak.

  “Delia?”

  I run into the study.

  Dad is still…awake. Mom is lying on the bed with him, curled up against his side, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her waist, her hand on his chest.

  He smiles at me. Reaches for me, and I bend over, hugging him and Mom together. His hand rests on my head. “Kiss me, my dear, I’m off.”

  I want to laugh—he’s so insouciant about it, so flip. But I can’t. Don’t.

  I hug him tighter. “I love you, Daddy, so much.”

  He tilts his head to the other side. “Over…over there.” I lie on the other side of him and he rests his hand on my shoulder. “My girls.”

  Mom sniffles.

  “Dell…” It’s a faint whisper.

  No one answers.

  “Love you, Ginny.”

  Mom’s only answer is to kiss him, trembling. If she whispers something against his lips, it’s too quiet for me to hear. Meant just for him.

  His hand tightens on my shoulder, ever so gently. “Cordelia.” Haven’t heard that name out of his lips in living memory. “Dee.”

  “Daddy, I’m here.”

  “Be happy.”

  “I will.”

  After a while: “Love…girls.”

  How long later is it when his hand drifts away, off my shoulder?

  I don’t know.

  The front door slams open.

  “Dad?” Dell, from the hallway.

  The study door opens, slowly. Fearfully—I can hear the fear in the way the door opens.

  I don’t move.

  “Dad?”

  I don’t answer. Neither does Mom.

  Daddy certainly doesn’t.

  Can’t, not ever.

  “Daddy?” His voice is choked. Gasping. Thick. Small. “Dad, no.”

  I get up. At some point, the hospice nurse turned off the machines. She’s waiting in the other room. Waiting to do…whatever happens now. For once, I choose to not be in charge of it.

  I push past Dell but stop in the doorway, a foot away. Don’t look at him. I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.

  Words bubble in my throat:

  You missed it.

  He died and you weren’t here.

  Where were you?

  But nothing comes out. The word died on my tongue.

  “Delia?” It’s a whisper, thin, from Dell.

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I just shake my head and walk away.

  Chapter Four

  Delia

  I straighten my blazer as I stand up. Quentin Albright Quince has called us into his office for the reading of the will—Mom, me, and Dell.

  Mr. Quince needed a few minutes to get everything ready, so we’ve been in the waiting room outside his office. Mom and I are in side-by-side chairs, and I’m holding Mom’s hand. Dell is as far away from us as the room will allow—he’s scrolling on his phone, but I can tell he’s not really seeing anything. It’s just so he doesn’t have to look at us.

  I put Mom between Dell and me, when we sit opposite the lawyer’s desk.

  There’s shuffling of papers, and Quentin clears his throat. He’s old—he was Dad’s friend first, from childhood. He looks as emotional as I feel. Being a man, and an old-school traditionalist, he keeps it together.

  “Ginny, Dell, Delia.” He scrapes a liver-spotted hand through his thinning hair, which is still as black as it is gray, despite his age. Funny how people age at different rates—Quentin could pass for ten years younger than he is, even though he’s six months older than Daddy. “No speeches, no reading the legal nonsense. Doug would’ve wanted me to cut right to the chase.”

  Dell fidgets, his hands twisting a thread on his jeans. Mom rests a hand over his, as if we were in church and he was five all over again.

  “What I will read is the important parts.” He clears his throat. “I, Douglas Bryan McKenna, being of sound mind and failing body, all that stuff.” Another hem and haw. “To my beloved, darling wife, Virginia, I leave the home and property, the acreage in Montana, and all of our other nonliquid assets. You’ll divvy them up or sell them or leave them to the kids as you see fit, in your own time, in your own way.” Quentin pauses, adjusts the gold wire-rimmed octagonal reading glasses on his nose. “To my children, Cordelia and Cordell, I leave the company, split fifty-fifty betw
een them. I purchased back all the shares from Boyd and the others, for more than they’re worth. So now, you two own it, totally. Delia—Dee-Dee.” Quentin glances at me. “His words, not mine.”

  “Dee-Dee. Quit your hollering. I know, and I’m sorry. It’s not fair, but it’s what I feel I must do. Dell—you get fifty percent of the company you haven’t spent a single second working for. Why? Because you don’t get a cent from the rest of my will if you don’t take possession and go to work earning it. Learn from your sister. She’s in charge. Listen to her. Work with her. Make me proud.” Quentin pauses. Looks from me to Dell and back. “There’s, um, a rather enormous sum of liquid assets that he’s divided between the two of you, but it’s conditional upon you working together for a period of at least six months before it’s released.” A pause. “Dell, the condition here applies specifically to you. Work with your sister for at least six months, or you forfeit the rest of your inheritance. Meaning, the total sum goes to Delia.”

  I’m speechless.

  McKenna Construction is MINE. It’s fucking mine. I’ve worked there as a paid employee since I was fourteen and legally able to be employed, and I was Daddy’s shadow before that. I put in the thousands and thousands of hours. I built up the client base. I expanded operations as far south as San Diego and as far north as fucking Redding.

  I did all that. Me.

  What has Dell done? Not a damn thing.

  Spent money.

  Fucked women.

  Drank booze.

  I strive for calm, and go maybe a little beyond it—my voice is quiet, thin as a razor, and colder than dry ice. “Is that all, Mr. Quince?”

  He blinks at me. “The sum to be divided—”

  I close my eyes. “I know the sum—I don’t care about the money.” Stand up. Breathe. Don’t scream. Don’t throw the stapler through the window. Don’t assault Dell. “Short answer, please, Quentin: is there any way to go around this? To get me Dell’s share, right here, right now?”

  “I…no. I’m afraid not. He was very clear. You have to work together.”

  “There’s no…end run?”