Page 7 of Christmas Coffee

YESTERDAY MORNING

I’m standing in my uncle’s office. It’s decorated in opulent woods, all exotic, and every last detail is dripping with wealth. The man spares no expense on anything. When he calls me in here like a goddamned kid, I don’t appreciate it. Uncle Aldrich sits in a high back leather chair with his fingers steepled together, silent. His once black hair has grayed over the last decade—probably from raising me—but the man isn’t weaker. No, if anything he’s grown stronger, more determined to crush me and ruin my fucking life.

My father dying wasn’t part of the plan. I never had a mother, well not one that I remember. She died shortly after having me. It was the beginning of a life with the Midas touch, but instead of turning everything to gold, I turn it to shit. Investments have gone south and I lost nearly a billion dollars a few years back. I’ve never lived that moment down. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.

Shit always happens to me. I single-handedly turned the hottest girl at school into a lesbian. They say it doesn’t work that way, but after that, I’m not so sure. One night with me and she started playing for the other team. I was a master in bed, knew every spot that would send her reeling into ecstasy and then some. She clawed my back, screamed my name. When I bullshit with the guys about it—about her—I say I’m glad she found herself, has a chance at happiness and all that shit, but deep down inside I can’t help but wonder if it’s me.

I mean, how many things can I ruin? When I was eleven, I was standing next to my golden retriever, Sandy, watching a storm roll in. Big beautiful clouds billowed across the sky turning it into a gorgeous mess. A second later all my hair stood on end and lightning struck. Not in a good way. Sandy got zapped, died in front of my pre-adolescent eyes. Uncle Aldrich said these things happen and gave me a new dog, named her Karma. Even after all this time, Karma gives me a wide birth.

But that’s the past. Every schmuck has a sob story and mine’s no different. I just inherited some of the shitty Ryan luck, that’s all. I’m nearly thirty-five, and due for a course of good fortune. Everything changed for Uncle Aldrich when he hit thirty-five. Same for dad, and now it’s my turn.

Uncle Aldrich’s face is slack as he puts the tips of his fingers together. His facial expression reveals nothing. Classic Aldrich Ryan. The man can look completely serene and then rip your throat out. It’s hard to say which way this meeting will go. Actually, I figure it’s about taking my seat at the family company next month. Thirty-five years old, MBA, and every box checked to earn my spot on the board of Bardenbey, a multi-million dollar corporation that makes everything from socks to satellites. Dad started the company with nothing before I was born, with the help of his brother who sits before me now.

Uncle Aldrich holds out a hand, gesturing for me to sit. “How are you, Celyn?” He asks the question with complete candor, but I know it’s not sincere. We don’t see eye to eye on many matters. His job was to keep me alive while I was a child and that’s what he did. I survived the isolation, the lack of affection, and the scorn that trickled off of him every time he looked at me. Uncle Aldrich has always hated me, but I have no idea why.

When I was a kid, I remember crying at Dad’s funeral, desperately trying to get Uncle Aldrich to put an arm around me, to touch my shoulder and tell me it’d be all right. I would have taken any affirmation he offered, but there was none. Years passed and every failure, every heartache, was dealt with in solitude, deprived of touch. I wandered the great house alone, wasn’t permitted to have friends over or play at their homes—Uncle Aldrich said those children were beneath me. When he caught me playing with the maid’s daughter, three quarters of the servants were fired the same night. I was eight when that happened. No one came near me after that, except Sandy.

Now that I’m a grown man, we don’t talk much. The mistake put a rift between us, one that should have bled out and died a long time ago.

I slip into the burnt orange club chair and lean back against the tufted leather, placing each hand on an armrest. My French cuffs poke out from under the sleeves of my sports jacket. I place my ankle on my knee and smile at the bastard. “Wonderful, and yourself?”

Uncle Aldrich doesn’t return my grin. His clean-shaven face reveals a few more wrinkles than the last time we spoke. The man is stern, harsh, and has been a cold sonofabitch for a long time, but when his wrath faced my direction, well, I’m never standing in that spot again. Which leads to a problem. He’s president of the board. We’ll have to see each other every day shortly, and make nice. Maybe the old bastard is offering an olive branch.

“Couldn’t be better, Celyn.” He taps his fingertips together once, glaring at me. “I heard about your recent venture. Didn’t go well, did it?”

Spine stiffening, I resist the urge to take the bait, but when he smirks at me, I lose it. I grip the arms of the chair tight and smirk back. “At least I tried.”

“Trying doesn’t make a man into a success. You’re weak, Celyn.”

I grit my teeth and try not to fall into this loop again, but it’s so damn hard.

Uncle’s gaze narrows as he presses the pads of his fingers together. His voice is steel, colder than ice. “This family has no room for failure, and yet here you are.” He offers a predatory smile, showing the tips of his teeth as he stills his hands and then places them on the top of the desk.

“You are not infallible,” I growl.

“I never said I was, and yet I’m the one sitting here and as I look over your list of accomplishments, it’s difficult to say you’re anything but a disappointment. If you were my son—”

“I’m not your son.” I can’t believe I fucking said that. Not again. This is a fight we’ve had over and over again since I was thirteen and finally had the balls to fight back. I feel my chest rise as I inhale sharply. Rubbing my palm over my face, I inch forward in my seat and place a hand on the edge of his desk. I swore to myself that I’d do the best with whatever I was given. This man is my only family.

“Listen, we’ve said everything there is to say on this matter, and burned enough bridges. I’m sure you didn’t call me in here to rehash the same old shit.” The unspoken question hangs in the air, as I wait for him to tell me why he did call me here.

Uncle Aldrich smiles and glances at his watch. The timepiece set him back over half a million, but every rich old man has a closet full of watches, Aldrich is no different. For every major success, he buys another. I have one watch that was given to me when I graduated with my MBA. He handed me a box with a Jaeger LeCoultre. The little piece was worth fifty grand. After I opened the paper and pulled it out, I looked at the inscription on the back.

Written on the silver disc were the words:

I’m very proud of you. –Uncle Aldrich

I was so choked up that I couldn’t speak. But before I could put it on my wrist, he reached for the gift and took it back.

He said, “You need to do something worthwhile to earn this accolade. In the interim…” he handed me a different gift.

Confused, I silently opened the paper and stared down at the plastic casing. A black plastic Timex watch was perched within, price tag still attached: $9.99.

When he saw the expression on my face he said, “That is the gift that matches the magnitude of your achievement. You’re nothing until you prove otherwise.”

I was the salutatorian, second in my class at Harvard. I busted my ass and missed valedictorian by a fraction of a point. But that was then. Years have passed and I never saw the watch again. There were no birthday presents or cake. Simply being born wasn’t an achievement worth celebrating.

Aldrich sits back in his chair and places his hands on his desk, his expression unreadable. “I’ve a bit of bad news for you.”