Page 19
As we wait in the little family room at the church for the service to begin, the boys are none the wiser, playing with Lawrence, Luna’s first who is also three, and Victoria, Liv’s youngest who’s four.
Tyler, Liv’s oldest at seven, and Steven, Avery’s youngest at eight, are both very earnestly trying to make me feel better by talking about how well the Keys are doing.
I’m pretty sure they heard something at school about how I was probably going to fail miserably at managing three professional franchises and butcher the Barclay legacy.
It’s a possibility, sure, one the general public seems to agree on, but I have faith that taking out the trash will be worth a few bad seasons if it comes to that.
What the general public doesn’t know is that I’ve been planning for a long time, and I might not even be nearly as smart as Eli or any of my sisters, but I know sports. It’s the one thing Jim cared about when it came to my education, and he succeeded in some ways.
Failed spectacularly in others.
Proof of that failure is in this room, where we all decided to wait for the place to fill up instead of standing for over an hour by the entrance hearing endless condolences none of us want or need.
Of course we knew a lot of people would want to come to the funeral, it’s to be expected, especially considering all the professional athletes who were kind enough to make an appearance, but only the people who are closest to us know this is nothing but a formality.
When we walk out and fill the first three rows of pews, the church is eerily silent. Only our footsteps can be heard, since even the eight Barclay children seem to understand this is the time for quiet.
The service passes by easily enough, even when Jim’s brother Dan—who is nothing close to an uncle to any of us—gives a eulogy, I barely hear a word of it.
Until the end.
“I’ll make sure your kids are well taken care of, Jim. Especially Mason and Maddox, who I know were the light of your life.”
I almost snort, until it hits me.
Until I realize he’s looking right at me as he passes by.
If there’s someone who knows about the terms of the trust, it has to be Dan.
He was also Jim’s Heir for the Turris until I turned eighteen, but I’d like to think he’s got enough neurons to not say anything about that.
He walks right over to me when the church begins to empty out, and offers me a hand and a sympathetic look that’s as fake as his hair.
“Tucker, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You too,” I mumble, begging the universe to make this quick.
“Listen, if you need my help with anything . . .” He trails off and looks to the other side of the aisle, where Harrison is sitting with his family.
Does this idiot really think I’m gonna make him my Heir?
I haven’t seen him in five years, and we’ve never had anything that passes as a relationship.
“Thank you,” I tell him, since I don’t know what the fuck else to say. It’s not like I’m going to take the time to explain how little I need his help.
“And with the boys . . .” He turns back and still has that damn sympathetic frown on his face. “I understand that you might not want two young boys to interfere with your life. I could take care of them—”
“No.”
The one word is sharp, and has more emotion in it than anything else I’ve ever said to him.
“I’m good, and actually, I need to take them home soon and still have a lot of people to greet.”
I don’t wait for him to say anything back. Instead, I push through and go shake the hands of all the Chairs and Heirs of the Turris—all except two are present, obviously. Because there’s no feasible reason why New York’s most notorious mobster and his ex-news-frontman boyfriend would be at this funeral.
There’s going to be a meeting in two days, but since they are the seven other most influential families in New York, it’s just good optics for anyone paying attention for me to at least greet them.
Anything of value will be said on Monday, so each handshake is quick and to the point.
