Rooms - James L. Rubart [115]
“That’s what I was hoping to find out from you.” Micah gritted his teeth.
“That’s right!” The guy snorted. “Sorry. Be back in a sec.”
Micah wandered into the living room and watched the waves thunder onto the beach as he waited for an answer. Two minutes later he had it.
“Sorry, I went through everything in the database, and then I even flipparooed through the hard copies. You sure he works here?”
Micah’s eyes closed as his head slumped onto his chest.
“Hey, are you there? Is that all you wanted to know?”
“That’s it.”
He dialed another number, then another. Seven minutes of calls confirmed there wasn’t a shred left of his Seattle life. He called his bank, his CPA, his insurance agent, his condo association. None of them had ever heard of Micah Taylor. Nothing was left. No home, no company, no money.
What remained? A gorgeous mansion on the ocean with huge yearly taxes and no way to pay for it. He had no income. No Sarah. No career. No direction. No relationship with the Lord. Nothing. Utterly and completely nothing.
Is this what God wanted?
Now what? If Seattle no longer existed, what life was he living? He slumped onto his couch in front of the fireplace and dialed one more number.
“Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“Well, hello, son.”
“I have to ask some questions about the past six years that might seem a little strange.”
“Since, in my opinion, many of your choices since college have been a bit off, I don’t think any question you pose will surprise me.”
Micah got up and walked over to his picture windows, head in hand. “What have I been doing since college?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.” His dad sighed. “Aren’t you still trying to figure out a way to make a decent income?”
“I’m not in software?”
“Always thought that’s where you’d end up. And”—his dad cleared his throat—“and I, uh . . . when you didn’t, I . . . I just want to say . . . Well, I probably could’ve handled things a little better over the past six years.”
Micah slumped to the carpet. Was his dad saying he was sorry? Was it possible?
“Yeah, well I could have—”
“So were there any other questions?”
It was obvious from his dad’s tone that his landing on the tarmac of apology was only for an instant.
“I just want to get a handle on what I’ve been doing with my life and figure out what I’m going to do with this mansion down here and—”
“Mansion? Did someone buy you a winning lotto ticket?”
“I told you about this house six months ago.”
“Six months, eh? Let me consult my journal.”
As he listened to his dad turning pages, Micah’s fingers grew white due to the stranglehold he was giving the phone.
“No, son. If you’d inherited a home down on the coast, I would have made some notes about it.”
“C’mon, Dad. Your uncle Archie had it built for me.”
“Archie? Nuttier than a fruitcake.”
“We’ve been over that.”
“Is that all you wanted?”
“Where have I lived for the past six years?” Micah stood and walked out onto his deck and let the wind pummel his hair.
“You don’t remember where you’ve lived?”
Micah closed his eyes and lied. “I know where I’ve lived. I just want to hear you say it.”
“Strange question. I have to ask why.”
Micah stepped out on a plank he’d never been on before. “No, Dad, you don’t. You want to ask why because you have to have all the details of everything in the entire universe at your fingertips at every moment of your existence and under your control. This time I’m asking you to humor me and tell me where I’ve lived since college with no explanation of why I’m asking.” Micah swallowed. “Please.”
The only sound was the slight hum in the phone line and the swish of the wind racing through the trees.
“You’re right; I’m . . . I shouldn’t always . . . I’ve . . .” His dad clucked his tongue three times. “You lived with me for two months right after college. Then in Bandon, Oregon, for a year and a half. Then Newport, Oregon, almost four and a half years. Now Cannon Beach for just over a year.” He cleared his throat three times before going