Rooms - James L. Rubart [6]
“Well, buy some, or put up those drawings and paintings you did back in high school and early college. The ones stacked in the closet. They’re pretty decent if you ask me.”
“They’re horrible.” His high school counselor had encouraged him to major in art in college. No way. No money in it. A shot too long to seriously consider. That part of his life was over.
“Then why have you hung on to them for the past twelve years?”
“Yeah, I will. Soon.”
“Which? Toss or hang?”
Micah didn’t reply. He didn’t know the answer.
That was a month ago. He took a sip of his Diet Coke and glanced over at the closet door, cracked open just enough to see the edge of the stack. He still didn’t know the answer.
Micah turned back to the TV and watched ESPN with the mute button on and thought about Cannon Beach. He loved the annual sand castle contest. His brother and he came in second place in the seven-to-eleven age group the year they built the dragon. That was their last trip. Two days after the contest . . . He didn’t let himself finish the thought.
He looked over at The Fellowship of the Ring novel on his end table. He’d been meaning to read it for two years. “I’m taking you with me.”
Saturday morning he rolled out of bed at seven, whipped up a bacon-bits-and-kalamata-olive omelet, and called his dad. Talking to him more than twice a year was too often, but if anyone had a clue why Archie had left him a house, it would be his father.
The phone rang three times. “Taylor residence. Daniel speaking.”
His dad had answered the phone that way for as long as Micah could remember. Sounded like it was straight out of a 1950s textbook on manners. Probably was.
Micah rubbed his forehead. He had to stay focused. Get the info and get off the phone. And try not to loathe the man more when he hung up than when he started.
“Hey, Dad.”
“You’re eating while you’re talking to me, son.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you eating?”
Micah pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. As usual his dad was in fine drive-you-crazy form. “Why does it matter?”
“What are you eating?”
“Just my special scrambled eggs and toast, coffee. Nothing fancy.”
“Get some fruit in your diet, son.”
Micah rubbed the scar on his left hand. “I want to talk to you about Archie’s letter.”
“I thought I explained my position in my message last night.”
“You did.” Micah rubbed his neck. “But I hoped I could get you to—”
“Fine. Read me the letter.”
Micah read it and waited. Three seconds. Five. His dad broke the silence at seven.
“Stay away from Cannon Beach. Why would you consider going back there even for one second?” Micah knew he’d have a reaction to where the house was located. Just as he knew his dad would fail to address the accident in any direct way. And Archie was a character straight out of Looney Tunes. How do you know the letter is real? It’s probably from a competitor trying to distract you.” His dad coughed. “You’ve accomplished a tremendous amount in the business world.”
“Thanks,” he sputtered. It was the first time his dad had mentioned RimSoft’s success. Ever. Micah looked at the Inc. picture of Julie and him on his wall. He’d sent a copy to his dad when it came out. His dad never acknowledged it.
“Also, what makes you think a house is really there? If there is, it’s probably no bigger than an outhouse and doesn’t smell much better. Leave it alone, son.”
His dad rarely called him anything but son, and Micah had grown up longing to hear his name spoken every now and then. “Thanks for the thoughts. I’ll think about ’em.”
“They’re not just thoughts; they are facts. What are you going to do?”
“Think about it!” Micah instantly regretted raising his voice. But every conversation with his dad was like talking to Spock. All he wanted was a little emotion from the man.
“I’ve obviously said too much. I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life. But you asked for my opinion and—”
“I’m sorry. I just want—”
“—I know I’m not good at these . . . um . . . and in the past I’ve done . . . I’m just not . . . You’ll make a good choice, I’m sure.”
Micah