NaNoWriMo Part 3

I'm still working on the story, but I don't think I'm going to make 50,000 words this month. That said, I will continue to write it so that I can continue to post it for any and all who are interested in reading it.

Peter Hartley looked at the building in front of him and wondered what he was doing here. This was not where he was supposed to be going with his life. He was a licensed private investigator, not a puppet. But he needed the money or else he may not be able to eat this month. Or pay is rent on his tiny apartment/office. If he didn’t have a place to do business, he couldn’t make money to pay for anything.

So he’d taken the job. It was a terrible job that went against every moral he had, but it paid well. All he had to do was find out some bad things about a person he didn’t know. How hard could it be? It was just like any other job he’d ever done as a PI.

Except for the one minor difference. In the week that he had been working on the assignment, he had not come across a single bad thing about this girl. Not even a parking ticket. Granted, she didn’t have a car, but that wasn’t the issue. There was nothing that his clients could use against this girl and if he found nothing, he didn’t get the bonus at the end of the job. The bonus would take care of his rent for the next three months.

So he decided to do the unthinkable. He was going to get to know the person he was investigating. It was what the client had wanted him to do in the first place, but he had maintained that he would be able to find something the old fashioned way, through research. However, you can’t find something that has never been recorded. It was possible that this girl had some secret that couldn’t be found on any database or in any file. He had to go to the source to find out.

Thus, he was here, at the Vancouver Art Gallery, to meet the girl that apparently did nothing wrong.

He went in through the main entrance, ignoring the protestors on the front lawn. They had been “occupying Vancouver” for weeks now, through rain and bitter cold nights. Peter thought they were all insane. The peaceful protest wasn’t going to change anything. The rich would remain rich. The poor would remain poor. A small percentage of the population would still retain the vast majority of the wealth in the country.

Peter didn’t care. He got to the front desk, paid the $17.50 admission and went in search of the feature exhibit: the Audain Collection. That was what Sylvia Rowland had come to the Art Gallery to see.

He found her admiring an Emily Carr painting. Her unruly auburn hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail that curled down her back. Her green eyes moved over the painting quickly, lingering for a moment on the people in the background of the picture. She was shorter than he imagined her to be, even though his dossier stated that she was only 5’3”.

All at once he was overwhelmed by the thought that he shouldn’t be doing this. He should not be prying into the woman’s life so that other people can use the information against her.

When she turned away from the painting, she looked right at him and he had to struggle to keep the guilt from his expression. She smiled at him and was about to walk away. He had to say something.

“Hi,” he said, stalling, trying to think of something. Should have come up with something before coming in here, idiot.

“Hello,” she said to him.

He had managed to make her stop for a moment. He had to think of something else to say. “So, you like art?”

Of all the stupid things you could say.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. That was a stupid question. My name is Peter. I just couldn’t help but notice you looking at the Emily Carr painting. It’s quite something isn’t it?”

“It is. She uses such interesting colours.”

“Are you here by yourself?” he asked, looking around as though he was expecting to find someone with her, even though he wasn’t.

“Yes.”

“That’s too bad. It’s nicer to be able to talk about the pieces with someone.”

“True. But I really just wanted to take a look at some art, see if anything sparked my interest. I figured the best place to see art is at the Vancouver Art Gallery.”

“Spark your interest?”

She nodded. “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. I really don’t know. I thought I did. But then things changed and now suddenly I have more options than I know what to do with.”

“It’s nice to have options.”

“Yes, but also makes it more difficult to choose.”

“I’d like to help, if I could.”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

He spread his hands and tried to look trustworthy. “Honestly? Because you’re interesting. I saw you standing there and I just wanted to get to know you.”

It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He did think she was interesting. She was young, had inherited a large estate worth a fortune, and seemed to be a bona fide good person. Peter didn’t meet many good people in his line of work. Now, here he was trying to prove she really wasn’t what he hoped she was.

She looked at him for a long moment before speaking again. “I don’t think you can help me choose what direction I am going to take for the future. However, I suppose that if you really are interested, we can walk around in here together. If you’re still interested when we leave, I’ll consider what can come next. My name is Sylvia, by the way.”

Peter smiled and tried not to look too relieved. If this hadn’t worked, he doubted he’d have gotten another shot.

NaNoWriMo Part 2

Well, I was doing really well, making all my word counts. Right up until Tuesday when I donated blood. The trouble is that donating blood makes me really tired. I came home, had dinner, and went to bed. And didn't write. And even just one day behind made it a lot harder to write Wednesday and today. Now, I'm really far behind and I am going to have to spend all day tomorrow writing. Anyway, here is the second part of the story.

After the reading of the will, Sylvia went to the park where she and James used to take the kids she watched.

She sat down on the bench and stared at the envelope in her hands. She wanted to tear into it, read it, hopefully understand why he had given her everything.

But she also wanted to wait. This was the last conversation she would ever have with James, one-sided though it may be. She wanted it to last.

She took a deep breath and carefully ripped open the envelope along the top folded edge. She removed the letter and unfolded it.

Dear Sylvia,

You probably don’t understand why I made you my sole beneficiary. I’m not quite sure I understand myself. Only, one night I lay awake in bed thinking of all life as given me and taken away and suddenly I knew that my sons did not deserve to inherit my estate. They’ve had everything handed to them their whole lives. I don’t want to hand them their future forever. They would use it selfishly, as they have used everything ever given them in their life.

When I made this decision I knew that I had to re-write my will or else they would get everything. I was getting older all the time and it wasn’t something that could wait. I met with Busby late the following day. It was the day I had asked you what you would do if you won the lottery.

You told me that you would quit your job, finish school, and travel. I asked why you would finish school and you told me it was for two reasons. First because you never know when the money might run out and you wouldn’t want to be caught broke with no education. Second because you wanted to finish what you started.

I was impressed and I am no longer easily impressed. They were such wise words for someone so young.

Even going to Busby’s office that afternoon, I had intended on splitting my estate up and giving it to charities. But I sat down with Busby and I told him I didn’t want my sons to get my money and he asked who I was going to give it to then and I told him, Sylvia Rowland.

The moment I said your name, I knew it was the right thing to do.

I love you, Sylvia. If you had been my own daughter, I couldn’t have loved you more. I hope this helps.

James Cassidy

Sylvia folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope.

Children were screaming, running, and playing everywhere in the park. She hadn’t noticed until now. She wouldn’t be bringing the kids here anymore. She wouldn’t be the housekeeper/nanny for the Roberts family anymore. The summer semester at UBC was almost over and she could take a semester off to figure things out. Then she could go back full time. She had always wanted to go to school full time, but never had the money for tuition and bills. Vancouver was a very expensive city to live in.

But she didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

It suddenly hit her. She didn’t have to worry about money anymore. She could pay all her bills next month. She could buy a new winter jacket and boots this year. Her feet would stay dry this winter. She didn’t have to take transit anymore. Vancouver transit was pretty good, but her mother lived in Langley. Getting out there on weekends was very difficult and took about two hours by transit.

Everything was going to get easier from now on. For her and for her mother.

November 2011

They sat together in the drawing room of James Cassidy Jr.’s house on 3^rd Ave. The room was large and bright. A chocolate brown leather sofa and chair were predominant in the room. Blue and white throw pillows decorated each end of the sofa as well as the chair. There was a luxurous white rug that covered the hard wood floor. They had had sex on the rug less than an hour ago and were now dressed again and sitting on the sofa. Though most of the Cassidy family lived in the large house, everyone else was not home.

He suddenly spoke. “We have to do something.”

“I know,” she replied, taking a hairbrush from her bag and brushing her tousled blonde hair. “But what can we do? We’ve already tried to get it back. The will is uncontestable.”

“There has to be another way to get the money. It’s ours. It’s rightfully ours. We waited for years to get that money. I had plans for mine.”

“So did everyone. Look at William. He has gambling debts and they’re about to be called in. Senior always paid them before. I doubt dear Sylvia is going to offer to do that.”

“Junior isn’t much better. He may not have debts, but he sure can get in a lot of trouble when he’s been drinking. Remember when he went to the Boulevard Casino with William and they got thrown out after James started a fight over a roulette game?”

“I remember.” She stood and paced to the window, looking out into the gloom of November rain. “I wanted to get away from here this winter. Winter in Vancouver is always so depressing. Why couldn’t we move to California?”

He got up to pour himself a glass of scotch. “We don’t have the money now. But I might have an idea of how we can get it.”

She turned to him. “What are you thinking?”

“Well, we can’t very well kill her, now can we? She may already have a will leaving everything to some charity or something. That would be like her. Giving it all away.”

“What is your idea?” she prompted. She knew how much he hated philanthropy. He thought that people only gave money to alleviate their consciences and that charities were no better than homeless people begging for money.

“We’ll have to get her to make sure we’re in the will before she dies.”

“And how do we do that? She doesn’t like any of us. She won’t speak to anyone in the Cassidy family without her lawyer, present. Busby is a tricky one. He knows us all too well. He’d know we’re up to something.”

“That’s why we won’t be the ones she gets to know. We’ll hire someone to get to know her. He’ll cozy up to her, pretend he likes her, and he will find out what kind of dirt she’s hiding. Everyone has something they don’t want known. Maybe we’ll get really lucky and it’ll be something illegal. Once we have the dirt, we’ll convince her that she should write us into the will and also pay us a million dollars to keep quiet. When we’re in the will, we’ll kill her and inherit everything. You and I can leave Vancouver together. We’ll go to California, or somewhere in Europe, where no one will ever find us. We can be together and we’ll have the whole fortune. We won’t have to share it with anyone else in the family.”

She stepped toward him as she thought it over. “It’s a good idea. She might not want to write us into the will. I don’t know if I can live on only a million dollars for long.” She continued walking closer and closer to him through the room until she was standing right in front of him. “It’ll be tricky.”

“But it’ll be worth it.” He grabbed her around the waist. “Worth every penny.” Then he lowered his head and claimed her mouth.

NaNoWriMo Part 1

The first 3000 words are written. Two days down, 28 to go. My goal is 1500 words on weekdays and 2000 words on weekends (including Remembrance Day). Here are the first 1205 words. Keep in mind that I will not be editing anything until after the 30 days of November are up. I hope you enjoy reading my scrambled attempt at writing a novel in 30 days.

July 2011

James Cassidy died quietly in his sleep with only a picture of his late wife, Ruth, to keep him company. If he had been asked, that was how he would have preferred it anyway.

He had been the only one there when Ruth had succumbed to breast cancer. Now, ten years later, she was the only one to witness his final moments of life, if only from within a framed photograph.

The church was full on the day of the funeral. There was the usual mix of people for a funeral of a rich and powerful man. Some genuine mourners, but a lot of people there just to see that the old man was really gone.

Cassidy had been out of the real estate business for fifteen years, but he had made some lasting impressions in his time.

His two sons in the front row with their families. Not one of them shed a tear for the loss.

                                                                                                            

A week following the funeral, the family gathered, this time in the conference room of the Busby and Associates Law Firm. Mr. Evan Busby had been Cassidy’s lawyer for more years than he cared to remember. It was Cassidy money that had helped him start his own law firm. And while he didn’t do quite as well as his client, Busby did extremely well for himself.

He glanced into the conference room and took a deep breath. It was not going to be easy, what he had to do next. There were nine people seated around the large conference table. James Junior and his wife Clare sat opposite the two empty seats where he and the young lady with him would sit. Next to James was his brother William and then his wife Vanessa. She was the only one dressed in black. She had a tissue in one hand but her eyes were dry. Next sat William and Vanessa’s oldest child, Colby and then his sister Pamela. On the other side of the table Pricilla, James’ oldest child sat primly next to her mother. Her hands were folded in her lap and she stared straight ahead at nothing. Next to her sat her two brothers, Gordon and Robert. Her husband John was not present, nor was her baby daughter, Cecilia.

He opened the door and bid the young woman enter first.

She was dressed in a pale blue pencil skirt and matching jacket with a white blouse underneath. She had done her hair up in a simple pony tail. Her black framed glasses hid her blue eyes.

The first thing James Cassidy Junior thought when he saw her was prim and proper as well as vaguely familiar. She sat down in the chair Busby held for her and then he sat down beside her. Obviously, his assistant.

Busby laid a thick folder on the table and opened it. Then he patted his pockets until he realized he was already wearing his glasses. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the centre of the table and then wordlessly offered a glass to the young woman next to him. She shook her head no and so he set the pitcher back in the centre of the table. He took a sip of water. He adjusted his glasses. He straightened his tie.

“Mr. Busby,” James Jr. said. “Could we please get on with this? I have a squash game at 3.”

Busby glanced at the man who looked so much like his father. Busby had never liked his client’s oldest son.

“Of course, Mr. Cassidy. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to delay your game. Perhaps I should just give you the gist of what’s here so you may go.”

“That would be fine, Busby. Please just tell us what we get.”

“Nothing.”

If a pin had fallen on the table in that moment, it would have sounded like an explosion.

“Excuse me?” William asked, the younger son.

“You get nothing. All of you. Except Cecilia who has a college fund held in trust with me. If she goes on to post secondary education it is fully paid for. If she graduates from post secondary, she will receive a bonus of $100,000 to help start her future. The same is set up for any other grandchildren and great-grand children who may wish to use it. He said to consider it a Cassidy scholarship.”

“What happens to the rest of the estate?” James asked.

“Your father left it all to Sylvia Rowland.”

The woman next to Busby gasped and started so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. “What did you just say?” she asked.

“He left everything to you, Ms. Rowland,” Busby told her.

“But why? I was just his next door neighbour. When you told me he had written me into his will, I thought you meant just something small, some token or something.”

“No, Ms. Rowland. Everything. The entire Cassidy estate.” He turned to the Cassidy family sitting across from him at the table. “He and I figured you would want to contest the will.”

“You’re damn right, we do!” James erupted.

“Before you go to the trouble and expense, I can assure you that your father did this quite a while ago and we have the documentation that the doctor gave us saying that he was of sound mind and body. I made sure this will was iron clad. If you take it to court, you will be wasting your time and money.”

James stood and everyone else followed suit. “We’ll see about that.”

When the Cassidys left the room, Busby turned to Sylvia Rowland who sat beside him in shock.

“They don’t have a case against you. The estate is yours. I have some paperwork that we’ll need to go over, but you can move into the house whenever you want to.”

“The house?” She looked at Busby, confused.

“The house is part of the estate. Unless you’d rather sell it and buy another.”

“I don’t… I don’t know. He never told me. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I can’t tell you that, but maybe he can.” He reached into the folder and pulled out an envelope with Sylvia scrawled across it in James Cassidy Sr.’s bold script. She gently took the letter and fingered the envelope.

“I loved him you know,” she said, looking at the envelope. “My father died when I was five and so James became like a father to me. And now he’s gone, too.” Tears formed quickly in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. They dripped off her chin and onto the table but she didn’t wipe them away. She held onto the envelope, the last thing James would ever say to her, and cried.

Eventually she noticed that Mr. Busby was holding a tissue out to her so she took it and dried her face and blew her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. You’re not the first person to cry at the reading of a will. You won’t be the last. But I should get on with it. I really do have to read this will. Are you ready?”

She looked at the envelope in her hands and nodded.