Inheritances

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Ingrid looked down at her husband, fighting the panic she had felt every minute since they’d received the diagnosis six months ago. She had told herself he would beat the cancer. Beat it like he had beaten everything and everyone his whole life as he built a shipping empire from a humble boat repair shop.

But her ability to deny reality was constrained, in the end, by the evidence of her own eyes. She could scarcely recognize the bald, shrunken, hollowed-out man in the hospital gown, his life dripping out as steadily as the medicine drip from the IV in his arm. He had the best care that money could buy.

It wasn’t enough.

When they had married back in ‘99, he had been a ridiculously robust 60. Sure, he’d looked like he could have been her father, and that had caused plenty of talk. Plenty! But he’d actually been old enough to be her grandfather. Even in his late seventies he’d been healthy, ruddy and strong. Maybe not a bull in the bedroom anymore, but she’d never cared about that.

The marriage had been an arrangement of sorts. He was virile, rich, had an eye for the ladies; she was gorgeous, dirt poor, and more than willing to use the former to solve the latter. Transactional souls who refused to see the arrangement as tawdry, they’d both gotten exactly what they wanted.

She was fond of him, of course, and God knows, she’d miss the intensity, the magnetism, with which he’d set the world on fire wherever he went. How many times had she seen a jolt of energy electrify a room full of people the very instant he walked in? She’d hitched her fate to a shooting star, and damned if she hadn’t enjoyed the ride.

But if that ride was about to end, she needed to secure her future course while she still could affect the meteor’s terminal trajectory. She would approach that task with the same pragmatism and lack of sentimentality that had characterized their relationship from the start.

Taking the seat beside his bed, she asked, “You feel as bad as you look?”

Caesar turned his head — amazing how much energy that took! — and looked at the stunning woman who had been his child bride. Foolish vanity, his friends had said, with many a head shake. The memory still brought the ghost of a smile to his thin lips nearly a quarter of a century later. The bastards had all been so pickled with envy they’d probably pissed lime green for months!

Well, that was then, and this was now. He knew her well enough not to expect sentimentality. “Only if I look like three-week-old buzzard bait.” His voice was thin and raspy, as dessicated as the rest of him.

“About right,” she agreed. “Did you sign the papers?”

“Francis gets the business, when and if you decide he’s ready?”

“Caesar. I love our son as much as you do. But I’m not blind, and neither are you.”

“Nothing wrong with his brains.” Caesar was trying not to talk much. It hurt. And it hurt worse to hear what his once-strong voice had become.

She shook her head impatiently. “How many times have you told me? ‘You can hire brains. You can’t hire guts.’”

“You don’t think he’s got guts?” He wanted to be angry, but it took too much energy. And besides . . . .

“You want me to say it? I won’t. But he’s just a nice boy. Likely turn into a nice man. What does all that nice get you, in your business?”

“Nowhere.” He couldn’t very well deny that, since she’d learned that particular aphorism from him. He tended to overuse it.

“Well, then,” she said, as if his admission settled it.

“No provision for Ottavio?”

“That’s nonsense and you know it,” she responded, exasperated. “He gets a good round sum as an inheritance— enough to be a playboy indefinitely, if that’s what he wants.”

“But no role in the business.”

“He can start his own business, with the money you’ll leave him! Look, you’ve been more than generous to him from the day you took him in. He’ll have no legitimate cause for complaint. You call him your son, and you’ve treated him like one, even if you never formally adopted him.”

Caesar surreptitiously pressed a call button with the hand he had buried under the sheets. He was exhausted, and he had neither the time nor the energy to continue this particular conversation. As a nurse bustled in, he overrode Ingrid’s protests at having her time curtailed. “Don’t worry so much. I reviewed the papers. And yes, I signed them. I understand Francis as well as you do.”

She rose from her seat, a feeling of immense relief momentarily unsettling her. “You do? I mean, you did?” Finally — finally!!! she thought, exultant. I will get my chance! And I’ll show them all, see if I don’t!

Caesar gifted his beautiful wife with the best smile he still could manage. “I understand you, too, wife. I know what you’re capable of!”

That was enough to get him a last kiss. Then she was gone.

The bastards won’t be jealous any more, he thought with his usual sense of irony.

The nurse gave him a stern look. “Okay, I need you to rest. Two hours, minimum.”

“I’ve got an eternity of rest coming up. And I’ve got two more people I absolutely have to talk to first.”

“Mr. Trentino, we’re trying very hard . . .”

He cut her off. “I know that. Keep trying — for just long enough for me to have two more conversations. Then you can stop. Okay?”

She seemed to deflate, all too aware that however hard they tried, death was in the room and it would not be long denied. “Your funeral, Mr. Trentino.”

“I do hope you’ll come. Now, I need to see my son Ottavio.”

She nodded, defeated. “He’s outside.”

Just a few minutes later, a young man walked in and stood at the foot of the bed. Short black hair, dark eyes, and a powerful, compact frame. He said nothing, waiting for the padrone to speak.

The dying man looked at him with eyes that were still clear and cold. The eyes of a hawk above his great beak of a nose. “Ottavio. Tell me you’re clever enough to have found out what your step-mother’s been plotting.”

The young man’s face was closed and guarded, as always. “Of course. But I know you’d never do that to Francis.”

“No concerns on your own behalf?”

“I was taking care of myself before you pulled me off the streets in Rio. I haven’t lost the knack.”

Caesar grunted, whether in annoyance or approval was hard to say. But the hard young man would not elaborate further simply to fill the silence.

The moment stretched, but Caesar no longer had the luxury of waiting people out. “What do you think I should do?”

“What does it matter? You’ll do what you want. You always have.” Ottavio hid his thoughts. You took me in because you thought you needed an heir, and at fifty-nine you’d given up hope of getting one. I didn’t ask for your help.

The old man’s predator eyes had daunted Ottavio as a child . . . had pushed him to excel, to succeed, to become a man worth noticing in Caesar’s cutthroat world. But Ottavio wasn’t daunted any more, nor was he worried. He knew how much Caesar doted on his natural son, the miracle child that had come after his surprise marriage to his scandalously young and startlingly beautiful fourth wife. The old man would never go along with his bedmate’s plan.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Caesar said softly. “And Ingrid is right. Francis isn’t ready . . . and he may never be. I can’t possibly leave him in control of the firm. Ingrid, on the other hand, is extremely capable.”

For the first time, Ottavio showed real emotion. “You son of a bitch.” His eyes were daggers; his voice hard and low. “You’d do that to him? To Francis? Do you think that stone-cold entrepreneur you married will ever give him control, once she has it?”

To Ottavio’s intense annoyance, Caesar chuckled. “Of course not. I told her I signed the papers she drew up, and I did. But I switched her position and yours.”

“You . . . what?”

Caesar was delighted to see that he had finally managed to out-think the devious, fiendishly resourceful child he had rescued and raised. “Just like she said, I’ve been incredibly generous since I took her in, and the amount she’d thought to set aside for you will be ample for whatever she chooses to do next. She could run the business easily, but you’re right. She’d never turn it over to Francis.”

Ottavio was incredulous. “And you think I will?”

“I think you might. And if you don’t, it’ll be for the right reasons.”

Might?” Ottavio couldn’t keep his anger in check. “You’re willing to leave Francis with ‘might?’”

Caesar suddenly looked exhausted. “Yes, I am. I know you’ll run the business well. I think you’ll turn it over to Francis. . . . when and if he can handle it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“He has a permanent, salaried seat on the board of my charitable foundation. He won’t starve.” Again, Caesar pressed his call button. "What more can I do?"

“What more? Jesus! You can trust him, that’s what!”

Caesar gave him a last, hard look. “I’m trusting you.”

After the nurse escorted Ottavio out, she tried one more time to get Caesar to rest. He simply shook his head wearily and said, “Francis.”

When the nurse was gone, he let his eyes close, just to rest them. Just for a moment.

It was with an almost titanic struggle that he forced them to open again, only to find Francis already by his side, holding his hand. He had no idea how much time had passed. Judging by the sandpaper grit feeling in his eyes, it must have been hours.

The harsh hospital light made his son’s red-gold hair seem like spun gold. He looked so much like his mother. Everywhere except the eyes. Those soft, warm eyes. So full of compassion . . . . God alone knows where those came from!

He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He forced himself to swallow, then said “Francis. We . . . need to talk.”

His son smiled . . . a heartbreaking smile filled with warmth and caring. “It’s all been said, Father. Everything that matters. You can relax now.”

Caesar shook his head, or tried to. It barely moved. “No, you need to understand . . . about the business.”

“That’s not important right now.” Francis raised his father’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “I love you, whatever happens. That’s all that matters. That’s all that ever mattered.”

The old man wanted to shake him, make him listen. Make him understand why he’d given the power to Ottavio. But the words wouldn’t come. Despite the lights, the room was getting steadily darker. He could barely make out his son’s face . . . his beautiful, beloved face. Before the darkness took him, he managed a whisper so soft that Francis almost missed it.

Perdonami, tesoro. Ti amo.”

~o~O~o~

The light knock on the door came at 1:30 in the morning, as expected. “It’s open,” Francis called softly.

Ottavio entered, closed the door behind him, and held out his hands.

Francis rose and took them. “It’s done?”

Ottavio nodded. “Official time of death is 12:57. He didn’t regain consciousness after you left.”

“At least his suffering is over.”

“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him! Do you know what he did to you?” Ottavio was angry . . . . furious, even.

Francis stepped forward and hugged him gently, waiting to answer until Ottavio’s hands rose, almost grudgingly, to rest on her back, their heat immediately penetrating the thin blue silk of her negligée. “Of course I know,” she replied teasingly. “You aren’t the only one with brains in this family!”

Ottavio could not bring himself to meet her eyes, the beautiful almost-sibling that everyone, in their supreme stupidity, insisted on regarding as male. As if genitalia were all that mattered. “I know that, darling! You’re the smartest of all of us. I told him he should trust you!”

She loosened her grip and stepped back just far enough that Ottavio could no longer avoid her level gaze. “Father understood my strengths — and yours. You’ll be fantastic. You know you will.”

“But . . . “

“No ‘buts,’ my love. No doubts. No false modesty. You need to be the padrone now. Or my mother will strangle you with your own intestines!”

Her vivid image caused Ottavio to chuckle ruefully. “She would, too. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when she sees how the old man switched her documents!”

Francis smiled, leaned in, and gave him a feather-light kiss. “Better! But . . . don’t be too hard on her, Ottavio. She’s a talented, capable woman who’s never had the chance to be the big honcho. Father cast a long, dark shadow.”

Ottavio nodded grudgingly. There’d been no love lost between Caesar’s winter woman and the child he’d taken in the year before he’d met her. And Ottavio had no doubt as to why the old man hadn’t gotten around to adopting him. “All right. But if she tries to invalidate the documents and seize control of the business, I’m going to have to hit her with everything I’ve got.”

“Everything except malice in your heart,” Francis said softly. “Do what you need to do to protect your inheritance and mine, but don’t, please God, take pleasure from it.”

Ottavio shook his head. “Where on earth did you come from? With Scylla and Charybdis for parents, how did you turn out so perfect?”

“Well . . . there was always your sterling example!”

“Oh, God! Don’t start!”

“Like the time you burned down the dog house, trying to see if it would take off with bottle rockets on each corner. . . “

“I give, I give!” Ottavio was smiling, finally, Frances having found a way to ease the tension that had been tearing at him since his last discussion with the old man. Somehow, she had always found a way.

She had that knack with everyone. “He should have just given you the business,” Ottavio said. “Once I’ve gotten your mother off our backs, I will. I trust you, even if he didn’t.”

She kissed him again, her lips soft and sweet, then stepped back. “Thank you for that, Ottavio. But you aren’t listening. I don’t want it. I don’t have any desire to run a company, much less an ‘empire.’”

It was there, right there. What he had always wanted . . . and what he’d known he’d never have. Known from the day his never-quite adoptive father had brought Francis home from the hospital, a look of pure, paternal rapture lighting his face. Ottavio had hated Francis that day . . . .

. . . But it was the last day he had managed it. It was impossible not to love Francis.

Of course, Ottavio had just seen Francis as a beautiful baby at first, then as a sweet little boy. It took him years to see the girl that had always been there, inside. She was seventeen to his supposedly worldly 24 when his eyes finally opened to that reality. And it took two agonizingly long years after that before they had been willing to even talk about the feelings that had begun to blossom between them.

Seeing her now, with her hair loose, her fine features highlighted by just a touch of makeup, and her nightgown emphasizing the perfection of her slender form, it was hard to believe he’d been blind for so long.

Realizing his life’s ambition meant denying Francis her birthright. It meant ratifying, in some sense, the old man’s judgment of her fitness. Of her worth. How could he do that to this exquisite, caring, intelligent woman? How?

But she wasn’t objecting — she was encouraging him to take it. All he had to do was stretch out his hand . . . .

“I can’t do it without you, Francis. I can’t.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in his life, Ottavio was grateful that the old buzzard hadn’t adopted him. “Will you marry me?”

“Imagine the scandal!” Her laugh was light, teasing.

“Believe me, I am,” he said with relish. “But you haven’t answered the question!”

She cocked her head to one side, as if considering the matter for the first time. “I’m sure you’re not doing this properly. There are formalities . . . .”

“Witch!” he said, smiling. “Very well!” He dropped down to one knee and captured her right hand in both of his own. Suddenly serious, he said, “Francis Trentino, will you be my wife?”

She gazed into his intense, passionate eyes, her heart bursting with love. “Of course, you splendid creature. I was beginning to think you’d never ask!”

The end.

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.

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Comments

very, very nice indeed.

thank you for sharing this story with us!

DogSig.png

Thanks, Dot.

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Glad you enjoyed it!

Emma

Render Unto Caesar

All the conniving to have everything end up as it should be.

Caesar wasn't blind.

Jill

Angela Rasch (Jill M I)

Caesar

Emma Anne Tate's picture

He was a conniving bastard, certainly— but no fool. Thanks, Jill.

Emma

A wise old man once said

Dee Sylvan's picture

I think you have read one too many Bru stories Emma, your plot lines are getting a bit twisted as well. Your muse must be working overtime after your vacation. Your Matrix story is captivating, it's amazing that this gem was rattling around just waiting to come out. Francis accepted what Caeser laid out for her, knowing Ottavio would protect her.

Thank you for sharing this with us, Emma. Your stories touch my emotions deeply and this was no exception. :DD

DeeDee

Francis

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Francis wasn’t like the rest of them. She was born into wealth and had the luxury— which the others didn’t— of valuing it lightly. Ottavio received Caesar’s trust; Francis received his love. Who had the better inheritance?

Thanks for your comment, Dee!

Emma

Beautiful

Lucy Perkins's picture

Thank you Emma, for this beautiful short story. Big business and family fortunes really aren't my thing, but you made me care about a world that wouldn't interest me outside of your really engaging story.
Another diamond in your sparkling repertoire.
Bravo! Lucy xx

"Lately it occurs to me..
what a long strange trip its been."

Thank you, Lucy!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Family-owned businesses don’t really interest me either, which is why I didn’t dwell on mechanics about either the business or it’s control structure. But I find families and relationships endlessly fascinating . . . .

Thank you for your kind words. You got me blushing!

Emma

This is the author I know and love!

As I wrote in a PM to you, I was (am) floundering with your current "Matrix", but I am back in rhythm here!
Thanks
Dave

Thanks, Dave!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I’m glad this one was in your strike zone!

Emma

I absolutely loved this……

D. Eden's picture

It’s too good to not love it.

Perhaps you should think about expanding it into a bigger story? Just think what you could do with this!

Build more background into it - Francis growing up and discovering who she is. Ottavio growing up jealous of Francis until he too discovered who she really was - and falling in love with her. And the two of them uniting in love against their father’s wife to build an even bigger, better empire - one run by Ottavio, but tempered by Francis love of life.

What a story this could be!

D. Eden

Dum Vivimus, Vivamus

Wow!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I like your ambition, Dallas! I haven’t tried to write a story that spans years. I know some authors who’ve done it exceptionally well, including Sharon Kaye Penman’s The Sunne in Splendour. Hmmm . . . .

Emma

Tunnel Vision

The old man is driven by business sense, the young wife by greed and business sense, but neither can conceive of Francis not wanting to run the business. Fortunately Octavio can see both business and humanity, even as he feels guilty for "userping" Francis inheritance. They just might make it as a team.

Maybe

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Pure business sense would have suggested that Caesar leave the business to either his wife or Ottavio outright. They were both extremely capable, and he'd basically scooped Ottavio off the streets of Rio for just that purpose. But I think Caesar was a lot like Ottavio -- he loved Francis intensely, and couldn't conceive of not leaving his empire to him somehow. It was, after all, the thing that was most precious to him in all the world. So he was caught.

It could have ended poorly, if Ottavio and Francis had not loved each other so much. But, while Caesar was almost certainly blind to Francis' transgender nature, he clearly knew that whatever emotional bond was between the two of them, it was strong and deep. So he was able to trust Ottavio to look after Francis, in a way that he was not even able to trust Francis' own mother.

Thanks for commenting, Ricky. I hope you are well!

Emma

As Always

BarbieLee's picture

Your stories always mange to pull me in. Somewhere along the way after you joined this channel you became contaminated with the Bru Flu. Yes, one of the readers already mentioned the FACT!. I read it, backed up, re read parts of it. Still couldn't make it whole so I read it again. A simple story of life passing becomes a convoluted tale of who is passing out to whom control of a business empire. Did it go as the old monarch planned or were too many do gooders involved and they put a monkey wrench in his final business decision?
Ever cook a pineapple upside down cake? Maybe bake a Float Cake where all the icing is on the bottom instead of on top? "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get." Is also appropriate for this tale.
Hugs Emma, this is as bad as picking up a fine chain necklace out of the jewelry box and looking at a ball of chain instead of a necklace.
Barb
One of the frustrations of life, the gremlins are ahead of us when we are in the biggest rush.

Oklahoma born and raised cowgirl

It’s not BRU twisty, Barb!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

Pretty straightforward, actually!

Thanks, woman!

Emma

Tongue in Cheek

comments.
They are SOP for Barbie. I love the 'Bru Flu' point. She likes your stories... Honest.

Samantha

Oh, I get that!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I know Bru has no greater fan than Barb. The comparison, in this instance, was one I hadn’t merited with such a normal little story. ;-)

Emma

A strange twist

Wendy Jean's picture

I did not see that one coming, but I enjoyed it

Thanks, Wendy.

Emma Anne Tate's picture

So glad that you enjoyed it. :)

Emma

Lovely

Erisian's picture

A lovely short, dear Emma. I too echo the pondering of what it could be if expanded, where the nuances of relationships could be further explored and refined. Though properly judging whether 'less is more' in such cases is challenging. :)

Thank you, Seraph!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I think the challenge of a short story is to suggest history and emotional context without actually including it within the story’s frame. That you and Dallas were able to imagine the backstory feels like success to me!

Emma

My second..

Sunflowerchan's picture

This is my second time reading through this story, the first time I skimmed through it, this time I read it one word at a time and I was treated to an amazing tale. I can feel, and I mean I can feel it with every beat of my heart the struggle unfolding in front of me. It's a classic set-up an old man, straddling the autumn and winter of his life marries a woman who has beauty and brains to match. The woman is just about to enter the spring of her life and that marriage produces three children? One of happens to transgender and the other an adopted child straight from the streets. If I'm reading correctly? And this old man, in the last fleeting moments of his life gives everything he has to his adopted child, knowning that he is in love with his transgender child and that the family business and empire will stay within the family and not be sold off piece by piece to his wife? Wow.. I'm sorry it took me two times to follow along with that amazing plot that was laid out in front of my very eyes. And the marriage propseral at the end! My word. I'm at a lost for words. Thank you, thank you so much for sharing this wonderful piece of fiction with us here on BG.

Thanks, Sunflower!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

So glad you liked it. :) It sounds like a couple items in the story didn’t come through clearly, but that’s probably because I was attempting to create a reveal for the end of the story.

Caesar rescued Ottavio off the streets of Rio, intending to adopt him, as he had given up hope that he would have a child of his own. But Caesar met Ingrid the following year and married her. They had one child — Francis — and Caesar never got around to adopting Ottavio. Ottavio is certain that Ingrid was responsible for Caesar’s failure to go through with the adoption. Francis is a transwoman, but neither Caesar nor Ingrid appears to be aware of the fact.

Thank you for the lovely comment!

Emma

Almost missed this...

Still catching up after my little break.

Lovely little story where everyone gets exactly what they deserve! I'm sure stepmother won't be exactly delighted, but what she gets is what she had intended for Ottavio, so if it was going to be good enough for him, then she doesn't exactly have any grounds to complain!

Alison

Ingrid

Emma Anne Tate's picture

I expect Ingrid would say that she earned it by sleeping with the old goat for twenty-plus years, but fair’s fair. Ottavio played the dutiful son for just as long, without having the benefit of formal adoption.

Emma

Just how I missed this

Is a mystery, Emma. I'm sorry that I haven't taken the time to read all the way through your list of efforts. I read "Duets" and "Aria" and more recent efforts. I will catch up, someday.

Ron

You’re doing fine, Ron!

Emma Anne Tate's picture

You made it through Aria in 10 hours, and that’s probably close to a third of my total output!

Emma

How Come?

joannebarbarella's picture

I don't know why I didn't comment when this was posted. I must have seen it because I gave it a kudo. This is worthy of the TV show "Succession" with all the conniving going on within the family.

Similar situations can be seen in Real Life. In some corporations it is almost a national sport. I won't quote any as I'm sure your audience can join the dots.

Great story with an ending that kept the main two protagonists happy. Ingrid will be ropable!