2. Declan

2

DECLAN

Rolling my shoulders back, I sighed in relief as I taxied along the airstrip beside my family’s estate. Flying was not something I enjoyed doing. My grandfather insisted I take flying lessons at the age of sixteen and get my private pilot’s license at seventeen. I’d maintained my PPL for nearly twenty years, although flying was one of my least favorite activities. Small aircraft were not built for people who stood six feet four inches tall or who had OCPD, at least not in my case. I avoided flying at all costs, but tonight’s flight was born out of necessity.

After my grandfather’s funeral a month ago, my grandmother announced she was moving from their home in Atlanta here to their summer home in Firefly Island. She’d spent three weeks getting her things in order and had moved here four days ago.

That news had completely blindsided me for a couple of reasons. She hadn’t visited the residence for nearly three decades. After my father died when I was eight, my grandparents boarded up the house and stopped coming here entirely. The other reason it came as a shock was the Atlanta home was the only place my grandmother had ever lived as an adult. At the age of eighteen, she’d immigrated to the States from Paris after marrying my grandfather, and she lived there for the next seventy-four years. Why would she leave the only home she’d ever known?

At ninety-two years old, I wanted her close. I worried about her because she was the only family I had in this world, besides my brother, who was more of a liability than anything else. I didn’t know how much longer I had with her.

I’d done everything I could to talk her out of it, to convince her to stay close to me in Atlanta, but she insisted. So, if I wanted to see her, my choices were to drive six hours each way, from Atlanta to the island, or fly. Since time was money, it seemed I was going to be spending a lot of time in the sky.

Once I’d shut off the engine, checked my fuel levels, and reviewed my instruments, I climbed out of the cockpit and looked out over the white-capped cobalt-blue waves of the Atlantic Ocean as they crashed against the sandy shores that backed up to our property. I hadn’t visited here since I was eight years old, but my most vivid memory was the way the beach lit up at night with the glow of lightning bugs, which I could see from my bedroom window. I used to think they were magic, like Harry Potter or The Chronicles of Narnia —that this place was magic.

Memories began to slowly populate my mind as I made my way across the wide green field up to the main house. I learned to ride my bike in the driveway here when I was five. I lost my first tooth by tying a string to it and shutting the door after watching a Dennis the Menace movie. I learned how to surf in our backyard basically when I was seven.

When I was four years old, I caught my father cheating on my mom while she was sick in bed from a round of chemo. I found my mom unconscious in bed the morning of my sixth birthday, and she had to be airlifted out of the house three months before she passed away. The police came to the door in the middle of the night to tell my grandparents that my father had wrapped his car around a tree, and he was in the intensive care unit on life support.

Not all the memories were good.

About halfway across the field, something caught my eye. I stopped, turned, and saw two horses grazing in the pasture. Back in Atlanta, my grandfather boarded and owned show horses up until about ten years ago. He’d always been partial to American Quarter Horses and Friesians. But the horses roaming in the south pasture were Clydesdales. It didn’t surprise me to see the breed. Gran had always talked about how beautiful and majestic they were and made it clear she would like to have them. Grandfather either ignored her wishes or didn’t even notice them; neither scenario would surprise me.

As I approached the stallion at the fence, who was the larger of the two, he made a huffing noise and lowered his nose. I held out the back of my hand, and he nuzzled his snout against it. I then said hello to the mare, and she did the same thing.

After spending only seconds with the beautiful creatures, all of the anxiety that had built up from the flight began to evaporate like dry ice in a sauna. Animals had a way of calming me faster and more efficiently than anything else ever could.

I’d had several therapists suggest I get a therapy dog, but in doing so, I would be admitting I had a problem, and that would be seen as a weakness, something I could never have done, at least not when my grandfather was still alive.

The first time I saw a school counselor, I was six. My mother had just died, my father was off doing god knows what—or should I say who— so my brother and I moved in with my grandparents. They enrolled me in a private school, and within a few months, it was determined I should speak to someone there. Dr. Crane diagnosed me with OCD and anxiety. My grandfather found out and told the school that it was a bunch of ‘malarkey,’ I believe was the term he used. He threatened to pull me out of the private institution if I continued having ‘quack’ sessions.

Then, when I was in boarding school, in my sophomore year, one of my teachers, my favorite teacher, Mrs. Ramirez, recognized that I was struggling. She arranged for me to see the school psychologist, Dr. Gamble. He diagnosed me with a generalized anxiety disorder and germaphobia. He traced both conditions to my mother’s health and death.

When I was three, and my brother Derek was two, my mother was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia that significantly compromised her immune system. Even the most common cold could be fatal for her. Because of that, we always had to be diligent about washing our hands and making sure that we never caught any colds or brought any illnesses or germs home to her.

Once again, my grandfather got wind of my sessions and diagnosis, and the same threats were made. This time, however, the teacher who had recommended I see the psychologist was fired as a form of retaliation for doing her job. The school didn’t want to lose not only the tuition of my brother and me but also the hefty donations my grandfather made.

After that, I never showed any outward signs of anything I felt internally. I masked and suppressed all of my emotions. No one ever suspected I struggled with anything.

That worked for a while. Until one day, my senior year in college, I experienced a debilitating anxiety attack, and I couldn’t leave my dorm room for two weeks. I visited a professional and received a diagnosis of OCPD, obsessive-compulsive personality disorder, and mysophobia. I was able to keep that private from my grandfather.

The conditions can show up in people in a lot of different ways, but in me, they present by making me a hyper-vigilant control freak and germaphobe on steroids. I have to have order, structure, schedules, and near-perfection-level standards in my life to feel any sort of normalcy or peace. It’s difficult for me to connect with people and create meaningful relationships, as well as navigate the world around me that is contaminated with disease, germs, and filth.

I’ve always believed knowledge is power. In this instance, that proved to be the case. Once I was aware of what was happening in my brain, it became easier to deal with. I started practicing mindfulness and using relaxation and breathing techniques that allowed me to navigate the world and mask my inner demons.

Over the past sixteen years, I’ve managed to mitigate and conceal both conditions to the point that no one in my family or immediate circle is aware of them. I graduated magna cum laude with an MBA from Princeton. I am engaged to be married to a woman I’ve been in a relationship with for seven years. And now, with the passing of my grandfather, I will be stepping up as the majority shareholder and CEO of a billion-dollar corporation, Wolfe Enterprises, the role I was born and bred to step into.

I took a deep breath and exhaled as I pressed my forehead against the stallion’s snout once more. After allowing myself one more moment of peace, I straightened and began to cross the field. On my way, I disinfected my hands with the mini-sanitizer I kept with me at all times and wondered what Gran’s plans were for the two horses. At ninety-two, surely she wasn’t planning on riding them. At least, I hoped she wasn’t.

Although, with her newfound independence since the passing of my grandfather, I wouldn’t put anything past her. Moving to Firefly Island wasn’t the only change she’d made. She’d also cut her hair, changed her wardrobe, and started a social media account, which I only knew about because my assistant Hannah, who was much more social media savvy than I was, informed me that Gran now had an Instagram account.

I walked up the steps to the front door, and before I reached it, Dorothy opened it. The tension in her shoulders and the smile frozen on her face told me something was wrong.

“Hi, Dorothy.”

“Hello, Mr. Wolfe. How was the flight?”

“Declan,” I corrected her, “and it was fine.”

Anyone who had known me since I was in diapers shouldn’t call me by my last name. She’d only started referring to me in the formal way once my grandfather passed, and I’d stepped into the role of head of the family and the business.

“I saw the article in Forbes. You looked so handsome.”

“Thanks, Dorothy.”

Forbes had run a piece on my grandfather passing away and interviewed me as his successor. As of now, I was merely acting CEO. My grandfather started his company on Christmas Day, and he’d always stipulated that in the event of his death, the company would be transferred to his successor on December 25 th . He was eccentric that way. Since it was only March, I had another nine months of holding the interim title ahead of me.

“Where’s Ellen?”

Ellen Murphy was the live-in support I’d arranged to be here through the week, and then I planned to be Gran’s support on the weekends. Ellen was supposed to start today. I hadn’t seen any cars other than my grandmother’s Bentley.

Dorothy’s smile remained in place. “She’s gone.”

“Gone. Gone where?”

“Mrs. Wolfe dismissed her.”

“Dismissed her?”

“Let her go,” she rephrased.

“Let her go,” I repeated.

Dorothy nodded.

“She fired her?” I clarified.

“I believe she hired someone else.”

“Who?”

“An Ashley Thompson, I believe.”

“Ashley Thompson.”

“Yes.”

“Who is Ashley Thompson?”

“The woman Mrs. Wolfe hired.”

I didn’t think Dorothy was being deliberately difficult. But it was clear that Dorothy wasn’t entirely comfortable having this conversation. My grandfather was not an easy man, and I feared that she was conditioned to walk on eggshells. The last thing I wanted was to make her feel uneasy.

“Thank you, Dorothy.”

She immediately relaxed once I’d moved on. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. Where is my grandmother?”

“She’s in the sunroom.”

I nodded and headed to the back of the house as questions filled my mind. What was my grandmother thinking letting Ellen go? Who was Ashley Thompson? Where had she gotten two Clydesdales from?

When I walked into the room, I found Gran seated beside the fireplace in her armchair. She was wearing her reading glasses and looking at something on her iPad.

“I heard you had a busy day.”

Gran lifted her head and peered at me over her glasses. “Did I?”

“Why did you—” I stopped mid-sentence when I nearly tripped over a large brown lump. When I looked down, I saw a dog. “Who is that?”

“Rufus,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Rufus?” I repeated. I found myself doing that a lot since I’d arrived.

“Yes.”

“Rufus the rottweiler.” I bent down and petted his head.

His tongue hung from the left side of his mouth. Gran had always loved rottweilers, but Grandfather never wanted a dog. He said all they were good for was collecting fleas.

Rufus’s head was just the right size to fit into my palm. He nuzzled against it as I scratched behind his ear. After standing, I disinfected my hands, stepped over him, and bent down to kiss Gran on her cheek before lowering into the chair beside her.

“And who are the Clydesdales in the pastures?”

“Bonnie and Clyde.”

Of course, they are. What else would they be named?

“Are they yours?”

“Who else would they belong to?’

“I didn’t know if you were just boarding them.”

“Why would I do that, dear? I don’t need the money.”

“Why do you need two Clydesdales?”

“Because Clyde is in love with Bonnie. He doesn’t leave her side. They couldn’t be separated.”

“I wasn’t referring to the number of horses. I was asking why you needed horses at all.”

Her icy blue, steady gaze leveled me. “Why not?”

I took a deep breath. I knew that arguing with Gran was pointless. She was clearly enjoying her independence from my grandfather, which was understandable. She’d been married from the age of eighteen to ninety-two, and my grandparents came from a different generation. He would classify his beliefs as traditional, whereas others would say he was sexist and chauvinistic. He considered himself progressive for “permitting” women to wear pants in the office. It was problematic, to say the least.

Gran rarely talked about her life, especially the early days of their marriage. My grandfather had shared with me that she didn’t speak any English when she moved here. It took her years to learn the language. In her twenties, they kept trying to have a baby, and she suffered seven miscarriages. I couldn’t imagine being in a foreign country without any family and going through that. They’d given up on having kids altogether, but then she’d gotten pregnant with my dad when she was thirty-six. He was their miracle baby. I often wondered if that was why he was the way he was. If his behavior had something to do with the fact that he’d been given everything he’d ever wanted and never been made accountable. Maybe that’s why my brother was the same way.

“I like horses, so I got horses,” she stated matter-of-factly. “I like dogs, so I got a dog.”

Well, that answered that question.

“And who is this woman you hired?”

“You mean Ashley?”

“Yes, Ashley.”

“I reached out to the dean at SCAD and asked if there were any promising art students who migh?—”

“Art students?”

“I used to be an artist.”

“You did?” This was the first I was hearing about it.

“Yes. Why do you think your grandfather and I supported the arts all these years?”

I had never thought about it. Or asked for that matter. I knew that Wolfe Enterprises gave sizable donations to several colleges and schools in Atlanta for art education, but I’d never questioned why.

“So, Ashley is an art student? You hired her to do what?”

“To work with me.”

Wow, could she be any more vague? Actually, this was my grandmother; she absolutely could be.

“What happened to Ellen?”

“Who?” she asked with mock innocence.

“The woman I hired.”

She sat up straighter. “I do not need a babysitter.”

“Ellen is not a babysitter,” I argued.

“You’re right. She’s a caregiver. A nurse. Do you think I’m an invalid?”

“No. I don’t think you’re an invalid. But I worry about you being out here, on this island, on your own.”

“I’m not on my own. Dorothy and Fred are here.”

“Dorothy and Fred are not here to—” I stopped myself.

She was good. The woman was good. She might be ninety-two, but she was clearly firing on all cylinders and outsmarting me. I nearly slipped and said that they were here if she had any health issues or emergencies, which was what I was afraid of. But if I said that, I would be admitting that she was a caregiver/nurse, which was exactly what she was.

Her stare remained steadfast. The only indication that she knew she had me on the ropes was a slight twitch in the right corner of her mouth. “Not here to what? To watch me? To babysit me? To give me care? Go ahead, say it.”

“Gran, you are ninety-two years old. I know that you are still very healthy, and your mind is clearly sharp as a tack, but I worry about you.” I took a deep breath. “What if you fall? What if something happens and I’m not here? I don’t want to relive what happened with my mom.”

I knew that using what happened with my mom was low. But what good was trauma if you couldn’t use it when you needed it?

When my mom passed, I was alone with her and my brother. I was six, and my brother was five. My dad left us for the weekend to go to Atlantic City. My mother was ill. She was battling pneumonia and had a very high fever. I stayed by her side all weekend, changing washcloths on her head and behind her neck, giving her water to keep her fever down and keep her hydrated. But then on Monday, I had to go to school. I got on the bus, and when I got home, she was gone. I couldn’t wake her up. I had to call 911 and wait for the paramedics to come. Gran knew that I still felt responsible for her death. I knew if I hadn’t gone to school, if I’d stayed home and taken care of her, she would still be here.

“Dinner is ready,” Dorothy announced from the doorway.

I stood and held my arm out to Gran. She wrapped her hand around my bicep as she stood. “Fine, hire her back.”

Tomorrow, I’d have to check for bruising on my jaw from how hard it just hit the floor. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d won a battle of wills with my grandmother. She could out-stubborn a mule.

Ellen was in, and Ashley was out. It was a small win, but I’d take it.