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Surrendered

By Jennifer Sienes

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If he wasn’t already dancing with Jesus, I’d kill Sean O’Shay myself. His betrayal is a vice, squeezing my chest. Breathing’s impossible, which is just as well. I’d only humiliate the O’Shay name if the words formulating in my brain spewed from my mouth. Instead I grip the chair arms, my fingernails sinking into the smooth, burgundy leather, and I lock my eyes on the wood paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Rules of Civil Procedure, Tort Law and Practice. Volume upon volume of thick tomes to distract me.
“Miss O’Shay?” Byron Reynolds rises from behind his desk, rheumy eyes widening. It wouldn’t do for the daughter of Sean O’Shay to expire right here in his office. He turns to the door and screeches, “Candace, come in here!” His voice cracks like a thirteen-year-old boy’s.
I press one hand against my chest and wave him down with the other. Heart pounding, head pounding, chest constriction, and shortness of breath. Nothing new here, which gives some comfort. Dad’s heart issues aren’t hereditary. Breathe in—one, two, three…breathe out—one, two, three.
The thick office door swings open, and Candace, legal secretary extraordinaire, appears. “What is it?” She spots me gasping like a flopping goldfish and rushes to my side. “Tess? You okay?”
“Of course she’s not okay.” A vein in Byron’s temple threatens to burst. “Call 911.”
“No…” Drama queen mode is Katie’s forte, not mine. “Fine. I’m…fine. Just…give me”—deep breath—“a sec.” The vice loosens and the pain in my chest subsides. Sweet air fills my lungs once again. Too bad Byron’s hideous announcement isn’t so easily dismissed.
“Maybe I should drive you to the hospital.” Candace drops to her knees in front of me, concerned eyes catching mine.
“Panic attack. I’m okay, really.” If they only knew.
She pats my hand, then shoots a glare at Byron. “At least let me call Katie so she can drive you home.”
Despite the shaky aftershock, I blurt out a laugh. “Are you trying to kill me? Besides, she’s at school and can’t afford to take any more time off. If I could just have some water…”
Candace leaves to do my bidding while I focus on my breathing exercises. Just like riding a bike.
“We’ll postpone the rest of our meeting,” Byron says. “Maybe a week or two—”
“Is that going to change anything?”
“I understand you’re upset, Miss O’Shay.” Byron takes his seat once again, lips pursed. What was it Dad used to call him? An old lady? No, an old prude. “But I have to abide by your father’s wishes, even if I advised he not go this route.”
Candace raps on the open door before re-entering with a bottle of water. “Here you go, Tess. Is there anything else?”
I shake my head, and she makes her escape.
The cool water does little to alleviate the tightness in my throat. Dad couldn’t persuade me to his way of thinking when he was alive. What made him think he’d have more control in death?
“Your father had your best interests in mind,” Byron says, as if reading my mind. “Even if his methods are questionable.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Your father?”
“No, Jake Holland. I mean, if Dad was willing to hand everything over to him…” Including my baby sister. What was he thinking?
“I doubt Sean thought it would come to that.” Byron taps a pen on the desk blotter, eying me beneath gray caterpillar brows. “He assumed you’d agree to his terms.”
Of course he did.
“You will agree, won’t you?”
I press clammy fingers to my chin. “This can’t be legal. There must be a…a loop hole or something.”
“I assure you, it’s legal.”
“To hand my sister over to stranger?”
“Miss O’Shay.” His tone suggests a slight reprimand. “We both know Mr. Holland isn’t a stranger. He’s been in your father’s employ for over a year now. And I understand you’ve worked side by side with him.”
Jake’s smug features flit into my head. “He could be a pedophile for all I know. Or a con man. He appeared out of nowhere and wormed his way into Dad’s good graces.”
“A con man or pedophile?” Byron shakes his head and all but rolls his eyes. “Really, Miss O’Shay. Upon your father’s directive, I appropriated a background check. There is nothing in Mr. Holland’s history that should concern you.”
“Background check? You had him investigated?”
“I did.”
“I’d like to see his file.”
He scratches his balding head. “I’m afraid that is not possible. Confidentiality and all.”
“Dad paid for it, didn’t he?”
“After Mr. Holland agreed to it.”
“If Jake agreed to it, then I’m sure he won’t have a problem with me seeing it.”
“Get his permission, and I will be happy to oblige.”
A scream wriggles its way to the base of my throat. “Ridiculous!” I all but screech. “You can’t force me to do Dad’s bidding. This is the twenty-first century for crying out loud. I’m not some medieval maiden that can be controlled like a chess piece.”
He purses his lips as one caterpillar brow arches. “You are right. But I urge you to consider all you have to lose if you choose to rebel against his wishes. More than that, think about what young Katherine has to lose.”
It’s blackmail, pure and simple. And short of kidnapping my sixteen-year-old sister, there’s nothing I can do about it.
* * *
Sun dances through the second-story kitchen window, filtered by what were once white sheers, now yellowed with age, as I hack at an onion with a butcher knife. Julia, hip resting on the counter, arms folded across her ample, heaving chest, watches me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“Back up the bus, Tess. You’re not making sense. Besides, I’m still trying to catch my breath after the climb to your front door.”
“My dad”—hack—“is leaving everything”—hack, hack—“to Jake.” His name comes out as an expletive. “The restaurant, this house…Katie.”
Laying her hand across mine, she takes possession of the knife and maneuvers her five-foot-nothing frame into my place at the cutting board. “The restaurant I can see—”
“Excuse me?” I swipe at a tear. Hate onions. They always make me cry.
“It’s not like you have any interest in culinary pursuits.” She waves a hand at the decimated onion. “Or talent, for that matter.” With a flick of her wrist, she gathers up the mess and plops it into the soup pot. “But Katie’s and your home, that’s another thing. There must be more to this.”
Best friend or not, I can’t count on her support, so why even go there? “Dementia,” I mumble.
She throws me a look that says she’s not buying my act and reaches for the bag of carrots. “Your dad loved you and Katie like nothing I’ve ever seen. Or experienced. And this house—hasn’t it been in your family since the turn of the century or something? So what’s the real deal?”
I watch her scrape a carrot clean with the knife blade and go at it with the speed and precision of a Ginsu salesman. “Does it matter?”
“What else are you putting in this soup?” At my shrug, she shuffles across the kitchen and buries her head in the fridge, muttering something about my ineptness in the kitchen.
I finger the twenty-year-old sheers and remember the day Mom hung them. I was about Katie’s age and couldn’t care less about aesthetics, but I always thought they were ugly. Yet when she died six years later, I couldn’t bring myself to take them down. History was in every corner of the house, from the magnets on the fridge to the tea cups and saucers in the curio cabinet. Dust collectors, Dad called them with a gentle gruffness. Even in death, Mom’s presence is strong. And now Dad’s gone too.
Arms loaded with more veggies and some left-over chicken, Julia nudges the fridge door closed with a hip. “We both know you’re not telling me everything.” She struggles with her load before hefting it onto the counter next to the cutting board.
A smile tugs at my lips despite my frustration. “You want a ladder?”
“Very funny.” She sniffs. “Maybe a stool.”
Retrieving a plastic step-stool, I drop it next to her size five feet. “He’s trying to force me into finishing my degree.”
Julia hesitates a moment, but doesn’t speak—just steps up to the counter and reaches for a celery stalk.
“That’s it? You don’t have anything to say?”
Arching a salon-perfect brow, she throws me a glance.
“He’s taking everything from me, Jules.”
“No, he’s giving everything back.”
I knew she’d take this stance. “For once, why can’t you be on my side?”
“You’re wasting your life, Tess. Almost thirty-two years old, and what have you got to show for it?”
The slap of criticism stings. “Like you’re living your dream?”
Snatching up a dishtowel, she wipes her hands and glares at me. “No, it wasn’t my dream to be a single parent or a divorcee. But at least I’ve taken chances. And at least I have Max to show for it. What do you have?” Her voice wobbles and tears swim in her eyes.
I’m such a jerk. And she’s right—she has an adorable eight-year-old. What do I have? “Look, Jules, I didn’t mean—”
“I’ve always been on your side.” She turns back to the chopping, taking her aggression out on an unsuspecting chicken breast. “I’m on your side more than you are. You want to hide away in a restaurant you have no interest in—or, I might add, aptitude for—and waste four years of college, no skin off my nose.”
I stifle a groan. Here we go again. “Don’t you think this is a little extreme?”
“Extreme circumstances, extreme measures. Got any chicken stock?”
“Okay, but even if I give in to this…extortion—”
“Blackmail.”
“—I have to co-parent with Jake.”
“What do you mean?”
“According to Dad’s will, Jake moves in.”
Julia’s eyes widen. “Here?”
I shrug. “Not exactly. The guest house.”
“You mean guest shack. Why would he be willing to do that?”
“My point exactly.” Now she’s getting it. “And what about Katie?”
“What about me?”
Julia and I whip around to face the green-eyed fire in Katie’s eyes.

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