Chapter Five 

 

 

As Dad’s pearly white Volvo crawls through town, my brother and I press our faces against the glass so we can check out the place we now call home. 

“I can’t believe you moved us here,” Austin grumbles from the seat next to me. 

In the rearview mirror, I watch Dad’s lips smash into a tight line.  Even though I don’t echo the sentiment, I secretly agree with my twin.  What the hell was Dad thinking?  How are we supposed to go from living in an overcrowded metropolis to this?  A town with—count them—three stoplights. 

My gaze fastens on to the window and the storefronts beyond as we roll down Main Street.  People stop and gawk, turning our way with a mixture of curiosity and hostility shining from their eyes.  It’s like they know who we are.  Or maybe they’ve never seen out-of-state plates before.  Who knows?  Whatever the reason, it’s creeping me out. 

There’s a tiny theater with a single box office window in the center of town.  The old-time marquee is surrounded by bulb lights and advertises a movie we saw two months ago. 

“Are you seriously shitting me?” Austin exclaims as he catches a glimpse of the sign.  “Not only are you moving us to bumfuck nowhere, but you somehow went back in time.” 

I snort and press my lips together to stifle my laughter. 

“Language,” Mom snaps, irritated with our unfiltered reaction to our new digs. 

“It’s a theater that plays last chance movies for cheap,” my father mutters. 

“I think it’s charming,” Mom soothes, attempting to put Dad at ease. 

Austin is right.  This is horrific.  Would you like to know who we have to blame for this? 

Grandma Rose.  Her death is the gift that keeps on giving.  We found out after the funeral that she left the family company to Dad in her last will and testament. 

Sounds like amazing news, right? 

Wrong. 

In order for Dad to claim his inheritance, which was appraised at a hundred million dollars, he has to move here to run the company.  Condition number one, he can’t sell the business for ten years.  Condition number two, he can’t sell the family estate.  If Dad attempts to get rid of either property, all proceeds revert to a trust which then gets dispersed to the charities of Grandma Rose’s choosing. 

Pretty fucked up, huh? 

Instead of giving Grandma Rose the middle finger like she so richly deserves for trying to control us from the grave, we’ve been forced to uproot our lives.  No way Dad was going to turn his back on all that money.  Not when the two of them have spent most of their adult lives scraping by.  I can’t totally blame my parents for making that decision.  It would be awfully difficult to pass up, but still... 

I’m about to start my senior year of high school and had everything planned out.  Summer volunteering.  College visits.  A course at the local university.  And it was all blown to shit with one ill-timed phone call. 

Not to mention leaving all my friends behind. 

I glance at Austin.  My brother is beyond pissed off.  He had the starting QB position locked down tight.  He’d reached a certain level of popularity because of his position on the team.  Now he’ll have to claw his way to the top all over again.  As a senior.  And then there’s the academic challenges he faces. 

Sure, I’m mad.  But he’s the one I feel most sorry for in all this.  Even though I’ve tried to put on a good face, telling him it won’t be so bad, it hasn’t worked.  I have a feeling it’s only a matter of time before my brother blows like Mount Vesuvius. 

A suffocating silence descends over the car.  Mom breaks it when she swings around and forces a cheerful smile to her face.  “How cool is it that they named the town after us?” 

The town, in case you’re wondering, is named Hawthorne. 

Austin doesn’t make eye contact as he slumps on the seat and broods.  “Super cool, Mom.” 

I glance at my brother, knowing I’ll have to ratchet up the excitement for the two of us.  “It’s pretty neat.  Why is the town named after our family again?” 

She glances at Dad before rubbing his shoulder.  “Because your great-great-grandfather was a real entrepreneur and founded Hawthorne Industries almost a century ago.  I believe they manufactured engine components or something like that for the car companies in Michigan.  After about a decade, the town sprung up around it and has been thriving ever since.” 

“You might want to rethink the word thriving,” Austin mumbles under his breath. 

Ignoring him, Mom looks at Dad.  “Isn’t that the way the story goes?” 

“More or less,” he mutters through stiff lips.  If she’s expecting him to shade in a few more details regarding our family history and the town, she’s in for disappointment. 

“Hmmm,” I say in lieu of an actual response.  Again, I have to agree with Austin on this point.  There doesn’t seem to be much in the way of thriving going on.  It’s small with a handful of stores and shops.  A few restaurants dot the main drag.  Compared to where we came from, it’s sadly lacking.  

A few minutes later, we reach the outskirts of town. 

“I hope no one blinked,” Austin says, “you would have missed the thriving metropolitan known as Hawthorne.” 

“Enough!” Dad snaps. 

My brother scowls, slouching further onto his seat.  I lay my fingers on Austin’s hand before giving it a gentle squeeze.  When his sullen gaze cuts to mine, my lips lift into a tentative smile and his eyes soften.  His head jerks to the window as we turn into a sprawling subdivision that seems strangely out of place in a countryside speckled with red barns and open fields. 

In surprise, I blink at the enormous estates we roll past. 

Who would have expected a shit town to have such humongous houses?  Actually, these don’t resemble anything as common as mere houses.  These are mansions.  And not the McMansion variety either that are slapped together in a matter of months with cheap finishes.  They’re grand old estates that scream generations of wealth. 

With wide eyes, I shoot my brother a stunned look.  He sits up a little straighter as shock registers across his face. 

“This is where we’re going to live?” I ask in wonder. 

“Yup,” Mom says.  “We’ll stay at Grandma’s house for the time being until we can get everything sorted out and then we’ll decide what the plan is.” 

Mom throws another bright smile over her shoulder as if to say- See?  This isn’t so bad. 

The jury is still out on that one, but I keep that thought to myself. 

Even though there aren’t any vehicles behind us, Dad flicks on his blinker as we pull into a long, weathered brick driveway. 

My mouth falls open as I glimpse the two-story stone mansion set away from the street on a perfectly manicured lawn.  My gaze slides over the architecture, noticing that the roofline has several elevations and most of the windows are arched.  I press closer to the glass, unable to believe how extravagant the place is.  I mean, look at the entryway...it’s flanked by columns.  Columns!  Impeccably trimmed shrubbery hugs the perimeter. 

“This is our house?” I squeak again. 

“Yes,” Dad says, “It is.” 

“Holy shit,” Austin exclaims, shaking off his sulky attitude. 

“Language,” Mom scolds, but it’s more of an afterthought, not an actual rebuke.  Her wide-eyed gaze is glued to the mansion in front of us. 

Dad parks the SUV near the wrought-iron gate that bars entrance to the garage.  I shake my head, completely blown away by the recent turn of events.  When he turns off the engine, we all sit quietly and stare at the house. 

“So,” I say, needing him to reconfirm this information, “you grew up here?”  This will sound stupid, but I never put it together that Dad came from money.  We’re talking generational wealth that gets passed down through trust funds.  Unless you turn your back on your family obligations, needing to forge your own way in the world which apparently gets you disowned.     

“Yeah,” he answers succinctly.  It became obvious early on in our trip when I tried peppering him with questions that he didn’t want to talk about anything having to do with Hawthorne or his childhood.  “The moving company should have arrived yesterday and unloaded the furniture.  We’ll need to unpack the boxes.” 

We continue to sit in the car, staring up at the house as if it isn’t ours, until Dad clears his throat.  Then it’s like we’re all waking from the same dream before exiting the vehicle.  The four of us walk through the portico flanked by huge cement urns that contain small evergreen trees.  As we stand at the massive front door, I stroke my fingers over the smooth wood. 

Dad pulls out a key from his pocket and shoves it in the lock before turning and pushing the door open.  Even though I have no desire to take up residence in Hawthorne, I’m dying to explore every nook and cranny of the house.  We step into a two-story foyer with a white marble tile floor.  There’s a sweeping staircase with a fancy scrolled wrought-iron banister that curves to the second floor.  A baby grand piano sits near the arched window in the entryway where a steady stream of afternoon sunlight filters in. 

Holy shit, we’re now the proud owners of a baby grand piano! 

I spin in a circle, trying to take everything in at once.  The entryway is as big as the first floor of our house back home.  A sparkly crystal chandelier hangs from the second-story ceiling.  Similar to the architectural detail outside, arches are present in every room and hallway.   

For the first time since finding out about the move, a flicker of excitement fills me.  Maybe Mom is right and finishing out my senior year in Hawthorne won’t be so bad. 

I shoot her a cautious glance only to find her grinning at me.  A smug look dances in her eyes.  An answering smile curves my lips as I shake my head.  I’m nowhere near ready to capitulate.  For the time being, I’m reserving the right to withhold judgment.  At least until after the first day of school. 

And then, we’ll see.