Chapter 3 - The Gathering of Vultures
By 6:45 PM, the sun had dipped below the rolling hills of Franklin, casting long, bloody shadows across the limestone facade of my home.
I parked my SUV near the fountain. Inside, the house was ablaze with light. Through the dining room windows, I could see my mother sitting at the head of the dark oak table—a table I had purchased to celebrate my company's first public offering.
Beside her sat my Uncle Thomas, wearing a ill-fitting blazer, drinking my fifty-year-old scotch, and my Aunt Clara, fanning herself while admiring the crystal chandelier above. They had brought their adult son, my cousin Brody, who was currently casually resting his boots on my velvet sofa in the living room.
They were celebrating. They believed they had effectively put me in my place, using family guilt as their weapon of choice.
I stepped through the front door.
The laughter in the dining room ceased immediately.
"Well, look who finally showed up," Uncle Thomas boomed, wiping his mustache with a linen napkin. "Daniel, sit down. Your mother has been in tears all afternoon explaining how that girl triggered an episode. You need to apologize to your mother, son. Family comes first."
Margaret sat up straight, dabbing at her dry eyes with a handkerchief. "I told them, Daniel. I told them how you pushed me. How that girl has turned your head against your own blood."
I walked into the dining room, taking off my overcoat and laying it over the back of a chair. I didn't sit down. I stood at the end of the long table, looking at the four of them like a judge preparing to read an indictment.
"Where is Emma?" Aunt Clara asked sniffishly. "Still hiding in the bedroom? In my day, pregnant women didn't throw fits over doing a little housework. Margaret was just trying to teach her how to run a proper Southern home."
"Emma is in the high-risk ICU," I said, my voice dead, flat, and hollow. "She has a placental abruption because my mother kicked her in the stomach."
Uncle Thomas shifted uncomfortably, looking at Margaret. "Now hold on, Margaret said—"
"I don't care what Margaret said," I interrupted. " Brody, take your boots off my couch before I have Vance break your ankles."
Brody snapped his feet down, his mouth open in shock.
"Daniel!" Margaret gasped, slamming her hand on the table. "This is MY house! I will not have you speak to your uncle and cousin like that under my roof!"
"Your roof?" I asked, pulling a thick leather folder from under my arm and tossing it onto the center of the dining table. It slid across the wood, knocking over a crystal wine glass, spilling red wine across the white tablecloth like blood.
May you like
"What is this?" Thomas muttered, picking up the top page.
"That," I said, "is the complete financial audit of Brooks Capital and my personal estate over the past six months. And it explains why all of you are sitting here tonight."
