Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“I assure you, I bear good news.” Shankle offers a shaky smile.
“I don’t give a shit about the man, just as he’s never given one about me. Good news? The only good news you could bear is that he’s dead.”
He huffs out a laugh. “It seems I may have made your day then. He is, in fact, dead.”
I blink, processing what he just said. “Holy shit.” Then I grin.
The fucker married my mother and then divorced her before I was even born. Left her with nothing. Sure, he paid the obligatory child support, but that wasn’t what she wanted from him. She expected love from a spouse. Not to be abandoned and for him to move on to another woman. Or two. Or fucking more for all I know.
My father was never a part of my life. Hell, I never even met him. Just hated his guts for what he did to my mom.
“How?” Yeah, I want to know what finally brought the man down.
“Brain aneurysm.”
Instant and painless. Too bad.
“Thanks for letting me know.” I open the cockpit door, ready to climb in and leave the bastard behind, just like always.
“There’s more,” Shankle adds.
I glance up at the sky. “That’s enough for me. He’s dead. Good riddance.”
“I need fifteen minutes of your time.”
“So do those oysters in the back.” I point to the rear of the plane.
“Fine. I’ll ride with you.”
I glare again. Not what I expected. He steps down onto the runner behind me and opens the rear door, the one for passengers. The plane’s small enough that it bobs from the shift in weight.
Lovering Seaplane usually takes passengers, but for supplemental income, we run supplies and various cargo. Like oysters. I’m used to customers, but not ones who climb aboard last-minute for a chat. In Shankle’s case, it’s to talk to me about my father, and most likely piss me off.
He can go along for the ride, but I don’t have to make it easy on him.
I hold the door open as graciously as I possibly can. He tosses in his briefcase and awkwardly climbs up and into the back seat.
“Ever flown in a seaplane before?” I ask casually.
“Nothing smaller than the commuter jet from Missoula,” he replies.
I smirk and glance at Ed, who shrugs. I climb into the pilot’s seat and begin my pre-flight checklist.
“Mr. Bridger. Jonathan Bridger had a sizeable estate in Montana and—”
I hold up a hand to stop him. “I need to complete my checks, Shankle. In silence, unless you want me to miss something and risk us taking a two-thousand-foot swan dive into the Sound.”
Shankle remains silent as I strap in and work through the list I have memorized, getting the engines on. I give Ed a thumbs up, and we’re untied and airborne quickly, headed north. I adjust the yoke as we’re buffeted by the high-level winds. Nothing too strong, but I don’t fight them.
“As I was saying,” Shankle shouts over the noise of the engines.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him trying to get his balance. I can barely hear him with my headset on so I tap my ear and glance back at him.
He grabs the headset in the back for passengers and puts it on. “Can you hear me now?”
His voice comes through all too clearly, annoying me, so I tip the yoke, dipping the right wing. The plane plunges a hundred feet or so and I pull up. When the guy reaches out to keep from flying across the cabin, I can’t help a slight smile.
“Might want to strap in,” I say. “Could get bumpy up here with choppy air and all.”
It isn’t all that rough. Low wind, clear visibility. A little bit of chop, just like the water below, but doable, if you’re not prone to motion sickness.
His seatbelt clinks. “You have two half brothers.”
My smile slips. I know about them. Both younger and from the women who took my mom’s place. I turn the yoke again, dropping the right wing once more. Shankle gasps.
“The three of us aren’t going to make a fort in the backyard and take blood oaths, Shankle. Get to the point.”
I tap my sunglasses up my nose and straighten the plane. There is no autopilot, so I keep my gaze on the tree-covered rolling hills of the Pacific Northwest on the horizon.
“You and your brothers are heirs to his estate.”
The man—our father—was rich. Obscenely so, and since I turned eighteen, I haven’t seen a dime of it. Before then, I didn’t get much. Enough for clothes and extra food. He moved on and so did my mom. She started the seaplane company from the ground—or in her case, the Puget Sound—up.
“Great. Mail the china and stamp collection to the company address. You didn’t need to come all the way to Seattle.” I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. I’m sure he can tell how much I hate my father through the headset loud and clear.