Page 76 of The Producer: Aaron

“I know…but I also know that his paycheck was your only income. I know it’s not polite to talk about money in these situations, but I’m worried about you.”

The woman smiles at him and puts her hand on his cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I have always found a solution. This time will be no different.”

“You are not reassuring me, you know?” he whispers.

The woman smiles and kisses him on the forehead.

“Everything will be fine, Aaron. Have faith.”

And for the first time, I see my partner’s eyes veiled in tears.

An hour later, we are sitting on the leather seats of the limousine after talking to the driver’s son and discovering that their economic situation is not great. A few years earlier, their father took a second mortgage on the house to solve the foundation problems that were added to the purchase. Losing the only source of livelihood, they risk losing their home.

I grab Aaron’s hand, but he never moves his gaze from the road that runs beyond the window. Only when I hear the hiccup shaking his chest, do I realize that his cheeks are wet with tears.

“Aaron.” My voice is like a cry in the silence of this car, and my heart breaks for him.

He rubs a hand over his face, wiping away the only traces of his vulnerability, takes deep breaths, then grabs the phone and starts calling his lawyers, giving orders to pay off the debts of the family we have just left. I remain silent to observe this man who seems invincible but who sheds tears for the only affection he ever received as a child, that of a driver who was more family than the one in which he grew up.

My parents’ butler opens the door for me in his impeccable dark livery. Ten days have passed since my father’s funeral, and I find it ridiculous to continue to dress in black. To tell the truth, I find it ridiculous that the employees who work in this house were forced to do it as if it were the eighteenth century and were servants. My mother probably sees them that way.

“Please go back to the gray suit and drop this funeral uniform.”

He smiles at me and tilts his head slightly in greeting.

“Your mother prefers black these days,” he justifies with a cordial expression on his face.

He would never dare to tell me anything different. My family has employed him for as long as I can remember. Never once have I heard him comment with something disrespectful or even inadequate for the context of the conversation. He must be born with this inclination to count to ten before verbally expressing his opinion.

“My mother is stuffed with antidepressants and alcohol. I don’t think she would notice if I walked around the house in a rainbow dress.” I don’t have the same inclination to bite my tongue, especially when I talk to someone who has lived here day and night for years and knows exactly what’s happening. My mother is not depressed. She is just a high-class junkie that gets high on prescription drugs and alcohol.

“These days, she’s a bit… it’s hard to find the right mental attitude,” he confirms, accompanying me to my father’s studio.

It has never been easy for my mother, but I avoid pointing it out and thank him before closing the study door. I look around at the room that reflects my father’s office at the company: all too much decorated with dark and tacky furniture that shows his desire to flaunt his wealth. I’ve always hated this studio, always found it too decorated and stuffy. It’s so dark that in the middle of the afternoon you have to turn on the lights even during summer.

I sit on one of the two sofas and wait for the others to join me for the reading of the will. I don’t even bother to go upstairs to my mother’s room. She didn’t recognize me on the day of my father’s death. I don’t think she’s in better condition now. A sense of discomfort squeezes my stomach. The natural thing to do would be to go to her and hug her to console her about her husband’s death, but our family has such toxic relationships that my brother didn’t even come to the funeral. I never really reasoned about this fact until I found myself managing all the papers on my own. And even in that case, the feeling that hit me was annoyance.

I look at the door when I hear it open, and I’m surprised to find Alan, my brother Evan’s lawyer.

“They called you here, too?” I can’t hold back a half-laugh in disbelief.

The man shakes his head laughing, unfastens the buttons of his blue suit jacket, and sits next to me, leaving the leather messenger bag at his feet. He leans on the backrest, crosses his legs, and pulls his mobile phone out of his pocket.

“Pure formality. We don’t expect Evan to be included in the will, but being a rightful heir, I slipped this appointment in among the various that I have this morning,” he explains as he reads emails on his cell phone.

“Legitimate because he did not have time to disown him as a son. A few years of success with his agency, and he would have burned him at the stake. No one can outclass my father in terms of power,” I tease, and Alan bursts out laughing.

The door opens again, and my mother’s lawyer enters, followed by my father’s. The small talk they were making dies on their lips as soon as they see us. I am not surprised that my mother is not here in person to read the will. I don’t think she would even be able to stay awake, sitting on this couch, for the time it takes to make a list of all the possessions my father has accumulated during his lifetime.

“Good morning. I’m happy we’re all here already. We can get started,” my father’s lawyer announces, sitting on the couch in front of us and pulling out from his leather briefcase the sealed envelope with my father’s will. He drafted it, he knows precisely what is written inside, but the formality of sitting here and opening that envelope is what it takes to make that document legal.

As soon as he breaks the seal and pulls out the papers, Alan leans forward, grabbing his briefcase. “My presence here is superfluous, isn’t it?” he questions with a half-smile.

My father’s lawyer shakes his head. “Evan is not included in the will.”

“Surprise, surprise!” I mumble, pulling a smile from the rest of those present.

Alan gets up from the couch. “Gentlemen, it was a pleasure,” he announces.

---