Page 115 of Terms Of Un-Endearment
“Brisbane’s great,” Frankie says. “As long as you’re okay changing your name to Malcolm Forsythe’s Kid. That’s all you’ll ever be known as there.”
I kick off my thongs and dig my toes into the sand. “I prefer Archie.”
“Then you’ll need to tell Dad you’re not going back. You need to keep the house.”
“I don’t really need the house.” I’m not ready to walk away from Dad the way Frankie did.
“No, but you’ll need money if…whenDad cuts off your allowance.”
“So, you’re saying I should sell the beach house?”
“Yes,” she scoffs. “He took our money. You have every right to get some of it back.”
Now I understand the excitement in her voice. It’s not just about fighting Dad. It’s about revenge.
When Frankie eloped with someone Dad didn’t approve of, he restructured her trust, changing the conditions so Frankie won’t gain access to hers until Dad dies. At which point, a new trustee will be appointed who Frankie will be required to ask for money whenever she needs or wants it.
Even when the marriage was annulled less than a year later, Dad wouldn’t change the terms back. If she wants her “Surf City” earnings and what she made from the couple of movies she was in afterward, she’ll need to take him to court.
He’ll bury her in legal fees in a matter of weeks, and she knows it.
So, she’s turned her back on the money—hermoney—and made a life of her own. Not one I envy, though. Independence is too high a price to pay to work in a greasy diner in the middle of nowhere. Frankie will come to her senses, and when she does, I’ve put aside every cent Dex has paid me so she’ll have something to live on while she starts over.
“If you sold the house, you’d have money to start Bombora,” she says. “You hold the title. There’s nothing stopping you from selling.”
Sand—still wet from today’s rain—covers my feet, squishing between my toes. I shiver as much from the cold sand as I do Frankie’s suggestion. She’s not only read my mind, she’s remembered my dream to start a surf wear company. She even remembered the name Bombora, and I haven’t mentioned it in years.
“Dad would never forgive me for selling it out from under him, let alone starting my own company instead of working for him,” I say to tamp down my rising excitement.
“Yeah…Youwouldlike it, though. Right?” Frankie is so good at reading my mind, it’s scary sometimes.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Then you can’t sign over the house. If you need to go to battle to prove you’re the rightful owner, do it. The courts will side with you. Then you can sell the house,” Frankie says with an easy confidence—that is the one thing we don’t share.
As though what she’s suggesting wouldn’t sever my ties to Dad for good.
“Remember how Dad was when we were younger? Before Forsythe took off?” I ask her.
“I remember he worked all the time,” she says. “But that hasn’t changed.”
“Yeah, but work wasn’t his whole life. He made time for us and what we wanted to do. He taught us to surf.” My best memories of Dad are the early mornings when he’d take us to North Burleigh Heads to surf before he went to work.
“He taughtyouto surf. I tagged along, then learned mostly from you.”
An older couple with four yappy dogs walk behind me, speaking a language to each other I don’t recognize. “That’s not how I remember it,” I say when I can be heard over the yapping. “He taught both of us.”
“Archie, come on. Dad was always more interested in you than he ever was in me. You know that, right?”
I hear her words, but their meaning hits a second later with enough force to throw me off balance.
“That’s not true.” I push myself up and grab my shoes, but stumble as I walk back toward the Promenade path.
“Let’s agree to disagree.” Hurt underlies Frankie’s forced laugh.
Sand under my feet usually grounds me. Tonight, though, I feel every grain sink, then slip away with each step I take. My convo with Frankie has me unmoored. I knew we saw Dad differently. I just didn’t realize how differently. The memories I’ve stored begin to unravel. If I don’t stop them, they’ll take on a whole new shape that I don’t recognize.
“If you’re worried Dad will cut off your trust for good, I get it,” Frankie says. “It's not easy to make your own way when you’ve been raised to believe that’s impossible. But itispossible. You don’t need his help to make a good life for yourself.”
