Page 70 of Old Fashioned
And this one wasn’t in Latin.
My heartrate accelerated, and the first thing I thought waswhy didn’t we think to scroll to the bottom, to starthereinstead of at the beginning?
The next notion was more consuming, though, and I let it take me under — because these were my father’s last private thoughts before his life was snuffed out like a match flame.
And I was about to read them.
Journal,
Ah, my old friend, I’ve enjoyed our secret conversations in the ancient language, but I’m afraid there’s no time for me to practice that art today, for I have discovered something far too exciting to take my time in divulging.
As you know from previous entries, I recently discovered the Last Will and Testament of our founder — Mr. Robert J. Scooter. What I might have failed to mention before is that there was no record of this Will when he passed, and for that reason, I did something I’m afraid I should be ashamed of.
I read it.
For months, I have combed through each page — of which there were many — researching the legal terms I did not understand and making notes of my own, searching for something my father believed would have existed in Robert’s Will — had there been one.
And he was right.
I needed to be sure, so even when I first discovered the pages that dictated how the company shares should be split in the event of Robert’s death, I did not let my hope and excitement guide me. Instead, I read and re-read and made notes and researched until I was so certain that nothing could be refuted. And I discovered the missing piece to a puzzle my father never solved in his lifetime.
Robert left my father, and our family, fifty percent of the company stock.
Half.
Part-ownership.
Journal, even when I had the proof, I worried about whether or not to bring this information to Patrick Scooter. As you know, we haven’t exactly been best friends throughout the years, which I attribute largely to his father’s affection for me and how much he entrusted to me when it came to the distillery. I would also have to admit to Patrick that not only had I found the Will, but that I had not come to him with it directly, but rather read it on my own without permission.
Nevertheless, I felt I had no other choice.
It was time to set things right.
Oh, I was nervous. My hands are still shaking as I type this, but now, from an exhilarating joy and anticipation rather than an uncertainty. To my utter amazement, Pat not only listened to me and agreed that I was correct in my interpretation of the Will — he insisted that we rectify the situation immediately.
He’s going to name me as partner.
He’s going to backpay my family for the years of income we should have been receiving, immediately include me on business decisions I was only a small voice for before, rewrite the staff organization chart, and for the first time since his father’s death, he seemed open to hearing my ideas for the future of this distillery.
I guess now, he has no choice.
What’s more, he wants me to move into his father’s old office — the one I’ve been cleaning out for months. He insisted it was what his dad would have wanted, for me to follow in his footsteps, to “take my place at the table,” so to speak.
As I write this, I have already gathered most of the belongings in my office to transfer over, and Patrick has asked me to meet him in his father’s office after our four o’clock board meeting to discuss next steps.
Again, I am trembling with excitement and disbelief. I can’t wait to get home to tell Laurelei and the boys.
This is it, Journal.
This is the day my father’s legacy is revived.
This is the day my family’s life changes forever.
There was no sign off, just those last nine words dangling at the end of the page, and I read them over and over again, heart pounding out of my chest with the dark truth that my father never could have understood they held.
Our liveshadchanged forever on that fateful day.
But not in the way they were supposed to.
