By the time he arrived at his office, his breathing steadied and his focus shifted to the letter from his great-uncle that sat on his teak desk. Micah picked it up and flopped into his black leather chair. The yellowed paper was probably white once, though the fluid script looked as crisp as if it had been scrawled yesterday.
The envelope it came in had been sealed with wax, the outline of a lion’s head distinct in the dark-blue paraffin. Micah leaned back and stared at the name above the return address. Archie Taylor. Definitely strange.
Archie was his great-uncle whom he knew less than a paragraph about. He’d been dead since the mid-nineties, and Micah had never met him. Archie had made quite a bit of money and hadn’t married, but the rest had always been a mystery. Until Micah’s late teens, he hadn’t known Archie existed. When Micah had asked, his dad only said Archie was odd, a man to stay away from.
Micah opened the letter and wondered once more if it was real.
September 27, 1990
Dear Micah,
You are likely shocked to have received this letter as we never had the opportunity to know each other. The reason for the letter will surprise you more.
I have asked a friend to mail it when you turn thirty-five or when you acquire enough financial resources that you no longer need to labor. Consequently, if you are reading this letter before reaching your thirty-fifth birthday, you have already made a significant amount of money, which is sometimes a beneficial occurrence at a young age but usually is not.
If my instructions have been carried out, a home was built during the past five months on the Oregon Coast, four miles south of Cannon Beach. I designed it for you. I assume by this point you’ve asked yourself why I would choose to build this house in Cannon Beach of all places.
You likely already know why.
Because it is time to face your past.
It is time to deal with it.
My great desire is that the home brings you resolution and restoration, and if the builder followed my directives, I believe it will. It will certainly—if you’ll forgive the cliché—upset your applecart if you allow it. The home is all you.
Your great-uncle,
Archie
P.S. There should be a key enclosed with this letter as well as a card with the address.
Micah reread the last line and frowned. “The home is all you”? Typo. Must mean all yours. He leaned his head back till it hit the back of his chair. His dad was right. This guy was a whacko.
Face his past? His past was dead. Buried. Forgotten.
And it would stay that way.
||||||||
A noise in the hall made Micah look up. Julie. Good. Back to real life. Julie was the perfect business partner. Tenacious skiing partner. Recent romantic partner.
Her shoulder-length blonde hair bounced as she pranced through the door of his office, her crisp beige suit complementing her gleaming pearly whites.
“Hey!” Micah rose from his desk and opened his arms.
When she reached him, she ruffled his dark brown hair and kissed him softly.
The faint scent of Safari floated up to him. She never wore too much, almost not enough. Julie. Powerful yet tender at times. Driven and radiant. It was nice to have her back.
“How was the trip, Jules?”
“We’re richer, but I’m so glad it’s over.” She slid out of her blazer, flicked a piece of lint off the lapel, laid the coat across the back of Micah’s chair, and patted it once. “I did find the perfect SLR digital camera to add to my collection. You’ll model for me, please? Your baby-blue eyes are worth taking up two or three hundred megs on my laptop.”
When they’d started RimSoft six years ago, he never imagined they’d strike such a rich vein in the software gold rush. Of course, he’d never imagined their long-term platonic relationship would bud into romance, either.
Micah sat down and stared at Archie’s letter. He had to get down there. And if the house existed, get rid of it. Now.
“You with me here?” Julie leaned against Micah’s desk.
“Huh?”
“I asked about Monday’s board meeting, and I think waiting five seconds for a response is long enough.” She laughed.
“Sorry, didn’t hear you. Brain freeze. I got a bizarre letter from a long-lost relative. In fact, this weekend I might have to go—”
Julie pressed two fingers against his lips. “We cannot allow those thoughts to escape.”
“What thoughts?”
“Of nixing our Whistler trip this weekend. You and