Chapter Fourteen

I love attorneys. They’re right up there with nurses, librarians, and janitors as the most helpful professionals when you’re in a pinch. I have several friends who are attorneys, and I’m not above keeping at least three on retainer at all times. In my line of work, between getting accused of libel and working my butt out of tight situations, I find having an attorney on call, at any hour of the day, to be comforting. Besides, I can afford it.

Attorney worship was one area where I had always believed I differed from Daddy. Come to find out, Daddy had an entire firm working for him out of Great Falls. With all I know about the way corporations work, it didn’t dawn on me that my father, a major business owner, would have a bevy of attorneys working for his diverse interests. Five of them, to be exact, and that didn’t include the secretaries and paralegals.

The renovated Victorian home that was McCutcheon, Benson, Torgerson, and Associates would have been classy even in Seattle. It was a flagrant showpiece in Great Falls, Montana. However, while the offices were well appointed in hardwood and leather, they were small, intimate, and comfortable. I was given a cordial introduction to everyone who was there that day, and I was briefed about the role each person had in my father’s enterprises. To a person, they responded to me with a deference that is outside most reporters’ experience. Reporters’ common reception is laced with distaste and the acknowledgment that we are necessary evils.

By the time Sylvia McCutcheon closed her office door behind Billy and me, I was dizzied by the scope of Daddy’s dealings. I was in over my head. Billy appeared to sense my dismay and held my hand for a few moments while we sat and waited for Sylvia to settle in for our meeting. When she offered us a glass of scotch, I took her up on it, and I hate the stuff. The nostril-flaring gag I stifled as I swallowed the scotch brought me to my senses and distracted me from the panic I felt. I was in charge of all this.

So I decided to give Ms. McCutcheon the once-over to see if she was an adversary or advocate. She wore a deep brown suit, well made, and a beige silk blouse, decorated by a feminized bolo tie. The round silver clasp looked to be inlaid with some sort of fancy agate. Rocks are not my expertise. McCutcheon looked to be pushing fifty, with just a little gray at the temples tincturing the short, styled black hair. She was definitely in good physical shape as evidenced by her trim physique. When she smiled, she won me over. Her whole face exuded an intelligent exuberance for life. Now I assumed she was too nice to be my father’s attorney. It dawned on me she was a lesbian, a handsome one at that.

“Ms. O’Hara, let me begin by offering my and the entire firm’s heartfelt condolences over your father’s death. As you can imagine, it’s a shock to us. I also want to give my apologies for not attending the funeral. It was always your father’s wish that his association with us remain…less public.”

“Thank you, Ms. McCutcheon. I guess my dad was successful in keeping this firm under wraps because I didn’t even know about you.” I turned to Billy. “Did you know about this, Billy?”

“Well, I…errr…was aware that Dean…your father…had attorneys in Great Falls, yes.” Billy looked a little lame to me. I gave him a stare for a few moments before turning back to McCutcheon.

“So, what happens next? Is this the fabled reading of the will? Is my father leaving everything to an animal shelter or a bimbo mistress?” I was trying to inject humor but it came off as bitchy and suspicious. I knew my dad left me rich. O’Haras don’t abandon O’Haras.

Poor Sylvia McCutcheon eyed me for a few nervous seconds, then grinned, a really cute grin. She reached for her intercom.

“Andrew, would you bring in all the files we’ve prepared for Ms. O’Hara? Oh, and could you order us a fruit plate from down the street?” A fruit plate? She noticed my surprise. “We have a lot to discuss and will need some fuel. Besides, I could tell the morning scotch wasn’t to your liking.”

“Was I that obvious?” From a door in the side wall, in came Andrew. I certainly hadn’t met him yet. A cute little gay man, around thirty-five, blond, with a set of blue eyes that projected intelligence and compassion. I glanced at Billy and caught him out in a flagrant wink at Andrew. Andrew was beaming at him. “Hussy,” I said under my breath to Billy.

Then I understood that my bone-deep heterosexual father had gay attorneys. Everyone watched my dawning awareness and started chuckling. I leaned back into my comfortable chair and knew I was in capable legal hands.

Several years ago, I had a friend who learned I was from a small town, and she made the assumption that I was from a working- or lower-class family. She occasionally made reference to my lower-class roots, sometimes in her admiration that I had overcome such humble beginnings. I allowed her to persist in this illusion for months because I was too embarrassed to correct her. I didn’t know what to say after so long. “Um, actually, I’m kind of wealthy. Sorry I didn’t mention it before.” I felt like there’s no good way to tell her that I was privileged unless I derided my privilege at the same time. But it would have been dishonest of me to do so. I wasn’t flashy, but I liked having money.

So here’s a secret: in each of those stunted, dried-out towns that are passed over by the interstate, some rich people live there. They live in the groomed, or not so groomed, houses at the edge of town, while they generate capital exploiting everything the area has to offer. Most of them are community minded and help keep businesses and churches thriving. Others are ticks with their pincer heads buried under the skin of their hapless host, growing bloated and indifferent to their food source.

My family? Parasites with a conscience.