Dom had never known anyone quite like him. Supremely competent at everything he tried, and possessing a near photographic memory for things that interested him, Jonathan could talk anyone into doing anything. Including, it turned out, joining the Army.
To this day, Dom wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking when he’d allowed Jonathan to talk him into enlisting, but reasons notwithstanding, he’d followed his friend from graduation to the recruiting station, and from there on to Officer’s Candidate School, from which neither would graduate.
OCS turned out to be a bad billet for a young man who resented authority. After only a few weeks, Jonathan resigned and shifted gears to become an “honest soldier,” as he liked to call it, meaning a career as a non-commissioned officer. Dom, on the other hand, finally succumbed to the calling of the Church. He did his requisite three years as a grunt, and upon separation from the service moved on to serve the Lord.
When the Bishop of Arlington contacted Dom to offer him the job as pastor of St. Katherine’s Church in Fisherman’s Cove, he’d jumped at the chance, marveling at the coincidence that he would be called to the oft-talked-about home of the friend with whom he’d fallen out of touch over the years. For as far back as he could remember, Jonathan had gushed about the bucolic community he’d called home as a child, and having served in some of the more unsavory corners of the Diocese, Dom had welcomed the transfer.
He’d barely unpacked his bags in the rectory at St. Kate’s when his phone rang and he answered to find Jonathan on the other end. “Welcome to paradise,” he’d said, and then he invited Dom to dinner at his house.
Actually, house didn’t touch it. Palace barely touched it. Easily the largest structure in town, the Gravenow mansion sat adjacent to St. Kate’s, atop a hill that made it the focus of everything. Grand as it was, there was a coldness to the place that made Dom uneasy. That summer night Jonathan had greeted him at the door barefoot, wearing shorts and a GO ARMY T-shirt. Within the first few words, the years had peeled away, and they were old pals again, reliving stories of wild parties and wild women that would have made the parish flock blush crimson if they’d heard.
When the plates were empty, and the bottle of after-dinner Lagavulin was mostly gone, Jonathan leaned back perilously in his chair and gestured grandly with both arms. “So, Dom,” he said, “what do you think of the quaint cottage of my youth?”
Dom laughed. “Tell you the truth, Jon, I knew that you were rich, but until I saw this place, I don’t think I understood the, uh, scope of your wealth.”
“Nine figures and counting,” Jonathan said. His words were liquid and slippery, thanks to the scotch, and they bore an air of bitterness. “Couldn’t spend it in five lifetimes.”
Dom knew from just the delivery that something was coming. He waited for the rest, hoping that if the moment came for him to be profound, his own intoxication wouldn’t get in the way.
“You know Ellen left me, right?” Jonathan said.
“I kind of sensed that, yes.”
“Couldn’t handle the pressure of having a warrior husband. Said I make her worry too much.”
“So says everyone who’s known you for more than a few hours,” Dom replied. “Are you divorced or just separated?”
“Separated.” Jonathan got a faraway look. “I think I can get her back, though.”
“Is this where you lived? When you were together, I mean?”
Jonathan brought his front chair legs back to the floor. “God, no. We had a place down at Bragg. I still have it. She’s got a place in McLean now. A five-thousand-square-foot townhouse that I’m paying for.”
“How on earth can you make ends meet?”
The question seemed to startle Jonathan, and then he got the joke. “Yeah, right. Well, Dom, it’s never been about the money. You know I don’t give a shit about money.”
Dom smirked. “Bold talk for someone who’s never needed any.”
Jonathan turned very serious. “Do you really believe that I wouldn’t give all of it back if I could bring back one life that my father took to earn it?”
This was new territory for Dom. He just waited for the rest.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jonathan asked.
Dom threw an engineered shrug. “You just tossed out a barely veiled admission that your father is a murderer. Having never heard that before, an empty stare seemed appropriate.”
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, and then he laughed. “Okay, I’m not being entirely fair. A lot of the family fortune came from the legitimate side of the business-the scrap business. But my father never had much to do with that. He leaned on honest people for that. In his heart of hearts, my father is a thug and a murderer.”
He delivered that last line in a way that made Dom think that he was supposed to draw some larger conclusion from it. “I know there’s a reason why you’re telling me this,” he said, “but it’s eluding me.”
“I don’t want it,” Jonathan said. “I don’t want any of it. It’s all blood money, and I’d rather be a pauper than accept it.”
“Be careful there,” Dom said. “I’ve known paupers. I’ve come very close to being one myself. It’s nothing to aspire to.”
Jonathan waved the notion off. “I couldn’t get rid of it all. Most of the money is so tied up in trusts and paperwork that I’m stuck with it forever.”
He said that as if it were a bad thing. Something big was on the way, but Dom had no idea what it was, and he didn’t like watching his friend navigate this dark place in his mind.
Jonathan stood. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way from the dining room back out into the mansion’s central hall. The Oriental carpet runner out here was slightly threadbare, but the padding beneath it felt like walking on water vapor. Every angle out here was delicately carved and ornately adorned. Dom had never seen anything like it.
Jonathan stopped next to the massive stairway and turned, “Fourteen thousand three hundred and eighty-seven square feet,” he said. “You could fit seven rectories in here, with room to spare. When I was a kid, we had servants on every level bringing us stuff and sucking up to my father’s every whim. With that kind of money came real control. That kind of money bought politicians, policemen, and judges by the bushel.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Makes a boy proud, don’t you think?”
Again, Dom remained silent, assuming that Jonathan would get to the point sooner or later.
Jonathan reached into his pocket and withdrew a key, which he dangled from his forefinger. He held it in front of Dom’s nose. “Take it,” he said. “In thirty-three days, this will be yours.”
Dom’s jaw dropped. “What will be mine?”
Jonathan grinned. “All of this. The house, the land, everything.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t need this. I don’t even want this.”
“Keep following,” Jonathan said, and he led the way down the hall to another room on the right. He opened the doors to reveal a twenty-by-twenty-foot library that had been decorated in Early Gentlemen’s Club. Thousands of volumes decorated the walls from floor to ceiling, except for the near wall on the left, which was dominated by a massive fireplace surrounded by what looked like a mahogany mantel. Jonathan gestured for Dom to sit in one of the luxurious leather chairs while he opened up a panel in the bookcase to reveal his stash of single malts. He poured generously without asking, and handed a snifter to his friend.
Dom took the glass. “Jon, I have to tell you that all of this is making me uncomfortable.”
Jonathan took the chair opposite Dom’s. “I confess I exaggerated,” he said. “It’s not really yours as much as it is the church’s.” He took a sip and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I sold the whole kit and caboodle to the diocese for one dollar on a couple of conditions.”