Most did not show up at the wake, which, V.T. thought, was just as well. They would not have understood or appreciated the tearful toasts to "a good man" and the laughter as various people related stories about his father, who, unbeknownst to V.T., had been quite the practical joker in college.
V.T. had spent much of the memorial service and wake in stunned disbelief. His father had complained of chest pain some ten years before, right after V.T.'s mother died. It turned out to be mild arrhythmia. He'd changed his diet and exercised regularly, and took digitalis to deal with any reoccurrences of the arrhythmia. After a recent physical, the longtime Newbury family doctor had pronounced him as fit as any octogenarian had a right to expect. But a month later, Vincent Newbury collapsed and died from a massive heart attack.
It had taken time to get over the shock, but V.T. had come to accept that his father had lived a long life and that old men sometimes died unexpectedly. He was just grateful that their relationship had been such that after the other mourners left the grave that day and he was alone, he hadn't wished he could have known his father better.
More of a surprise when he thought about it was how his uncle had suddenly warmed up to him after his father's funeral. It had started with invitations to lunch, at which Uncle Dean strained to be jovial and warm but, as he'd never had much practice at it, came off as stiff and phony. Yet, when his uncle kept trying, V.T. decided he was being too hard on the old man and decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He even told his boss and friend, Butch Karp, that he had decided the old man, a widower, was feeling the end of his days and realizing that his nephew was the only real family he had left.
Karp had been sympathetic about his loss. He reminded V.T. that it was their fathers who first gave two young assistant district attorneys of such disparate backgrounds something in common besides the law. One of Karp's favorite stories was how he'd learned to love the law while sitting at his father's knee in the living room of their Brooklyn house in the fifties. Butch's father, Julius, had graduated from law school as one of the best and brightest of his class. But the realities of supporting a wife and family had steered him into the business world, where he'd become moderately successful. However, he'd never lost his passion for the law, and the family living room was the scene of Saturday night gatherings of some of the best legal minds in the five boroughs. Over glasses of whiskey and through a fog of cigar smoke, they'd debated the great cases of the day and argued questions of constitutional law as if they were preparing to go before the U.S. Supreme Court.
One of those who regularly attended the gatherings was Vincent Newbury, at least until his duties with the family firm had put an end to his participation. It had been V.T.'s father who years later pointed out the connection when Karp and Marlene visited the Cape Cod beach home with V.T. I wish I could have spent more time with those folks, like your dad, he'd said. But I was expected to spend my time at the family firm.
V.T. also suspected that part of his uncle's warming trend was the lack of a Newbury heir to take over the firm. In the past, the annual invitation to join the firm had come from his father, as both a wistful idea to be closer to his boy and a private joke between them, knowing what V.T.'s answer would be: No thanks.
However, the sales pitch he got from his uncle over dinner at Harry Cipriani, one of New York's most expensive and exclusive restaurants, following his father's death had bordered on the pathetic. Dean began by lauding V.T.'s "noble efforts" on behalf of the public. However, he said, no one could hold it against a longtime public servant "who in the twilight of his career opted to ensure his own golden years by taking over the family business." The comment had caught V.T. by surprise, as he didn't really consider himself to be in the "twilight of his career." Nor had he considered that with his father gone and his uncle going, he might be considered to be in line for "the throne."
Sensing V.T.'s uneasiness, his uncle had quickly noted that nothing needed to be decided at that moment and that all he was asking was that his nephew keep an open mind. He'd then requested that V.T. drop by the office so that he could introduce him to "a dozen or so friends and associates…important people who could be of considerable help to a bright young man such as yourself." As a show of good faith for the turnaround in their relationship, he'd agreed.
That's why V.T. was now looking at a photograph of himself with his father on a deep-sea fishing adventure off of Nova Scotia some twenty years earlier. A voice behind him interrupted the memory. "This could be your office, you know-or if you wait just a bit longer, you could have mine, if you prefer that view."
V.T. turned and saw his uncle. He felt a little guilty, as if his uncle had read his mind about the contrasting views and personalities. He held out a hand. "Good to see you, Uncle Dean."
The old man's hand was cold as ice but his face was the picture of bonhomie. "Welcome. Welcome," he said, clapping V.T. on the back. "Thanks for coming. I think you'll find this evening's meeting very interesting."
As usual, Dean Newbury was impeccably dressed, in a five-thousand-dollar Armani suit and what V.T. presumed to be hand-made calfskin shoes, which probably added another grand to the ensemble. He looked every bit the elder statesman; his hairline had receded until he was bald on top with a fringe of snow-white hair around the sides, but his Aqua Velva-blue eyes were as sharp and piercing as when V.T. had been a boy.
Dean took him by the elbow and ushered him across the hall into his own office. "I wanted a minute alone with you before we meet the others," he explained.
V.T. looked around with interest. All the years he'd been going to the firm to see his father, he'd only been in his uncle's office once, and all he remembered was the view. The room had none of the warmth of his father's, either. The office had a kitchen, done in black granite and stainless steel, all of which looked like it had never been used.
There were the usual law office diplomas on the wall. A photograph of Dean standing on a podium with then president Richard Nixon-one arm around the president's shoulders and both of them raising the V for victory sign. However, two sets of paintings on the walls seemed incongruous with the sterility of the rest of the decor. One set was a series of portraits in oil that he knew were the senior partners of Newbury, White amp; Newbury dating back to the early nineteenth century. The second set was three oil paintings of sailing ships that were hung on the wall opposite the portraits, along with what appeared to be a primitive old map depicting Great Britain, Ireland, and Scotland surrounding the Irish Sea.
"I didn't know you were such an avid ocean lover," V.T. said, pointing to the paintings.
Dean glanced at the paintings and grunted. "I'm not," he said. "Matter of fact, anything smaller than a luxury liner like the QEII, and I'm seasick as a dog. I inherited those from your grandfather Newbury, who insisted, as had every head of this firm before him, that they hang in the office of the next in line to remind us that our paternal roots were in seafaring folks."
Closing the door, Dean turned to his nephew. "I wanted to again ask you to keep an open mind about joining the firm," he said, moving over toward his desk. "But I do want to warn you, joining the firm is not an automatic ascension to the head of the firm. The men you're going to meet are my most trusted advisors, and I can trust them to be honest when they let me know what they think of you."