Lost December

  “Luke who?”

  “Crisp, as in Crisp’s Copy Centers.” When she didn’t say anything, I added, “The company you work for.”

  “Does Mr. Price know what this is regarding?”

  “Just get him,” I said impatiently.

  She picked up her phone and pressed a button. I heard her say my name in hushed tones. A moment later she said, “Mr. Price won’t be available to meet with you until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “He’ll meet with me now,” I said, walking past her. I walked down the hallway into Henry’s office. Henry was on the phone and glanced up at me with a surprised, unhappy expression. My father’s office had changed as well, the new décor resembling the modern motif of the reception area. Even Henry looked different. He wore an expensive-looking jacket with a black T-shirt underneath.

  “Henry,” I said.

  He held up a finger to silence me. “Just a minute,” he said into the phone. “I just had someone barge into my office. No problem, I’ll call you right back. You too.” He returned the phone to its cradle, his eyes never leaving me. “Luke, what a surprise. What brings you back to the Grand Canyon State?”

  “I need to talk to you about the changes you’re making at Crisp’s.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his fingers knit together on top of his desk. “What changes would you be referring to?”

  “Firing your lifelong employees before they can get their pensions, to begin with.”

  “I’m not firing people so they’ll lose their pensions. I’m only releasing those who aren’t keeping pace.”

  “That’s a lie, Henry. The company’s down across the board because the entire economy is down.”

  “Which is why someone needs to make the tough decisions that are right for the company.”

  “My father would never do it this way.”

  “You’re right, but your father doesn’t run Crisp’s anymore, Luke. This is my show now.”

  The way he said this sounded mutinous, as if he’d thrown my father from the ship. “You’re making a mistake, Henry.”

  “Says who? The Crisp’s pension plan was a mistake to begin with. You said so yourself. There’s no tangible return on investment.”

  “No return on investment? How about employee satisfaction and retention?”

  Henry grinned. “We don’t need long-term employees to make money. We’re a copy company, not NASA. Most of our people could be replaced by trained monkeys.”

  “What about loyalty?” I said.

  “What about profits?” he replied. “That’s why corporations exist. Or don’t they teach that at Wharton anymore?” He leaned back in his chair. “So what’s your angle, Luke? You suddenly care about this because …”

  “I’m not here for me. I’m here for the people I work with.”

  He looked at me quizzically. “The people you work with.” Suddenly his eyes lit. “Wait. You’re not telling me that you’re working for Crisp’s.”

  “Store 317 in Las Vegas.”

  “Wow, that is … poetic. The prodigal son gets his due.” He groaned with amusement.

  “Henry, please don’t hurt these people who trusted in us. The decisions you’re making are hurting the people who built this company.”

  “What’s this ‘us’? You’re not part of this, Luke. The Crisp name is a trademark, nothing more. And the decisions your father was making were hurting people—the people he was morally and ethically obligated to protect. They’re called shareholders. And if the employees don’t like it, they can work elsewhere. Remember what you said to me not so long ago, ‘We’re not a charity.’”

  “I was wrong about a lot of things back then.”

  “Well, that’s true, but irrelevant.”

  “You were hoping all along that I would leave, weren’t you?”

  “Also true but irrelevant.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s good to see you again, Luke, but I’ve got to run. The Suns are playing tonight.” He pushed a button on his intercom. “Brandi, please have security escort Mr. Crisp out of the building.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said. I turned to walk out.

  “Luke,” Henry said.

  I turned around.

  “You can’t fight karma.”

  I looked at his stupid, grinning face, then walked out of the office.

  I knew what I had to do even before I got to my car. There was no other way. As difficult as it would be, I had no choice. I had to face my father.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-Six

  I am facing the most difficult thing of my life—

  my own greatest failure.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  I sat in the car in front of my father’s house for nearly an hour gathering my thoughts or courage, I’m not sure which. Then again, maybe I was just stalling. I feared facing my father more than anyone or anything I could ever remember. I was dead to him. Those words Henry had pronounced continued to echo in my conscience. My guilt was searing. I couldn’t imagine how much I must have hurt my father to make him pronounce my death. My father was as generous and good as anyone I had ever met, but he could also be austere and sharp-tongued. My father didn’t tolerate fools—and I was a fool of the worst sort. Honestly, I don’t think I would have knocked on his door if my visit was only for myself. But it wasn’t. I’d come for people I cared about more than myself. I hoped he would listen to me. I hoped I would have the chance to say what I needed to say before he threw me out.

  I walked up the front cobblestone walk and stood on the doorstep. Then, before I could reconsider, reached out and pushed the doorbell. It felt odd, ringing the bell to the house I had grown up in—a door I had slammed a million times after school.

  It seemed like an eternity before the door opened to a middle-aged woman I did not know. “May I help you?” she asked. But before I could speak the woman’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Luke.”

  I wondered who she was. I wondered where Mary was.

  “I’m here to see my father,” I said. “Tell him I won’t stay long.”

  She looked at me a moment more, then stepped back. “I’ll tell your father that you’re here.”

  She walked away and I stepped into the foyer. Somehow the home seemed foreign to me—the familiarity was gone. How could it be gone? Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was something inside of me that was gone. When she didn’t return, I began to doubt that he would see me. As the minutes passed, I was sure of it. Of course he wouldn’t. I was dead to him. The dead are best kept buried.

  As I was wondering what I should do, the woman walked back into the foyer. “Your father’s in his den.”

  I mumbled a terse thank you, then walked down the hall past the dining room. The hallway outside my father’s den was always dim. I slowly opened the door. The room was also dark, lit only by desk or floor lamps, illuminating the room in places.

  Then I saw him. On the opposite side of the room, on the other side of his desk, my father sat in his tall, throne-like chair. His hair was thin and gray, and for a moment the two of us just looked at each other. My father’s eyes were locked on mine—those sharp, piercing eyes, dark and unreadable.

  I stepped inside. “Sir …”

  He held up a finger, silencing me. He just stared at me for a moment then he said, “Are you really here?”

  My mouth felt dry. “I’m sorry, I just …” I took a step toward him, desperately wanting to hide from him and knowing I couldn’t. “I’ve come to apologize.” I dropped my head. “You were right to disown me. I’m so sorry.” I put my head down, waiting for his words—his rebuke and rejection. It didn’t come. Then I heard something. I heard a sniff. I looked up. My father’s eyes were red. He didn’t speak because he was crying.

  “My boy,” he said softly. “My boy.” Tears flowed freely down his face. He stood, walking around his desk with his arms stretched out to me. “My boy!”

  “Dad?”

  “Mary!” he shouted. “Mary! Luke has come home! My son has
come home!”

  He walked forward and we embraced, his still powerful arms nearly crushing me. I began to sob. I couldn’t look into his face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  My father just held me, kissing my head. “I’ve prayed every night that you would find your way back. And you’ve come back. You came back. It’s all that matters.”

  Just then Mary stepped inside the room. She froze when she saw me. “Luke!”

  “He’s back, Mary!”

  Her eyes immediately welled up with tears. She walked over and hugged me. “I told you he would come back, didn’t I?”

  “You never lost faith.” He pulled me still tighter. “My boy. Oh, my boy.” He said to Mary, “Make reservations at DiSera’s. Tell Larry to hold our table. Tell Larry to pour the Monfortino and break out his mandolin. We’re celebrating. My boy’s come home.”

  CHAPTER

  Forty-Seven

  The sweetness of reunion is the joy of Heaven.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  There we were. The two of us (actually three of us, since Mary had come), sitting at the same table where we’d sat when my father had first suggested that I go off to school. The joy I felt was indescribable. Yet, it was my father who seemed most joyful. My father was positively giddy, as if he might suddenly burst into song.

  The Monfortino wine we drank was special not just because it was DiSera’s best, but at $1,000 a bottle, it was something my father had never ordered—would never order. But tonight he did. It was a gesture, and it wasn’t lost on me. Tonight, nothing was held back.

  My father wanted to know everything about what I’d been through. Everything. I told him about our journey, my extravagances and partying. I was embarrassed to confess my foolishness, but my father just listened and shook his head knowingly. When I told him about Sean and how he had taken me, his only comment was “I’ve been there.”

  His eyes welled up with tears when I told him about Candace leaving me, more when I told him about the months I spent under the Las Vegas streets and even more when I told him about being mugged. His eyes shone with gratitude when I told him about Carlos and how he had saved me. He smiled when I told him about Wayne.

  “I remember Wayne,” my father said. “He looks like Gepetto in the Disney cartoon.”

  I laughed. “That’s him.”

  “He really screwed up that MGM bid,” he said, grinning. He sighed and took a drink of wine. “Every now and then I do something right.”

  When I told him about Rachael, I realized how much she meant to me.

  “It’s not done, is it?” my father said.

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  Throughout my story my father never once reprimanded me. There was no judgment. No “I told you so.” No anger. Only love and joy at my return.

  Later in the evening, after Larry had finished playing Volare for us on his mandolin, my father stood up and clinked his fork against his wineglass until everyone in the restaurant was looking at us.

  “My friends,” he said. “Most of you are strangers. But tonight, you are all my friends—because tonight we are celebrating. My son has come home. I invite you all to join me in a toast.”

  Larry walked around his restaurant, gesturing wildly and shouting “Glasses up!” Larry’s restaurant was his home and he ran it as such. (He was notorious for throwing out people he didn’t like, which only added to his restaurant’s fame and popularity.)

  Even without Larry’s encouragement, most of the restaurant’s occupants were already smiling and raising their glasses. Who doesn’t love a happy reunion?

  My father lifted his glass. “To my son. Wherever he has sailed, I give thanks to the winds that brought him home.”

  We touched our glasses as my eyes filled with tears. Such gratitude and love filled my heart for this man. For his love.

  My father looked out over the dining room. “Thank you for sharing our joy,” my father said. “Tonight, your dinners are all on me.” The entire restaurant broke out into applause. Then Mary whispered something to him and he grinned wryly. “But not your drinks.”

  Everyone laughed, then applauded again.

  “Cantiamo!” Larry shouted. “We sing.” He played That’s Amore on his mandolin and the entire restaurant sang like we were old friends. Everyone except my father. The whole time my father just looked at me and smiled.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-Eight

  My return has awoken the giant.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  The next morning, Henry’s secretary looked at me narrowly, clearly annoyed to see me back in her office so soon. “May I help you?” she asked in a tone that left no doubt that she had no intention of doing so.

  “Yes, you may. Please tell Henry that I’m here to see him.”

  “Mr. Price is busy,” she snapped.

  “He’s not too busy to see me,” I replied. “Call him.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Please call him,” I repeated.

  She glared at me as she lifted her phone and spoke into it. Then she returned the phone to its cradle. “Like I said, he’s busy. And you’re not welcome here.”

  My father stepped up to the desk. “That’s okay, miss. I’ll clear his schedule.” He started past her desk.

  “You can’t go back there. I’ll call security.”

  My father stopped and turned back, looking at her with a bemused smile. “My dear, security is already on its way.”

  Almost as if on cue, three uniformed security men walked into the room. They crossed the room to my father. The first one said, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Crisp.”

  “You too, Michael,” my father said. My father turned back to the woman, “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

  She looked at my father, speechless.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  She swallowed, then shook her head.

  “I thought as much,” he said. “I’ll tell you who I’m not. I’m no longer your employer.” He turned to one of the guards. “Michael, will one of your men please escort this young lady from my building.”

  “Yes, sir,” Michael said, nodding to the man next to him.

  My father continued on to Henry’s office. I stopped at the woman’s desk. “Word of advice,” I said. “If you intend to keep a job in the future, you should really get to know who you work for.”

  My dad tried Henry’s door but it was locked, no doubt due to my last intrusion. He knocked on the door.

  “I don’t have time for you, Luke,” Henry shouted.

  “Would you have time for me, Henry?” my father asked.

  Silence. Suddenly the door opened. “Carl. My apologies, I thought that …”

  “I was my son?” My father walked into the office. “Take a seat, Henry.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry scurried back to his desk.

  My father looked around at his old office. “What have you been doing with my office, Henry?”

  Henry swallowed. “A few changes here and there. Just making it mine.”

  “Clearly,” my father said. He turned back to Henry. “What have you been doing with my company, Henry?”

  Henry forced a nervous smile. “I’ve been streamlining it, sir.”

  “Streamlining?”

  “Yes, sir. Throwing out the waste.”

  “Good,” my father said, “I hate waste.” He walked over to the wall and looked at a picture of Henry standing on stage with a rap star. “What is this?”

  “We brought a rapper in to our last conference. I thought it would build morale.”

  “Did you now?” My father took the picture off the wall. “Like I said, I hate waste.” He dropped the picture in the garbage can near the desk. “I’m going to help you, Henry. We’re going to streamline things a little more.” My father turned back. “As of this moment, you’re relieved of your duties.”

  Henry looked at my father in shock. “But, Carl. Please. I was just taking care of the shareholders.”
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  “Have you forgotten that I am the majority shareholder?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I think you have.” He leaned forward, his powerful eyes blazing. For a moment I thought he might throttle Henry, who looked absolutely terrified. “You’ve forgotten the principles of this company, Henry—that I can forgive you for. You’ve betrayed the people who built this company—that I can almost forgive you for. But you disrespected my son, Henry. That I will not forgive you for.” He turned back to the two remaining security guards who stood in the hallway. “Michael, see Mr. Price from my building. He is no longer welcome here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Henry,” my father said.

  Henry looked at him pensively.

  “You can’t fight karma.” My father turned back to me and winked. “Let’s go, son. We’ve got work to do.”

  CHAPTER

  Forty-Nine

  My father has asked to meet those who helped me in my hard times.

  Returning to Las Vegas has filled me with peculiar emotions.

  I feel like the actor who returns to the stage

  of an empty theater when the show is through,

  or the soldier who visits the battlefield years after the war has ended.

  Luke Crisp’s Diary

  JANUARY 3, LAS VEGAS

  The black Lincoln looked out of place in front of the adobe ranch house. The driver put the car in park and turned off the ignition.

  “This is the place,” I said.

  “Then let’s go,” my father said. As usual, he stepped out of the car before the driver could open his door. I climbed out after him and we walked together to the front door of the Sanchez home. Carlos had seen the car pull up outside and opened the door before we got to it. He looked back and forth between my father and me.

  “Hi, Carlos. This is my father,” I said, even though I thought he’d probably already figured that out.

  “It’s an honor, sir.”

  “It’s mine,” my father said. “May we come in for a moment?”