Like Father, Like Son - 3

“It’s about time you returned my calls,” Delores Kensington said with some asperity.

Declan sighed to himself. “I’m sorry mother but I was busy from the moment I got to the office.”

“That is no excuse young man. If it weren’t for me and your father you wouldn’t have that job.”

Been there, head that, a thousand times.

“I know mother. So why the call?”

“To make certain you don’t forget we’re meeting at the club tonight.”

“Mother, I am twenty-three years old, I hold down a good job. I think I can mark and then check my calendar and not miss an event like that.”

“Do not get smart with me, Declan. I’m just trying to help.”

“Sorry. I’ll be there, on time and dressed to the nines. Now if there’s nothing else you need to talk about I do have a job I have to get back to.”

“Very well. You’re father and I will see you this evening.”

“Step-father,” he muttered.

“Only because you won’t take his name,” she pointed out before hanging up.

“I have a last name, my real father’s name,” he spat out, slamming the receiver down in the cradle. Just because you want to deny his existence doesn’t mean I do.

He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the open file on computer screen with its rows of numbers, and remembered........

“Declan,” his mother shouted up the stairs at the top of her voice.

Fifteen year old Declan Hill sighed as he took one more glance in the mirror. “Coming,” he called back. He’d just as soon stayed home but today it wasn’t an option. His mother was getting married, to financier Reginald Kensington.

He walked slowly down to the living room where she stood, tapping her toe impatiently. “It’s about time. Turn around so I can look at you.” She twirled her finger to demonstrate.

With an exaggerated eye roll he did as she ordered. She deemed him ‘satisfactory’ with the exception of his tie which she straightened.

“The car is waiting,” she told him as she walked to the front door.

Taking one last look around, he wondered if he’d ever see the place again. Probably only driving by, if that. The house was in a lower-middle class part of the city, a place his mother was more than happy to escape. As soon as the wedding was over they would be living into Reginald’s large home on a cul-de-sac in a gated community across town.  

Eight hours later, the wedding and reception over, Declan was being led through the front door of his new home by one of his stepfather’s employees. His mother and Reginald were already on their way to the airport, bound for their honeymoon in the Caribbean, leaving Declan behind to fend for himself under the watchful eyes of Reginald’s servants.

His stepfather’s employee introduced Declan to Mr. Ferris, the butler, and immediately disappeared down the sidewalk.

Mr. Ferris beckoned for Declan to follow him. “Your room is this way,” he told him without so much as a smile in his direction as they headed up the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

Declan trailed after him, checking out as much of the place as he could see. It was ornately but tastefully decorated, like something out of one of the magazines his mother sometimes brought home from her job at a high-end furniture shop. That was how she had met Reginald. He had come in to purchase a new desk for his study, they’d gotten to talking and he’d invited her out to dinner.

Now, six months later, they were married. And I’m stuck in snob central,’Declan thought as the butler opened the door to what would be his room for the foreseeable future.