Welcome to Planet Lara

4. Fun Time with Lawyers

Four

Fun Time with Lawyers

I’ve been in lawyers’ offices before. This one is no different. Dark paneling, shelves of law books, the western wall nothing but glass overlooking downtown and beyond, the line where the ocean sneaks in to kiss Vancouver’s shore. The table is so big, it’s laughable. I can’t even imagine how many attorneys work in this firm to require a table this excessive. It’s probably not even sourced from sustainable teak. How could Grandfather trust such a place with the handling of his estate? At least it looks clean with its near-blinding, polished shine.

The cup of tea sitting before me steams on its saucer. I hate Earl Grey—my stomach is already a bit unsteady and sloshy—but the pretty young assistant didn’t have ginger or peppermint, so I get what I get, especially since my own assistant, Olivia, seems to have fallen off the grid. She was supposed to arrange a car and be here for this—that is what I pay her for, after all, but apparently, she is “sick” and “doesn’t want to spread her germs.”

I’m not heartless, but the last time Olivia was “sick,” it was from a bad reaction to Botox. She couldn’t smile for three weeks, but I don’t need her to smile to manage my affairs.

Finally, the door opens and Rupert sashays in, a black, cactus-leather portfolio tucked under one arm. He’s followed in short order by two other people, a man and a woman, both dressed in professional navy suits with white shirts and only minimal splashes of color, both at least in their forties. Add some dark glasses and they could be second string for the Matrix agents.

Rupert slides into the high-backed, wheeled chair to my left and offers a tight smile of hello.

“Ms. Clarke, thank you for being here today,” the woman says as she sits at the head of the table. “I’m Heather Smithe and this is my colleague, Arthur Leyton. First, let me express our deepest condolences for the loss of your grandfather. He was truly an incredible man who did so much for everyone he knew, and I’m confident his legacy will live on through you.”

I nod, barely able to swallow. I’m not really legacy material, Ms. Smithe, but thanks.

“As you know, we are here today to read your Grandfather’s last will and testament, as well as discuss the finer points of his legacy plan as it pertains to you and Mr. Bishop.” She bobs her head politely toward Rupert. I’ve called him Number Two for so long, I forgot he even had a last name. “If, at any point, you have questions, do feel free to stop and ask. Also—” Heather Smithe stops talking, makes eye contact with the young, tea-bearing assistant from earlier who has quietly reappeared, and with only a single gesture from her boss, the young woman hustles over and opens a drawer in an imposing side cupboard that matches the monstrous conference table. From it she withdraws a legal pad and pen and quickly deposits both in front of me. “In case you would like to take notes, Ms. Clarke.”

The young assistant slinks away again. Five bucks says that in order to work here, you must pass a test to prove how quietly you can move through a gauntlet of legal journals and overfull coffee cups.

Heather Smithe and Arthur Leyton tag-team to explain my grandfather’s many accomplishments, as well as the money he smartly invested over the duration of his life. As a result, his estate is worth a substantial sum—substantial, as in equivalent to the GDP of Iceland—which is ironic since he often touted Iceland as a superb example of a country harnessing its natural resources (volcanoes) responsibly and sustainably.

“As you know, Dr. Clarke had a number of projects in development at the time of his death, and work will continue on these projects as supported by Clarke Innovations and the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation, overseen by his board of directors, which includes myself, Mr. Bishop, and four other members handpicked by your grandfather over the last decade. It’s a solid team dedicated to maintaining the integrity of Dr. Clarke’s lifelong vision.”

My eyelids feel heavy. I wish I could speed this along and get to the part where they tell me what Grandfather left me with so I can get a drink in this building’s swanky penthouse bar. Instead, I pick up my pen and doodle circles and poorly rendered sunflowers to make it look like I’m taking notes. Anything to distract me from the reality that Grandfather is dead and mushroom spores are eating what’s left of him at this very moment.

“With regard to Thalia Island, your grandfather’s wish to welcome residents and continue forward with this groundbreaking experiment is still on track.” Heather Smithe stops speaking long enough to take a drink from her own teacup and then exchange glances with Arthur Leyton and Rupert. She clears her throat. “Your portion of Archibald’s estate is a worthy sum, of course. You were among his favorite people, as you know, and you are his sole surviving heir.” Heather smiles. She has lipstick on her teeth.

She opens yet another folder and slides a paper across the table to me. I pick it up, my eyes swimming in the legalese as I scan for a dollar amount. I know this makes me sound like an asshole, but Grandfather likes his jokes—it was one thing he and I shared, the back-and-forth of trying to outdo one another—but I’m not in the mood for a chuckle right now. I just need to know what my life is going to look like now that he’s gone.

“I’m sorry, can you translate this for me?”

Heather Smithe clears her throat again. She’d better not be coming down with something she’ll share with me. Connor and I have Paris plans coming up. “Your portion of the inheritance includes interest in several of his ecological funds and initiatives, as well as majority ownership of Thalia Island.”

I sit up a little straighter. “Okayyyy … that’s odd, since I’ve never been there.” I click the ballpoint of my pen closed and set it down on the legal pad. “I’m sorry for seeming crass, but what I really need to know is if he’s left me with a stipend or monthly dollar amount—”

“Of course, he has,” Rupert interrupts.

“There are, however, stipulations on your inheritance, Ms. Clarke,” Arthur Leyton says, folding his hands on the shiny tabletop. He points at the document sitting in front of me. “In order for you to access the funds and privileges left behind by Archibald, you will be required to move to and oversee the operations on Thalia Island.”

The only sound in the room is the subtle whirr of an overhead vent.

“I’m sorry—what does that mean? I have a loft, a home here in Vancouver, plus our place in Zurich, the house in Copenhagen, the estate outside of London. I can’t just move to some random island.”

Arthur Leyton scoops up the stack of papers in front of him and affixes his reading glasses to the end of his bulbous nose once again. “In your grandfather’s own words: ‘My granddaughter, Lara Josephine Clarke, will assume the role of Project Administrator for Thalia Island under the joint umbrella of the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation and Clarke Innovations, wherein her duties will include (but not be limited to) overseeing the administration of the town council (until such time as elections are suitable and appropriate), establishment of residents, assignation of community roles including emergency services, fiscal management, and promotion of approved small businesses within the town, monitoring and managing the island’s unique ecological footprint and organic farming output in tandem with the skilled staff already living on the island at the time of my death, as well as the furthered commitment to making the utopia of Thalia Island an example of sustainability, community, and cooperative living for the rest of Canada, and the world.’

“‘Lara will have the period of one year from the date of execution of my last will and testament to complete the tasks listed in Schedule A (attached) and usher Thalia Island into her second year of successful operation. If Lara is unable to complete the tasks as delineated in Schedule A, she will be removed from her position and residence on Thalia Island and granted a yearly sum of $30,000 CAD to cover living necessities, in perpetuity, with all additional interests and investments redirected to the Archibald M. Clarke Foundation.’”

Arthur Leyton sets the pages back onto the table in front of him and removes his reading glasses before looking directly at me.

I scan their faces—all three of them—for evidence that this is a joke.

No one looks like they’re about to burst into giggles. In fact, no one looks much like anything except deadly serious.

What.

The.

Fuck.

My arm sweeps the tabletop, sending the legal pad, pen, and now-cold tea spinning across the room where it all slams into the long teak side cabinet. The cup breaks, Earl Grey soaking into my stupid doodles and the carpet underneath.

I stand and straighten my skirt. “You are insane. All of you.” I turn face-on to Rupert, who looks exhausted and thin in his tailored suit. “And you—you engineered this so you could scoop up this big pot of gold for yourself, didn’t you, you conniving, posh bastard.”

“Lara, please, sit down. No need for another of your outbursts,” Rupert says.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Rupert stands abruptly. “You have an opportunity here to prove to your grandfather that you’re not the spoiled brat—with obvious anger issues—we’ve all come to know over the last decade.”

“Ha!” I spin and stomp away from him, as well as I can stomp in four-inch Louboutins.

“Where are you going? The meeting isn’t finished, Lara,” Rupert commands.

Shit. My purse. I stomp back over to my abandoned spot at the table and grab my purse from my chair. “Meeting’s finished for me. Enjoy all your damn money, you weasel.”

I storm toward the mammoth door, past the wide-eyed assistant who has already scurried over like a Roomba to clean up my mess. I yank on the handle, bracing to pull it open. “This goddamn door is a fire hazard!” Once it’s propped against my body, the noise from the outside offices pauses as everyone within earshot stops what they’re doing to look at me.

I pivot to face the morons still at the conference room table, the ridiculously heavy door trying to push me out of the way as my slippery-bottomed shoes refuse to grab onto the carpet. “I’ll get my own team of greasy lawyers and prove that you’re all out of your minds. My grandfather would die all over again if he saw the shady, underhanded malfeasance going on in this third-rate shark shack in—”

The door wins. It pushes me out into the hallway and closes with a final heavy click. All the workers in their perfect little suits with their little phones against their stupid ears and the stupid papers in their hands and the fume-spewing copy machine lids open—they’re all staring at me.

Just for the hell of it, I grab a potted plant off the top of one of the wooden filing cabinets and tuck it under my arm. “I’m taking this. You people can’t be trusted to care for a plant, not after what you’ve done to my grandfather’s estate. Deduct it from my thirty grand a year!”