Free Slightly Imperfect by Dar Tomlinson Page A

of his parts intact. "I want us to be friends, Zac. After reading this letter, I want it more than I want anything right now. We can do great things together. Like I told you, I don't have anyone. I know you have your father, and I'd never take his place, but I have a feeling there's enough of you to go around. You read this letter and then get back with me."
    He reached back over the desk, opened the center drawer again, took out a set of keys. "Here are the keys to the house, the car, and the Irish . You might as well have them to go with the key to my daughter's heart." He placed the objects in Zac's hand and curled his fingers around Zac's. "I love good scotch whiskey and someone to drink it with. You call me, son. Believe it or not, I get lonely, too."
    * * *
    In the parking lot, behind the wheel of the commandeered Toyota, filled with a mix of longing and trepidation, Zac read the letter.
    Dearest Zac ,
    It's taking me a long time to write this. I would never have believed I could hurt the way I do when I realize we won't be together for the rest of your life—only for the rest of mine. Not nearly long enough. Ten lifetimes would never be enough.
    I have hurt all my life, Zac. Or at least for almost as long as I can remember—except for that brief time in my childhood when I was like everyone else. Even then, there was a shadow of dread I couldn't identify. I discovered later it was the impending threat of what my mother knew, or feared—that she had passed her disease on to my brother and me. When I faced that reality, my hate and anger cost me a mother. I've been told, by people who supposedly know, that my relationship with her created a void I tried in many ways to fill.
    Thank God! You were one of the ways .
    The anger I thrived on, for my inevitable death, propelled me through life. The anger led me to consume humanity in the form of man after man and continue to live past the time I should have. Anger led me to you. When I saw you—how simple your life was, how normal, how complacent you were—most of all how beautiful you are—I wanted to suck all of that out of you. In setting out to destroy you, I found love, such as I never knew existed, and the anger died.
    When it did, my darling, I began to die, too, and I have never truly known the desire to live to the extent I know it now.
    I am sorry for the hurt I caused Maggie. I am sorry for the part I played in Allie's accident. Thank you for staying with me in spite of it all. If it's not too late for Maggie and you, be happy with her, Zac. Give her a beautiful life. Have many more sons for the one I aborted. Let me live on through you.
    If it is too late for the two of you, then let me believe you will find someone to love with the devotion you have shown me.
    You know there is a lot of money. You have made it clear to me—as clear as only you could make it—that you want none of it. And yet in the sphere of infinity it is all I can give you. I know you care for me. Don't deny me this. Let me love you from my grave. The money will never run out, just as you would never have gone one day without my love. You are a beautiful person, inside and out. I know you will do beautiful things with my money, things I would never have conceived of.
    Take the money, Zac. Let me love you forever.
    * * *
    Zac called Gerald from the Abriendo house.

    "Gerald Fitzpatrick here."
    In his mind, Zac recalled the rosy face, how the blue eyes had misted over. "It's Zac, sir."
    "Gerald will be fine, Zac. Gerald forever more."
    "Got it." Zac laughed softly into the phone. "Do you think you could arrange with security for me to get through the Bay Shore gate?"
    "I like to think I have some influence in this little town."
    "If you could, there's a big yellow house there—on the water. It belongs to me now. The best I can remember, there's some hundred-year-old scotch there and a refrigerator full of cold Corona. My mama is making tortillas right now. I could talk her out of some,