Chapter1
The mansion was tucked away in the lush green forests of the countryside just north of New York City. It was the family home of the Madison’s. It had belonged to several men and women of the Madison family, having been built shortly after the country had become a nation, and having been remodeled throughout the years here and there. It had housed generations of their family since the day the first Madison family had had it built and had moved in.
The most recent owner of the mansion was Andrew Madison, and he had been lord and master of the home, and of the considerable family fortune, until his imminent death at seventy-nine years of age. He had only one son, Derrick Madison, and he had groomed his son, from the day that he had been born, to take over the vast estate, the mansion, the businesses, the money, and the well-respected name of their family.
Derrick had taken his father’s years of training and teaching seriously, and he had never had more respect for any man than he had had for his father, but he hadn’t really considered the fact that one day, his father truly would not be around. He knew it as a matter of practicality, in the back of his mind, but he had never really felt that the day would actually come. His father was the picture of health and happiness. He was a strong man who had lived like a king and had taken good care of himself.
When Andrew had come home after a routine doctor’s visit and sat Derrick down to talk with him, their conversation and the words that his father had spoken to him had seemed like a strange dream to Derrick, as if they were some far away story that made no sense to him and were spoken in a way that he could not comprehend.
His father had spoken of a tumor. It was discovered in his brain, and the doctor said that he would fade fast. The doctor said that there was no cure. There was no way out, save for death. Andrew had taken the news like the kind of man he had always been; it was a blow that brought him to his knees, but he stood right back up and faced it with a bravery that Derrick felt he could never achieve.
Andrew had changed swiftly, from strong unbeatable tycoon to weakened and helpless old man, lying in his bed as tubes hung from his body like outward veins, hooked to bags of strange concoctions, tethered by wires to machines that beeped and hummed, and the old man’s blue eyes had stared listlessly toward the ceiling, unseeing, barely blinking, no longer taking in the world around him.
Derrick had stayed at his father’s bedside, terrified of what it would mean when the man he knew—a titan among other men, the foundation of his life—would leave him. He hadn’t been able to let himself think about what would come afterward. There had only been the immediate moment, from one moment to the next, in which Derrick had stared and watched in stunned and pained disbelief as the man who had brought him into the world slowly suffered and left it.
He had been holding his father’s hand when his father passed away, his last breath causing the machines around him to erupt in panic with flashing lights and sirens wailing and beeping. He had felt his own heart stop in that moment. The truth had finally hit him like a freight train, knocking the wind out of him. His father was gone. The mighty had fallen. He was alone in the world.
The shock of his father’s death had hung on him with the weight of the world, keeping him in a trance for a few days. The funeral had been a blur to him. He barely spoke a few words to the masses of people who seemed to appear out of the woodwork and then fade back into it. Their words were not much more than mumbled ramblings in his mind, not really finding his ear and not really ever reaching his mind or his heart, though he knew that many of them were meant to.
He shook hands and nodded; he kissed cheeks and hugged shoulders. He watched as a beautiful ebony box holding his father’s remains was lowered into the ground and roses were tossed on the top of it, where it lay in a canyon of earth, seeming as if it couldn’t possibly be further away.
The steady stream of visitors began to stem. The phone calls slowed and finally stopped. The medical equipment that had filled the sick room, the pseudo bedroom on the main level of the house where his father had spent his last remaining weeks, was taken away, and the space was emptied.
There was a strange silence in the house, and it felt to Derrick as if all of the ghosts of the Madison’s of the past were whispering to him somehow. He could not hear them. He could not make out what they said, but he could feel them, all around him, waiting for him to step into his father’s shoes and continue a legacy that he was a part of. A legacy that he had a paramount responsibility of carrying on, now that his father had gone.
Derrick’s mind shifted from shock to some muted version of panic as it began to set in that he was now lord and master of the house, of the business, of the tremendous fortune, and of the whole of the estate. It was intimidating enough that he only found himself lost, with no idea what to do next, how to pick up the pieces that were left behind, and what to do with them once they were all picked up. He was a boat without a sail, adrift with no direction. Because of that, he was profoundly relieved when his father’s oldest and dearest friend came to pay him a visit one week after his father had been buried.
Franklin Van Buren was one year older than Andrew Madison. They had been in school together since they were boys and had grown up with one another as best friends. They had married their wives, and each of them had had a child. Th
ey had been in business together from the time that they had gotten out of college, and each of them had taken the considerable inheritances that they had received from their old family money and more than doubled it by working together and consolidating their minds, their ideas, and much of their business dealings.
Derrick was sitting at his father’s desk when the butler showed Franklin into the library, a room his father had used as an office as well as a library. Derrick stood up to meet Franklin and shook his hand warmly, and Franklin hugged his shoulder. Derrick felt a slight bit of the weight in his heart lift as the familiar old man comforted him.
Franklin let him go and motioned to him to take his seat again, while he himself sat before the great old wooden desk.
“How are you doing, son? You look as if you haven’t slept much,” he began, his old blue eyes taking in every finite detail about the younger man in front of him.
“That’s probably because I haven’t slept much,” Derrick replied quietly.
The old man pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes slightly, drawing in a shallow breath. “Perhaps you should have Dr. Farnsworth prescribe something for you, you know, just something to take the edge off a little bit and help you to get some rest. You’ve got a lot coming up very soon, and you’ll need all of your wits about you.”