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The calls haven't been coming at a rate Darlington might call constant, but come they have over the last week or so, steady enough to be suspicious. Always the same two numbers, the same two voices--one bright and chipper, the other almost oily in its overconfidence--and the same message, the thing he cannot parse. They call about investment opportunities, about return potential and competitive markets, and the only thing keeping him from passing it all off as an unfortunate run of wrong numbers is the fact that they call him by name, every single time.
There's something in all of it that reminds him of his childhood, the Layabouts and their infrequent visits that grew more urgent the sicker his grandfather got, until they'd become a temporary constant there at the end. His mother's bizarre health foods displacing Bernadette's casseroles in the fridge, his father wandering from room to room downstairs talking about assessing Black Elm like it was a specimen in a lab, a body on a table just waiting for the autopsy. To them, he supposes, it had been. They'd wanted him to sell, demanded it and bullied him the same as they had his grandfather, and their anger when he'd rebuffed them was still as clear now as it had been at fifteen, that day in his room.
This house is worthless, Danny. Worse than worthless. Only the land is valuable.
The profits can be shared. You can come to New York, take advantage of all the opportunities that will open for you there.
Do you really think you'll be some Lord of Black Elm, Daniel? You don't rule this place. It rules you.
There's no way this can be that, but it's on his mind anyway as he lounges on the couch reading, looking over at his phone when it starts to buzz. Seeing one of those now-familiar numbers, his thumb hovers over the Reject icon on the screen before shifting, tapping Accept instead. "Tell me why you keep calling me."
The conversation that follows is short, and unbelievable, and ends with him scribbling down an address on the flyleaf of his book. "You're going to lose this number," he says, just before ending the call. "I will never be interested in any offer you think up." He's out the door a minute later, hailing a cab outside Dimera. He nearly bungles the address; memory taking over for a moment, guiding his tongue to the more familiar cadences of his old one in Westville.
It can't be possible, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't check.
Darlington recognizes it from the moment they pull up to the drive; the gravel, the gentle curve, the stone columns flanking either side and the lamps dotting the pathways just beyond. The trees are in full leaf, green rather than the mottled oranges and yellows he remembers, but each of them is as familiar to him as they've ever been before. He pays the driver, his hand already trembling when he pulls the door handle to get out of the car and a hope he doesn't want to acknowledge fizzing in his chest.
It only gets stronger as he walks up the drive, the stones crunching beneath his feet. When the house comes into view--stone and crumbling towers, the solid wood of the door and the dark slate of the steps, each window glinting in the late afternoon light--he stops right where he is and stares. This was his home, his anchor, and the lack of it over the last seven months had been a loss too painful for him to acknowledge. Not until now, with it restored to him at last.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, pulling up Alex's number, texting her the address and a photograph he takes with shaking hands. Tell me I'm not hallucinating again, Stern. Get here and tell me this is real.
There's something in all of it that reminds him of his childhood, the Layabouts and their infrequent visits that grew more urgent the sicker his grandfather got, until they'd become a temporary constant there at the end. His mother's bizarre health foods displacing Bernadette's casseroles in the fridge, his father wandering from room to room downstairs talking about assessing Black Elm like it was a specimen in a lab, a body on a table just waiting for the autopsy. To them, he supposes, it had been. They'd wanted him to sell, demanded it and bullied him the same as they had his grandfather, and their anger when he'd rebuffed them was still as clear now as it had been at fifteen, that day in his room.
This house is worthless, Danny. Worse than worthless. Only the land is valuable.
The profits can be shared. You can come to New York, take advantage of all the opportunities that will open for you there.
Do you really think you'll be some Lord of Black Elm, Daniel? You don't rule this place. It rules you.
There's no way this can be that, but it's on his mind anyway as he lounges on the couch reading, looking over at his phone when it starts to buzz. Seeing one of those now-familiar numbers, his thumb hovers over the Reject icon on the screen before shifting, tapping Accept instead. "Tell me why you keep calling me."
The conversation that follows is short, and unbelievable, and ends with him scribbling down an address on the flyleaf of his book. "You're going to lose this number," he says, just before ending the call. "I will never be interested in any offer you think up." He's out the door a minute later, hailing a cab outside Dimera. He nearly bungles the address; memory taking over for a moment, guiding his tongue to the more familiar cadences of his old one in Westville.
It can't be possible, but he'll never forgive himself if he doesn't check.
Darlington recognizes it from the moment they pull up to the drive; the gravel, the gentle curve, the stone columns flanking either side and the lamps dotting the pathways just beyond. The trees are in full leaf, green rather than the mottled oranges and yellows he remembers, but each of them is as familiar to him as they've ever been before. He pays the driver, his hand already trembling when he pulls the door handle to get out of the car and a hope he doesn't want to acknowledge fizzing in his chest.
It only gets stronger as he walks up the drive, the stones crunching beneath his feet. When the house comes into view--stone and crumbling towers, the solid wood of the door and the dark slate of the steps, each window glinting in the late afternoon light--he stops right where he is and stares. This was his home, his anchor, and the lack of it over the last seven months had been a loss too painful for him to acknowledge. Not until now, with it restored to him at last.
He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, pulling up Alex's number, texting her the address and a photograph he takes with shaking hands. Tell me I'm not hallucinating again, Stern. Get here and tell me this is real.
