Page 9 of Smuggler’s Cove (Twin Lights #1)
Jackson also learned that dressing well got you further, and he offered to help his mother with the laundry.
By now he was able to fit into his father’s clothes.
Even though they had been sitting in the closet for eight years, with a little TLC, he could convert some of them into his own wardrobe.
He ironed his own shirts and pressed creases into his trousers.
He used Vitalis Hair Tonic, advertised as popular with upscale gents.
After ridding his face of any peach fuzz, he’d splash a few drops of English Leather in his hands, rub them together, and pat his jawline.
He believed if you were well groomed, you could talk your way in or out of anything.
Jackson was physically fit and played on the school’s baseball team.
Most of his classmates weren’t as confident as he was, and Jackson had no trouble finding dates.
He just never fell in love. That was one emotion he strategically put in a vault.
The only loving relationship he observed was between his aunt and uncle.
But they were a different sort. As far as he was concerned, love was for losers.
He was never sure if his parents loved each other. It was doubtful.
When he turned eighteen, he got accepted to a local community college.
He wanted to go into finance. The business of money.
From there, he chose a four-year school where no one knew him or his family.
That was his opportunity to reinvent himself.
He was Jackson Taylor, descendant of Zachary Taylor, twelfth president of the United States.
No one was going to check. His father was a decorated hero and died of injuries from the war.
No one was going to check. His family owned farm country in the south.
Not entirely a lie, but no one was going to check on that, either.
Jackson got his degree in finance and moved to New York. He took a job at a small banking firm and brown-nosed his way into management. He fashioned himself as a member of the haut monde . One of the gentry. Cream of the crop. He would charm himself into the high life, no matter what it took.
Jackson Taylor reinvented his life, yet the harder he tried to be less like his father, the more he emulated him. He had no empathy. He was a cheat. A substance abuser. An emotional wasteland. But none of that mattered. Not to him, anyway.
* * *
It was obvious that Kirby was the opposite of his brother.
He was meant to be outdoors. He enjoyed hiking in the woods and fishing with Uncle George.
As Kirby got older, his uncle taught him how to handle a small motorboat.
They’d hitch the craft to Uncle George’s truck and tow it to the boat launch on the bay, where they would spend the good part of the morning clamming.
Kirby also learned how to set a crab trap, clean, and filet fish.
When fluke, also known as “summer flounder,” were running, they would catch dozens of the popular fish.
Kirby was intrigued that flounder had two eyes on one side of its head.
Uncle George explained that the fish live at the bottom, and one eye eventually migrates to meet up with the other one on top.
He also pointed out that the summer flounder’s head faced left, and the winter flounder faced right, and was slightly darker.
It was nature’s mysteries that interested Kirby, and the way nature and wildlife adapted.
Neither George nor Kirby had any interest in hunting.
They saw no reason to kill animals when you could go to the grocery store.
Kirby had no interest in college or working in an office, but his mother urged him to get a degree in something.
It was the typical “something you can fall back on” advice.
To satisfy himself and his mother, he enrolled at the Maritime College in New York State.
It was either that or risk being drafted into the army.
Not that he wasn’t patriotic, but he didn’t want to serve in a fruitless war. His brother escaped it by a year.
After Kirby got his degree, he was still not the least bit interested in a desk job and went to work on a deep-sea fishing rig.
It took him out for weeks at a time, but it paid good money.
After five years of hazards on the high seas, and near-death experiences during life-threatening storms, he decided he’d tempted fate too many times.
He was able to save enough to put a down payment on a small bait and tackle shop along the shore, and that’s where he stayed.
Kirby and Jackson led two separate lives, only seeing each other on holidays and other family events.
Jackson and Gwen only lived fifty miles away in Manhattan, but it might as well have been another world.
Kirby enjoyed spending time with his niece and nephew when they were young, but visiting was always a challenge.
His brother had become a big financial honcho and was very particular about inviting Kirby to any events.
Only family gatherings were acceptable to Jackson until their mother passed away.
That’s when the brothers became estranged.
Kirby made a life for himself doing something he thoroughly enjoyed. It saddened him that he had no real family, but he always remembered Madison and Lincoln’s birthdays, and Gwen made sure her children remembered his, even if Gwen hid it from her husband.
Kirby was well-liked by his friends and his water-loving colleagues, and they were crestfallen when he died at the age of seventy-five from a heart attack.
The year was 2025. His mates held a simple memorial at Bahr’s Landing, but it wasn’t until several weeks later when Madison, now forty-eight, and Lincoln, forty-six, got word of his passing.
Both felt pangs of guilt, realizing their only contact with their uncle had been through the mail and infrequent phone calls over the years.
They never understood why their father wasn’t close to his brother.
Madison and Lincoln were thick as thieves.
Had there been irreconcilable differences?
Over what? Uncle Kirby was a gentle soul.
Kind. Generous. What was it that their father disdained?
Eventually Madison and Lincoln would discover the secrets her father had buried.