Eighteen years later

Jake St. Cloud woke up with the queen mother of all hangovers. He cracked an eyelid and looked to his left. He saw that the space on the bed next to him was empty, but it was clear someone had slept there. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the night before. Then he decided, why bother. Playboy St. Cloud was back in the game. I need to give this crap up, he thought. I'm getting too old to keep burning the candle at both ends.

He needed to get up, to start the day. He groaned, the mere sound hurting his already throbbing head. He needed tomato juice and some aspirin, or some hair of the dog that bit him the night before. Shit, I wish I could remember. He had been back in town only three days, and he was right back to square one. "That's it!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, then wished he'd remained quiet.

Jake forced his legs over the side of the bed and, with every ounce of strength in his body, forced himself to his feet and headed for the shower. What the hell am I doing back here, anyway? Back here, in this case, meant Slidell, Louisiana. Oh yeah, his old man was in trouble, and he'd come home to gloat. Yeah, well, that made sense. Sort of. Kind of.

The truth was it was only part of the reason he had returned home. It was his thirty-fifth birthday, and his mother's lawyers had set up a meeting with him. A command performance, so to speak, at eleven o'clock that morning. That meant suit, tie, white shirt, polished shoes, and clear eyes. And he had to smell good.

Jake stepped into the shower and turned the water to ice cold. He almost passed out from the shock of twenty-seven different jets pounding bone-chilling water over his entire body. When he couldn't stand it a moment longer, he switched to hot, and again almost passed out from the shock. He finally adjusted the water to a normal temperature and soaped up. For one wild moment, he wished he could stay under the warm spray forever, or at least long enough to put his past behind him and start anew.

Maybe after the meeting that morning, he could do that. Since it was his birthday, didn't that mean a new beginning of sorts? In the scheme of things, he supposed it meant whatever a person wanted it to mean.

Out of the shower, Jake dried off, shaved, and got dressed. Down in the small kitchen of the house he'd bought when he finished college fourteen years ago, he made coffee. He looked around. He'd put in a new kitchen, fit for a bachelor, and a new bathroom on the second floor. Other than paint and new furniture, that was all he'd done. He'd wanted a home base to return to from time to time. Time to time translated into once a year, if that. Kindly, elderly neighbors looked after the property to supplement their retirement. The couple were the only people on the planet who had his private cell-phone number. Because old people took responsibility seriously, unlike the whippersnappers of today, the elderly couple felt duty-bound to leave him messages at least once a week regarding his father and St. Cloud Oil, the oil company he owned. Jake was put off at first but gradually accepted that the Tibou-douxs meant well, and suffered through the long, wordy messages, then immediately forgot them.

Jake poured a large glass of tomato juice, then added some Tabasco and the juice of half a lime. He gulped at it as he washed down four aspirin. The Cajun coffee was thick, black, and strong. He hoped it would help his hangover and if not, oh well, tomorrow was another day. Like that was going to work. Today was what was important. It was the day he had to make some decisions, atone for... God, so many things. He'd not kept a single one of the promises he'd made to his mother. Not a one. Guilt rode his shoulders like a jockey riding a racehorse across the finish line. He had to make it all right, and he had to start immediately.

What was that old saying? Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Yeah, right.

He hadn't actually crashed and burned, but on occasion, he'd come too damn close for comfort. He'd done some productive things during the last eighteen years. He'd more than contributed. He'd finished college summa cum laude but only because he had book smarts. It all came easy, but he didn't have a lick of common sense, or at least that's what one of his professors had told him. The man had gone on to say that Jake had no life experiences to draw from. Jake had had too much respect for the professor to argue the point because he knew he was right.

So, he'd gone out to find those life experiences. He'd traveled the world, earned money working on oil rigs because he knew the oil business backward and forward. He'd gone from one end of the world to the other and, at least in terms of common sense, didn't have squat to show for it. Life experience, my ass!

Jake told himself not to be so hard on himself, because he'd done one good and serious thing. He'd become a consultant to his father's competitors and been very successful. He'd also made the newspapers big-time. So much so that his father, to no avail, had tried to muzzle him. Everyone wanted a piece of Jake St. Cloud, even the Saudis. And the absolute best part of his consulting business, which to his mind was really a payback business, was that he'd made so much money he couldn't count it all. He had only one rule, and that was never to work for St. Cloud Oil.

Now, though, Jake knew he had to get his life back on track. And the thirty-fifth anniversary of his birth was the first day down that road. He poured a second cup of coffee and drank it standing up by the counter. He realized then that he felt halfway decent.

When he finished the coffee, he put the cup in the dishwasher. For a full minute he debated whether he should turn on the dishwasher for just one cup. His mother's words about cleanliness being next to godliness rang in his ears. He shrugged, dropped a soap pellet in the machine, and turned it on. He totally forgot his mother's words about never leaving the house with an appliance running.

He left the house and climbed into his sleek black Porsche and headed to his meeting with his mother's lawyers. As he tooled along, Jake made a mental note to get rid of the fancy wheels and get himself a Dodge Ram pickup truck. And a dog to ride shotgun.

The law firm of Symon and Symon was run by two brothers who had to be as old as Methuselah. They creaked when they walked, but they were razor-sharp when it came to the ins and outs of the law and safeguarding their clients' businesses and assets. Somehow, some way — Jake couldn't remember — he thought they were distant cousins of his mother. Elroy Symon and his brother, Estes Symon. Pillars of the community.

Both greeted Jake in their three-piece suits. Pants, jacket, and vest, complete with watch fobs. They smiled and welcomed him like an old friend. Never mind that they hadn't seen him in over ten years. They offered coffee and beignets, which Jake knew came from the Café Du Monde in New Orleans. He knew this because he remembered his mother's telling him that the lawyers prided themselves on serving them fresh every day. He declined.

"Then I guess it's time to get down to business," Estes said. Or maybe it was Elroy. Jake could never keep them straight. He wondered if they were twins. Funny how he didn't know that.

"You turn thirty-five today, Jacob. A milestone. How do you feel about it?" one of them asked.

"I'm okay...