My bed was the epitome of comfort, but my horrible schedule over the past couple weeks left me waking up far too early. There was a reasonable resistance on my part against the idea of rising earlier than necessary when I didn’t have school, but I still parted ways with my dear friend far sooner than I would have in past years. As was my ritual, I sat down at my computer to take care of business before preparing for the day. Evelyn was obviously an early riser as well, having written to me a couple hours before I convinced myself to stand. She told me that the guy who had attacked me with wolves was named Emil Thomas. Evelyn went to school with the guy, and seemed to have an interest in him that she didn’t want to admit from her round-about way of talking about him. I was glad that I didn’t mention anything about the attack in my last email to her, since most people tend to make excuses for the behavior of those in whom they’re interested. After last night’s purchase, I needed the money more than ever, which was made exceptionally clear at breakfast.
I was rather chipper when I left my room in anticipation of glorious food filling my stomach once more. I knew what we were having before I was even down the hall: mother’s apple cinnamon rolls. Father and I loved the mountainous, apple-laden rolls of pure heaven with their light frosting melting down the sides. Even he couldn’t have just one, despite the size and immense flavor of those delectable treats of morning joy. My mouth was already salivating by the time I entered the kitchen and watched mother carefully pour frosting over a fresh roll, just for me. I sat next to father and could see the satisfaction on his face as he chewed the divine food, his small bowl of fruit sitting untouched beside his nearly empty plate. As I reverently cut into the first roll almost bursting with joy, father cleared his throat and said, “Son, your mother tells me that you bought a car last night.” I was torn between placing that first delicious bite into my mouth and answering my father. Good sense won out.
“This isn’t just a car. Mother probably didn’t mention that this is a 1965 Aston Martin DB5, the same model James Bond drove in several of the films.” Father looked at me with obvious surprise at this. “You’re right. That isn’t just a car. I’m guessing Mr. Davis had a hand in finding it, but I’m surprised that he let it go.” I nodded enthusiastically and told him “Jarod had convinced his father that I needed a car for my job, which honestly isn’t anything I had considered heavily yet, but I couldn’t turn them down when they offered me an Aston Martin!” Father smiled and patted my shoulder. “Son, I would have jumped at the opportunity as well. Does it need much work?” I shrugged and rattled off some of the parts that we had ordered for it already. “Well, son, I hope you’ll let me give it a spin after you get the thing polished up. We could make a day of it, assuming you can find the time, and watch a couple Bond movies before taking it out.” I hadn’t expected father to take the news nearly this well, but he was every bit as much into James Bond films as I was.
“There is one problem though.” Uh oh. This didn’t sound good. “We had an agreement about you showing considerable profit from your business by early June. You won’t be able to reach that if all your money is going into a car.” I set my fork down on my plate. The magnificence that was my mother’s apple cinnamon roll deserved my full attention, which wouldn’t be accomplished while trying to convince father that this wasn’t a large setback. I was going to keep my business and my car one way or another. Part of my mind started daydreaming about how I’d look driving a beautifully restored Aston Martin, but then I wrestled it into focus. “Do we really have to consider such a valuable car, which I’ll gladly let you borrow, against my profits when we both know I could get far more than I’ll pay into it from selling it?” Father grinned at this. “Are you offering to sell it to me, son?” I frowned. “No. I intend to keep the title in my name, since I hope to put a fair amount of work into it myself.” He patted my shoulder again. “I would expect nothing less from you, James, but you need to realize that you can’t count luxury items as profit, no matter how great the asset. As a bank would expect you to have cash to pay them loans, I still expect to see our agreement fulfilled and a hefty profit in your account by June.”
“Yes, sir,” I said before glumly taking the first bite of the exquisite roll. My breakfast had cooled a bit while talking with father, but the roll still managed to bring a bit of happiness back into my morning. Mother was truly an amazing cook. While dishing up a second roll for father and I, I said to him, “Perhaps we can turn that Bond day into a week long marathon where we watch a movie each night. If we started on Monday and continued through Friday, we could make an outing of it on Saturday.” Father was smiling again when I handed him the roll and replied, “That sounds like a wonderful idea. I can’t wait to see that car finished.” Mother was groaning across the table. She didn’t mind watching action movies on rare occasions, but an entire week of Bond just wasn’t her thing. “You boys have your fun, but I might need to skip the outing after surviving that week.” Father laughed, and I shook my head. She would never understand the immense thrill of James Bond films no matter what we tried.
Just then the doorbell rang, which was surprising this early in the morning. Mother went to answer the door, probably looking for an excuse to escape the talk of double-o-seven. Part of me wanted to hide when I heard Ai and Mai greeting my mother in unison. With all the excitement over my new car, I had forgotten that the twins would be visiting. “James?” Father was wondering why I had stopped telling him about my car mid-sentence. Then mother walked into the room and introduced Ai, Mai, and Emma, who had apparently decided to tag along, to father. “You should have met the charming child they had brought with them yesterday. She was such a darling little thing.” Father rose from the table and said, “Nice to meet you, ladies. Care to join us for breakfast? Rachel made more than even James can eat by himself.” Something was telling me that this would be yet another long, interesting day before father even uttered the rare words “I’m taking the day off.” Mother’s descriptions of the girls apparently had piqued father’s interest enough that he wanted a chance to know them. What sort of day was upon me?