AN: Thanks to all the reviewers. You make me feel all warm and fuzzy. There will be Carly/Freddie moments along the way. We will see their relationship blossom. Never fear.

I've already realized that I need to add an extra chapter or two that I hadn't planned. That means the chapter numbers on the timeline I posted will be off, but the titles will stay the same. For example, that timeline says chapter 6 will be called Secrets and Lies. That will actually be chapter 7 or 8 now, but it will still be called Secrets and Lies and will occur at the same point in time as it says on the timeline.

R&R!!!

iFind My Father

Chapter 5 Five WHAT?

I sat at a small table by a large window inside the Cheesecake Warehouse. The first few days of February were turning out to be bitterly cold, but sunny and bright. Pedestrians bustled by wrapped in heavy coats and wearing sunglasses fit for a day at the beach. It made for an odd fashion statement. Sunlight glinted off the snow on the ground outside, throwing a blinding glare up into my eyes. I squinted as I anxiously watched the passersby through the window, wondering which one might be Mr. Barrister. I nervously fidgeted with the menu in my hand, pretending to ponder the options but not really seeing any of the words before me.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a text message from Carly. "Had a gr8 time with u this wkend! Thnx 4 being there 4 me! U r the best! :) "

I smiled to myself as I typed a quick reply. "Ur welcome. U can make it up 2 me by letn me take u 2 dinner 2nite. K?" I hit send and watched the screen, waiting for her reply.

"K. What time?" My smile grew wider.

"Prolly bout 7. Call u l8r. Meetn lawyer now." I placed my phone back in my pocket and scanned the restaurant for anyone who looked like a bigwig Chicago lawyer type.

My left knee started to bounce rapidly as my nerves grew more strained, causing the flowing white table cloth to flutter where it brushed my lap. I tried to calm myself, but it was no use. I couldn't imagine what kind of "estate business" this guy needed to see me about. I had considered asking my mother about it like Carly suggested, but I decided I would just wait to see Mr. Barrister. When I had called him Friday afternoon, he had agreed to meet with me on Monday. I figured I could wait three days to hear what he had to say, and, as much as I hated to admit it, part of me really didn't trust my mother to be honest with me about it.

I looked up to see a man who appeared to be in his mid sixties approaching my table. He was tall and lanky with salt-and-pepper hair (a bit more salt than pepper) and sky blue eyes. His clear, even olive skin bore only the faintest lines around his eyes and mouth. He was immaculately dressed in a navy pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and navy silk tie, and he carried himself with an air of effortless refinement. I felt pitifully outclassed and underdressed in my khaki cargo pants and button-down shirt. I probably looked like a hobo next to him. He extended his right hand—diamond ring twinkling—as he reached me, and I rose to greet him. "Fredward Benson?" he asked as he grasped my hand and gave it a firm shake.

"That's me," I replied. "You must be Mr. Barrister."

"Indeed," he said with a nod as he took the chair opposite mine and placed his black leather briefcase on the table.

"And you work for my family?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said. "I began working for your great-grandfather when I was just a young man."

"And you're still working for him all these years after his death. Why?"

"Quite simply," he smiled, "because I owe him. I learned almost everything I know about practicing law by working for him. He gave me the opportunity to prove myself and to rise to the top of my field. Without his support, I wouldn't be where I am today—a partner in my own firm, successful and respected. I owe him a debt of gratitude. My continuing loyalty and service are my only means of repaying him."

"So what's this about?" I asked, eager to get to the point.

"Do you mind if we order first?" he asked politely. "It was a long, early flight from O'Hare this morning, and I've had no opportunity to eat."

"Oh," I said, a little embarrassed by my ungracious behavior, "of course. I'm sorry. I've just been a little on edge about this since I got your letter."

"I understand," he said smoothly. "I'll be happy to give you the basics over lunch, and we can do the paperwork after our meal. It shouldn't take too long, but I hope you don't have to be anywhere for the next hour or so."

"No," I assured him, "I don't have class until two o'clock, so we have plenty of time."

"Excellent," he said as he closed his menu. Our waiter approached and took our orders. "I understand you're attending the University of Washington here in Seattle," he said when the waiter left.

"Yeah," I said, nodding, "I'm in my third year."

"And your chosen field of study?"

"I'm in the Digital Arts and Experimental Media program," I said with a smile. I was proud to be one of the few students admitted to the program.

"I see," he said slowly. "And what, precisely, does one do with a degree in that field?"

"It's a research and development field," I said, "working toward creating new and better technologies and methods for everything from special effects, to film and music editing, to video game graphics."

"So you plan to design video games or something along those lines for a living?"

"Well, no," I said as the waiter brought our drinks. "I'm going to invent new technology so that someone else can use it to design video games. Or something along those lines," I said as I picked up my glass of Peppy Cola.

"I see," he said with a nod. I wondered why he cared. I guessed he was just trying to make conversation. I obliged and talked about my field in general for several minutes.

"Actually, what I'm most interested in right now is developing software and support systems for three-dimensional webcasts and video chat," I said as the waiter arrived with our order. I spread my napkin over my lap as he set a huge bowl of salad in front of me. "I'm working on something in that area for my senior thesis next year, and I plan to continue that line of research in my graduate studies."

"So you intend to pursue a graduate degree?" Mr. Barrister asked, plunging his fork and knife into a juicy-looking filet mignon.

"Yeah," I said while loading my fork with veggies, "it will take a while to earn my PhD, but it's what I really want to do. I mean, I could get out in the workplace and start earning a living a lot sooner if I did just design video games or something--and I'd probably earn more, too, but I think I'll be happier in the long run this way." I punctuated my sentence by filling my mouth with salad.

"I don't think you'll need to worry about earning a living," Mr. Barrister said in an almost-laughing tone before he popped a bite of steak into his mouth.

I swallowed my salad. "Why's that?" I asked and lifted my glass to my lips.

"Well," he said, dabbing his lips with his napkin, "that's actually an ideal segue into what I came to talk to you about." I watched him expectantly over the rim of my glass. He acted like he couldn't believe I really didn't know what he was talking about. He cleared his throat and leaned forward to speak to me in hushed tones. "Your trust fund," he said in a way that sounded like, "this isn't ringing any bells?" He added another non-question to clarify, "a little matter of around five million dollars?"

I spewed my mouthful of Peppy Cola all over myself. "Smooth, Benson!" I thought. I hadn't done anything like that since the day I thought I had a date with Sam. If I hadn't been so stunned, I would have been mortified! "What?" I choked out. "Five WHAT?!?"

Mr. Barrister was clearly taken aback by my reaction. He leaned as far back in his seat as possible, watching disdainfully as I mopped up my mess. "You honestly had no idea, did you?" he asked, bewildered.

"I told you I didn't," I replied as I futilely wiped at the cola covering my shirt and my side of the table. "How is it possible that I have five million dollars?"

"Your great-grandfather left it to you, of course," he said as though it were the most obvious fact known to man. "He was extremely wealthy, you know." I didn't know, but apparently I was supposed to. "He set up the trust fund for you as soon as your mother announced that she was expecting. Your mother has never mentioned this to you?"

"No," I said, my head spinning, "she never really told me much about him. She only told me about the Fencin' Bensons because she was kind of forced into it when I took an interest in fencing."

"Ah, yes, the circus act," he said with a hint of wry humor. "That was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Your great-grandfather was involved in many, er, ventures in his lifetime."

"What kind of 'ventures'?"

"Oh, er, well," he stalled, "different businesses. Real estate, property management, recreation and entertainment. Things like that."

I could tell he was holding back, but it was obvious that he wasn't going to tell me the whole truth. Apparently, his loyalty to my family, or at least to my great-grandfather, was rock solid.

"I see," I said, even though I didn't. "And so this trust fund…?"

"Is yours to do with as you please," he answered nonchalantly, "upon your twenty-first birthday. I believe that is this week, correct?"

He obviously knew exactly when my birthday was. "Yes, on Wednesday," I replied warily.

"Well, then," he said, his attention once again on his steak, "come the day after tomorrow, you will be a very wealthy young man. Congratulations."

"Uhm, thank you," I said for lack of a better response.

"I just have some paperwork I need to complete with you to grant you access to the account."

"Of course!" I thought, remembering the day I had first overheard my mother on the phone with the mysterious Johnny. "That's what he has been after all this time—why he's been tormenting Mom for the past five years."

"Mr. Barrister?" I asked hesitantly. He merely raised his eyebrows at me. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course," he said as he swirled the red wine in his glass.

"What do you know about my father?"

He covered it quickly, but I saw the look that crossed his face. It was a look of dread and distaste. He schooled his features into a placid mask and cleared his throat. "You mean Giovanni Contiello," was all he said. I thought I detected a hint of anger in his voice.

I decided to go out on a limb. "I thought his name was Johnny."

"Yes," he said, nodding, "Giovanni is the Italian form of John."

"So he's Italian?"

"He was born in the U.S., but the Contiello family is an old Italian one," Mr. Barrister explained, "as is your own."

"I never knew I was Italian," I said in disbelief. "Benson is such an un-Italian name, though."

Mr. Barrister chucked. "Perhaps," he said, "but di Benedetto is most definitely Italian. It means 'son of Ben.' Americanizing it was your great-grandfather's idea. He thought the circus troupe would be more successful that way."

"Yeah," I said dryly, "I guess 'The Fencin' di Benedettos' doesn't have quite the same ring to it."

"Indeed," he said, the lines around his eyes deepening slightly with mirth.

"So where is he now?" I asked. "My father, I mean."

Mr. Barrister looked uncomfortable again as he shifted in his chair. "I believe Mr. Contiello currently resides in New Orleans. He has been there for some years."

"What does he do there?"

"Well, er," he stammered, "I really couldn't say. Since he and your mother divorced, I haven't kept up with him."

I sensed that he was being less than honest, but I felt I had hit a wall where my father was concerned. I decided to explore another avenue.

"And what do you know about a Mr. Gregory Edwards?" I asked leaning forward, eager for his answer.

"My grandson?" he asked, blinking rapidly. He obviously hadn't expected that. "How do you know him?"

"He visited my mother a few years ago," I said. I decided not to give him the details of that visit or tell him about his appearance at my high school graduation.

"I see," he said slowly.

"So he's your grandson?"

"Yes," he nodded. "He's my eldest daughter's son. The Edwards family has been serving yours even longer than I have. Thomas Edwards served as a manager of sorts for the circus troupe. He also saw to their security. After the troupe stopped performing and the Benson family started to become wealthier and more powerful, Thomas focused solely on security. His son Amos followed in his footsteps and built a rather impressive personal security force for the Bensons. My daughter Claire married Amos. Gregory is their only child. He is now second in command, so to speak, of security for the Bensons."

"You don't sound too happy about that," I said.

"I had hoped that, if Gregory wanted to go into a family business, he would choose mine," he said, shaking his head sadly. "He would have gotten more respect as a lawyer than a bodyguard. Maybe then he and Marisa…." He stopped short. "Listen to me," he said, "losing myself in what ifs. The perils of old age, I suppose."

"So he and my mom were…?"

"They were sweethearts," he said wistfully. "They might have married, but her father wouldn't allow it. Your great-grandfather was a fair, open-minded man. He would have supported their union if it made them both happy. Unfortunately, your grandfather didn't inherit that trait. He forbade your mother from seeing Gregory and pushed her toward Giovanni. Your grandfather was dazzled by the proud old Contiello name, and by their appearance of wealth and power. He didn't see that Giovanni was a lecherous sot. An honest, hard-working man like Gregory didn't stand a chance."

The bitterness rolled off him in waves. It was tangible. "You must resent me, then," I said as I searched his face. He looked at me curiously. "I'm a walking, talking reminder of what my grandfather did to your grandson."

"No you aren't," he said with a smile that made me feel like I was missing something. "Not at all."

When Mr. Barrister and I completed the paperwork, he gave me instructions on how to access my funds. He closed his briefcase and rose from his seat. I stood to shake his hand, and he did something that shocked me. He hugged me—a full on bear hug. "You take care of yourself, son," he said as he stepped back. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call me." I thought I saw tears in his bright blue eyes as he turned to leave. It must have been a trick of the light.

I stared down at the bundle of papers in my hand and ran my fingertip over the lettering on the shiny new bank card. "Five million dollars," I thought. "Ho-ly chiz!"