Disclaimer: I am not one of the lucky copyright holders of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in its many forms. I don't own anything at all. But I do hope you find this just for fun, not for profit, perhaps elucidating, gentle parody, entertaining.

Thank you readers and reviewers, on we go. dionne dance, I'm afraid poor Dr. Grant has some hard times to relive. Enjoy!

"The first thing Willy did, when he got back, was go check on his father."

"No way he did that," opined Terence, with complete calm. "There's no way you mean that."

"You're right." Dr. Granted laughed outright. "I don't. Can't I make you fall for these things anymore?" Dr. Grant watched as Terence feigned a chuckle, shaking his head. "Alright then, the first thing Willy did, was show up on my doorstep, no warning, mind you, and ditch his duffel bag. Willy travelled light."

Terence was unaccountably pleased to find something else in common with Willy.

"The first thing I did," Dr. Grant went on, "was think: Willy looks only a few years older than when he left. How is that possible?"

Terence interrupted, leaning forward eagerly. "I don't know, but if you find out, tell me. I'm younger than he is, and he looks twenty years younger than me, right now. If it weren't for those eyes, and his voice confirming it, I wouldn't have known who he was, when he walked into my shop on the tenth." Terence winked at Dr. Grant. "Don't tell him I said that."

Dr. Grant roared with laughter that ended in a coughing fit. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he said when Terence moved to lend assistance. "Maybe a little water." Terence fetched it, and Dr. Grant took a sip. "Thank you," he said, decorum restored. "The second thing Willy did, was tell me we were now in phase two of the master plan: Open a shop of his own here, develop a whole new line of all his own candies, and design and build the new Factory. He waved a lease at me, his eyes shining like fire, and started laughing like a madman. The lease was in his name, you see, and Willy Wonka, as far as anyone knew, didn't have a penny to his name, and no credit. The landlord told him he needed a co-signer, or it was no go; the place was on Cherry Street."

Terence had retaken his spot. "I'm beginning to see. Willy was going to give his father a chance to reconsider. Didn't happen."

"That's right," confirmed Dr. Grant. "It didn't happen. I drove him over there, and waited in the car. It didn't take long; I can tell you that. Dr. Wonka didn't sign, he claimed, because he wouldn't be a party to his son's failure. No, siree! What he was doing was for Willy's own good, his father told him, and someday, Willy would thank him."

"Someday, Dr. Wonka will get that broken Crystal Ball back from the shop."

"I say," sighed Dr. Grant, "don't hold your breath. I co-signed the lease before we drove away, and Willy was brave, but I know it bothered him. He was very quiet."

"Why didn't he pay up front? Heck, I'll bet he could have bought the place."

"I'm sure he could have, but prices always go up when people think you can pay more. Willy had a Factory to build—the largest Chocolate Factory in the world, if he had his way—and while he planned to spare no expense, that's no reason to pay inflated prices. As it was, Willy was going to need a lot more money than he had. The success of the new candies was critical to the success of the plan. Willy moved in over his shop. I told him he was welcome here, but he was working so hard, all hours of the day and night, it was more convenient to live there. I say that, and it was true, but Willy was being polite, too. I couldn't help but cramp his style, and we both knew it." Dr. Grant's voice had a wistful quality as it trailed off, and Terence, looking for neutral territory, settled for his hands in his lap. Dr. Grant cleared his throat. "I think Willy was working so hard all those years, he barely noticed the people he was working with, and that made it possible for him to enjoy working with them, as odd as that may sound. Those were good years for him; for everyone; for the town."

"The Factory got built."

The wistfulness was back in Dr. Grant's voice. "It did. And it employed half the town. And then it didn't." Dr. Grant looked off into space. "It's such a shame that happened that way." He stared hard at Terence. "But I already told you why it did. Too much Camelot. That's what I thought." Dr. Grant stood up restlessly, and went to the fireplace, staring into the flames for a minute, and then adding another log, giving the pile of embers and logs some angry adjustments with the poker. Turning around, his face had grown as hard as his stare, with his voice a match. "It is a complete mystery to me, to this day, how someone of Willy's intelligence, as untrusting as he is, and knowing firsthand someone as cruel as his father, could believe for an instant that people weren't going to behave badly, and take precautionary steps!"

"I think he has," said Terence, softly.

"I meant before!"

Terence wondered, too. He'd already tried to think about this, earlier in the conversation. Now was a better opportunity. Was it Camelot? Was Dr. Grant right? No. It was simpler than that. Slowly, Terence arose from his chair, and began walking quietly around the room, stopping often to admire a pillow here, a picture there, a statuette. "May I?" he asked, as he picked up a small bronze copy of a Greek horse, standing square.

"Of course." Dr. Grant, standing next to the mantlepiece, had regained some of his composure. "Cyn found that at a yard sale. She always wanted to visit Greece."

Terence turned the horse over in his hand. It felt cool to the touch, and smooth. "It's very pretty. Do you spend a lot of time in Camelot, Dr. Grant?"

"Of course not; none at all, if I do say. I'm the practical type." The set of his chin left no doubt Dr. Grant was sure about that.

Terence put the little bronze horse down, and moved to the other end of the mantelpiece, beside an ornate, silver frame. "You said Willy worked hard when he got back." Terence ran his finger over the top of the frame.

"He did," was Dr. Grant's terse reply, his eye on Terence's hand.

"With a lot of people helping him, would you say that?"

"I would."

"Maybe some camaraderie building?"

"Maybe."

"This is a lovely photo. I think I recognize Martha." Terence picked up the frame. "That sort of thing helps an untrusting soul to trust people, don't you think? Working together? Camaraderie? Accomplishing things? Is this sterling silver?"

Dr. Grant nodded, his breathing shallow.

"I'll bet Willy was never more trusting than he was when he opened his Factory." Terence hefted the frame in his hand. It felt heavy. "You won't mind if I take this, will you? I think I can sell it."

"Of course I mind," Dr. Grant snapped. "You're a guest in my house, and don't you forget it! You can't come in here and take… Oh!" His face turned as white as the ashes at the edge of the fire.

Terence put the frame back on the mantelpiece. "Tell me, how many recipes did Willy steal, when he went was in and out of those other factories, learning?"

"None."

"Silly Willy! That was his mistake, wasn't it? I don't mean not stealing the recipes. I mean thinking people would behave the way he had. In the years he spent here, building his Factory, he learned to trust people just enough to set himself up for betrayal, didn't he? The silly boy! Imagine thinking people would do what he did: Come in; learn; start their own shop if they liked... but leave his recipes alone. It's not so silly, really. It's not living in Camelot that gives you the expectation people will treat you fairly; its common decency. That Factory is Willy's home. You might say those people were his guests; his invited, compensated guests, and from what I've heard, he was very generous with them. Camelot or no, Willy had a right to expect better from them—all of them." Terence went back to his chair and sat down, placing his steepled fingers on his chin, peering up at Dr. Grant, still standing by the fireplace. Terence's heart was racing, despite his outward calm. "The people in this town have taught Willy well, haven't they? I can't imagine how devastating discovering your home disappeared would be; I can't imagine how devastating discovering the people you depend on have betrayed you would be—and I don't know which is worse: the people stealing, or the people standing by and doing nothing—and I can't imagine what giving up your dream, a dream you shared with someone you loved, and spent your life realizing, would feel like; and I thank my lucky stars, everyday, that NOTHING, like those things, has ever, happened to me."

Dr. Grant's hands were like ice as he sank back into his chair. "The worst of it is, I'm one of them. Cyn would have understood. She wouldn't have blamed him. I did. I made a horrible mistake, thinking it was all his mistake, and I blamed him for all of it." Closing his eyes, Dr. Grant buried his face in his hands.

Terence was quick to go to his side. The pain of the past had instantly come alive for Dr. Grant, as swift as a shooting star, suddenly appearing—streaking across an inky sky, as real as this moment. Causing this man pain about the unchangeable had never been Terence's intention, his ignorance of this ancient wound no compensation to him. "Good heavens," he quickly said, with as much levity as he could muster, all of it forced, as he placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "I've ruined your day! I'm sorry. Here we are talking about guests, and look what I've done. What kind of guest does that make me? Terrible! But it's alright. You must already know Willy's forgiven you, for anything you may have said in the past, or I wouldn't be here. He wouldn't be helping your granddaughter, Martha. I'm sorry I've upset you, and needlessly at that."

"No. I'm the one that's sorry. And it's not needlessly, I've never thought Willy's forgiven me, it's only a truce, because of Cyn, that's all." Dr. Grant's muffled words were hard to make out, his head still buried in his hands.

Terence managed a real laugh. "Trust me. Willy doesn't do truces; a stand-off maybe; truce, no. What happened?"

"Really? You mean he might have… I say," Dr. Grant looked up hopefully, "…you say he doesn't do truces?"

Terence laughed again. "You can take that to the bank. What happened?"

Dr. Grant slowed his breathing to tell the story. His hands were cold, and he rubbed them together, the friction warming them. "Willy rang me up after he announced to his employees that he was closing the Factory. I think he wanted a friend nearby. I let him down. I wasn't one. I just told you I thought it was his fault, and back then, I told him. I marched over there, all high and mighty… I say, I wasn't even through the door before the 'I told you so's took over. I told Willy he should have seen it coming, should have taken precautions, should have paid more attention to the details, less attention to what I called 'fantasy land'; Camelot, you know, as I've told you. I may as well have been Dr. Wonka.
Willy stopped walking; listened to all of it by the door, in that great hall, with a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, as his eyes closed. I'll never forget it. I actually thought he was going to thank me, for showing him the virtue of practicality! I must have lost my senses. Cyn would never have let me make such a mistake.
When I finished my choice words of wisdom, I say, Willy looked at me steadily, very calmly, with eyes half-closed, and said in that silky voice he sometimes uses when he's really angry, 'Fantasy is my business', and then he took me gently by the elbow, and showed me the door. I didn't see, or hear from him again, for years."

The room was more than warm, but the feeling of ice on Dr. Grant's hands had moved to the marrow of Terence's bones, as Terence listened to what Dr. Grant had to say. With an effort, Terence shook the iciness off; here they both were—there was more to this. "And then?"

Having navigated the nastiest part of the history, Dr. Grant was feeling a pinch better. "And then the Factory went back into production. I say, you can't honestly say it re-opened. Willy's kept it shut up tighter than a tick!"

Terence smiled inwardly. This man and his ticks! Tics? Willy would like that.

"I found out the way everyone else in town found out: smoke rising from the chimneys. It was a shock. The bigger shock came the next week."

"Willy stopped by?"

Dr. Grant bit back a laugh. "Nothing that good. A paralegal came by, with Trust papers, explaining that Willy had set up a Revocable Trust for me, in the amount of my most lucrative year as a dentist, adjusted for inflation, on a yearly basis, for the rest of my life."

Terence had heard the word 'revocable'. "What was the condition?"

"That I never contact him."

Terence laughed in that nervous way that people do when they've heard something really distressing. "Ah…"

"Ah?" Dr. Grant was positively chipper sounding, as he pretended to search for a tongue depressor in his jacket pocket. "Is that what you said? Do you think you're sitting in a dentist's chair?" Dr. Grant was laughing in that punchy way that people do when they know they've dodged a bullet. "It is a dentist's chair!" he exclaimed, and then he gave up the act, becoming somber again. "Getting back to the Trust—I never read such rot in my life! Never contact him! I had to wait till the next day, though."

"Why?"

"About the only time you'll find Willy in his office, most days, is the crack of dawn, and that's where his private line is."

"So the phone on his desk works?"

"Of course!"

"Charlie wanted to know. I'll tell him."

"We'll get to him. Let me finish this. I say, I rang up the next morning, at the crack of dawn. Have I already said that? Um. Willy picked up on the first ring, and said nothing. I said, 'I've been an idiot. Now you're being an idiot. Let's not be idiots." Willy laughed and laughed. And then he said, 'Consider the Trust revoked' and hung up." Dr. Grant was grinning from ear to ear, as Terence cocked a brow. "He meant it. He revoked the Trust. The paralegal was by that afternoon to confirm it, and present me with another Trust. The second Trust is irrevocable, and as near as I can tell, it's a blank check—I'm sure it's not, there's probably a limit on it somewhere, but I haven't run into it yet—not that I need much, or want much, I have plenty—but this Trust only went into effect on the condition that I contact him." Dr. Grant narrowed his eyes. "Willy likes to give people choices. What you choose has consequences though, and you better be ready to live with them, so around Willy, be sure to choose what you want, and want what you choose."

"Sounds like a pretty nice consequence. Is that the right word?"

"It is. I'm not the only one who got that deal."

It only took Terence a second. "You mean The Dentist?"

"I told you Willy was funding his retirement. He got the same deal, almost…"

"…Almost?"

"My cost of living got updated every January fifth…"

"…January fifth?"

"You interrupt a lot. Please try not to, but it's more of Willy, and his confounded word games. January fifth is twelfth night; the next day is Epiphany for those who celebrate it, also known as Theophany, in some circles… you see? Theo? He thought it was funny; clever, you know, but if you ask me, Willy has too much time on his hands. Where was I? Oh, yes. Dr. Wonka was a stickler for celebrating Willy's birthday on the exact day; Willy thought he would continue the tradition Dr. Wonka enjoyed so much, so that's when his Trust updates."

Dr. Grant lapsed into silence, and Terence, minding his scolding, waited politely to avoid interrupting. When he was sure he wasn't, he asked, "It updates?"

"It updates; that's what I said, because he still has that first one," came Dr. Grant's vehement reply. "Everyday Dr. Wonka chooses. So far he's chosen the money. He's never tried to contact Willy, ever."

"But he'd get more…"

"…He doesn't know that, and it makes no difference. He's been offered a choice. I didn't know that, either. I chose what I wanted. And Willy's father chooses what he wants… every day."

Terence looked perplexed. "This arrangement can't be good for Willy."

"I think it is. This way, Willy can imagine his father ignores him for money. What if there was no money involved, and his father ignored him anyway? Between you and me, I suspect that's what that man would do. That would be worse." Dr. Grant could see Terence was still unconvinced. "It's simple, Terence. Put yourself in the same spot. What would you do?"

"I'd call Willy at the crack of dawn, and tell him he was being an idiot."

"Would losing money stop you?"

"Hell, no, and if ringing up didn't work, I'd try something else!"

"Well, money stops his father—every day, and it's a reason, a credible reason not to hear from him; an easier reason to live with than the truth. I rest my case, as Cyn would say. Now it's your turn. Tell me about Charlie."

Terence shook his head. "I'm still confused. This Trust doesn't sound like a truce; it goes way beyond that. If Willy did this, why do you think he hasn't forgiven you?"

Dr. Grant sighed deeply, and looked at his gnarled hands, lying helplessly in his lap. His breathing was soft, and his body felt like a weight he could no longer move. "Because for all these years, since he got back the second time, I've only seen him twice, and I don't need the fingers of both hands to count the number of times I've talked to him." Proud but sad eyes met Terence's. "I'm convinced Willy set up this Trust to wash his hands of me, with a clear conscience."

The emotion in the air was like a wall, but Terence refused to let it daunt him. What Dr. Grant believed couldn't be true, despite outward appearances; he, Terence, was seeing too much evidence to the contrary. If Willy was staying away, it was for another reason. But it was certain from Dr. Grant's air of dejection he believed what he said whole-heartedly. Terence decided a change of subject was definitely in order. "I'll tell you about Charlie," Terence said, and Dr. Grant looked up.