The World's Richest Man Volume Two: The Ironwood Legacy

Chapter One — Home for Christmas

Brian told me later that Christmas had really begun weeks before anyone hung the first ornament.

It began in Lancaster, around a table in one of those little restaurants where Jonathan and his parents still gathered on Thursdays. There was nothing particularly ceremonial about the evening. That was probably why Jonathan chose it.

They had eaten. They were comfortable. And somewhere in the easy rhythm of a family that had been doing this for years, Jonathan looked across the table at his parents.

“Hey. I have something I want to ask you both.”

Carol gave him her immediate attention. Daddy Jon looked up and waited.

“I know you have your traditions,” Jonathan said. “And we have not spent Christmas together in decades. But I would really love it if you came to our house this year. You and Mom. Stay with Brian and me, and we will celebrate Christmas together. As a family.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Carol smiled.

“Oh, honey. How can I say no to you? Of course.”

Daddy Jon was a little less immediate.

“Washington.”

Jonathan waited.

“At Christmas.”

“Yes.”

His father considered it for another moment, then the resistance disappeared from his face.

“Well. If it makes my son happy, it makes me happy.”

Jonathan smiled.

“Then next year, we will do whatever you want to do. But this year, I want everybody at our house.”

That settled it.

Or, at least, Jonathan thought it did.

Carol still had coordination to discuss.

“I know you have staff at the house,” she said, “but we would like to bring our butler. And, of course, our assistants will need rooms as well.”

Jonathan barely hesitated.

“We have enough room for everybody.”

And apparently, that was all Brian needed to hear.

By the time Fantasy Fest had come and gone and October was behind them, Brian had already begun thinking about Christmas. Once the Georgetown house had emptied of costumes, laughter, and the beautiful absurdity that had filled it only weeks before, his attention shifted completely.

Carol and Daddy Jon were coming for Christmas.

Not visiting for dinner.

Not stopping by for an evening.

They were coming home.

And Brian intended to make certain the house was ready for them.

The Georgetown home began to feel different almost immediately.

Not grander. It was already grand.

Fuller.

As though the house had spent decades waiting for this exact configuration of people.

It had known diplomats, senators, foreign guests, and the occasional opera singer. It had opened its doors to important people for important reasons.

But perhaps, after all those years, it had been waiting for something considerably simpler.

A family.

And this Christmas, for the first time, that was precisely what it was going to hold.

By Thursday evening, the house was ready.

Brian had seen to that.

Before Carol and Daddy Jon arrived from the brownstone in New York City, he gathered the four of us: Marco, Charles, Dorothy, and me.

“Last Christmas was spectacular,” he told us. “This Christmas is about three people. Carol. Daddy Jon. And Jonathan.”

He looked around at us.

“Whatever they need, whatever they want, we take care of it. I want this to be their Christmas.”

That was all that needed to be said.

We were ready when the small bus pulled up in front of the Georgetown house Thursday evening.

And when I say small bus, I mean precisely that.

Carol and Daddy Jon had not simply come for Christmas. They had brought Christmas with them.

There was luggage. There were gifts. There were garment bags and boxes, their butler, their assistants, and several additional things Carol had decided she simply could not be expected to spend Christmas without.

The door opened, and Carol stepped out first.

Brian was already moving toward her.

“Carol.”

“My darling.”

He embraced her, then turned immediately as Daddy Jon emerged behind her.

“Daddy Jon.”

Jonathan followed, smiling as he watched the three of them together.

Then the unloading began.

“Brian, darling,” Carol said, surveying what had come down from New York, “I may have brought a few things.”

Brian looked past her toward the bus.

“A few?”

Carol gave him a look.

“If I’m going to be in the house for Christmas, there are certain things I need.”

Brian smiled.

“Of course there are. Tell me where you want everything.”

And that was precisely how the evening proceeded.

Carol wanted something upstairs.

“Of course.”

Something else needed to remain downstairs.

“Absolutely.”

One particular box was apparently far too important to be entrusted to just anyone.

“I’ll take it.”

Within minutes, all four of us were moving. Marco, Charles, Dorothy, and I carried bags, boxes, gifts, and belongings into the house while Carol directed traffic with the effortless authority of a woman entirely accustomed to being listened to.

Brian loved every minute of it.

There was something wonderful about watching the Georgetown house absorb them.

Their coats appeared in the hall. Their luggage disappeared upstairs. Carol’s things began materializing in rooms that had belonged exclusively to Brian and Jonathan that morning. Daddy Jon settled in as though some part of the house had always belonged to him.

And Jonathan watched it happen.

So did Brian.

For all the preparations, the decorating, the planning, and everything Brian had arranged in anticipation of their arrival, I think that was the moment Christmas actually began.

Not when the tree went up.

Not when the lights came on.

Not when the first present appeared beneath it.

It began on Thursday evening, when the front doors closed behind the last of them and, for the first time, Carol, Daddy Jon, Jonathan, and Brian were all beneath the same roof.

They were home.

Friday

Friday was remarkably uneventful.

At least by Ironwood standards.

We had breakfast together that morning, without ceremony or schedule pressing against us. Afterward, Brian and Carol went shopping, which I suspect was as much an excuse to spend time together as it was an actual necessity.

Daddy Jon and Jonathan went down to the office at 2100 Pennsylvania Avenue.

The rest of us remained at the house.

It was casual.

Relaxed.

If you asked any member of the staff, however, we would have told you something slightly different.

At least we had a plan.

By evening everyone had drifted back together again, and Friday passed without requiring anything more from us.

Saturday would be different.

Christmas Eve always was.

CHRISTMAS EVE

Christmas Eve had rules.

Not written ones, necessarily, but traditions established long enough ago that nobody questioned them anymore.

For the Ironwoods, Christmas Eve was about charity.

It did not matter where they happened to be spending Christmas. New York, Washington, or somewhere halfway around the world, Carol and Daddy Jon carried the tradition with them. Wherever they were, they found people who needed help, found organizations and families they could support, and devoted part of Christmas Eve to them.

This year, they would do it in Washington.

And nothing about it was spontaneous.

By the time Saturday arrived, every stop had been planned, every detail organized, every responsibility assigned. This was not a collection of wealthy people deciding on Christmas Eve that they ought to go perform a good deed.

This was something the Ironwoods did.

Every year.

By late afternoon, the house shifted.

Not away from celebration, but toward purpose.

The easy rhythm of Friday disappeared. Everyone knew where they needed to be and when they needed to be there.

We dressed for the evening, because the charitable visits were only the first part of Christmas Eve. Afterward, we were going directly to the Kennedy Center.

The cars carried us through Washington as daylight disappeared and Christmas lights began glowing behind windows.

The visits themselves were never meant to be performances.

There were no photographers waiting.

No press.

No speeches.

There was simply an established family tradition being continued.

And wherever we went, Jonathan eventually asked the same question.

“What would make next year easier?”

Not better.

Not perfect.

Easier.

People answered him.

Jonathan listened.

So did Brian.

Carol and Daddy Jon had been doing this long enough to understand that listening was often the most important part.

I began to understand something else that evening.

What I was watching had not begun with Brian.

He had inherited it.

Perhaps not through blood, but certainly through belonging.

The expectation was remarkably simple: if life had given you more than you required, you paid attention to the people for whom life had not been nearly so generous.

There was no crusade in it.

No sermon.

No expectation of applause.

It was Christmas Eve.

And this was simply what the Ironwoods did.

When the final visit was finished, however, the evening changed again.

We were not going home.

We were going to the Kennedy Center.

THE KENNEDY CENTER

Carol intended to arrive at six.

The performance did not begin until seven-thirty, which was precisely the point.

“We are not rushing in like tourists,” she announced.

There was apparently no argument to be made against that.

Nor, frankly, did anyone try.

By six o’clock, we were there.

There was time.

That was what Carol had wanted.

Time to arrive properly. Time to take in the evening. Time for everyone to settle before the performance began rather than tumble into their seats at the last possible moment.

Eventually, we made our way inside and took our seats.

Carol settled beside Daddy Jon.

Jonathan and Brian were together.

I was several seats away, close enough to watch them without feeling as though I was part of the picture.

Around us came the low murmur of people settling into their seats, coats being arranged, programs opened, quiet conversations reaching their natural end.

Brian leaned toward Daddy Jon and said something I could not hear.

Daddy Jon smiled.

Carol reached for his hand.

Jonathan looked at his parents.

Then at Brian.

There was something remarkably peaceful about the four of them sitting there together.

No business to conduct.

No household to manage.

No one needing anything from them.

For the moment, there was simply Christmas Eve.

Then the house lights began to dim.

The conversations around us faded.

Brian settled back into his seat beside Jonathan.

Carol still held Daddy Jon’s hand.

And as the last of the light disappeared, the stage came alive.

I remember looking at the four of them and realizing that Brian had gotten exactly what he wanted for Christmas.

Not the house.

Not the decorations.

Not whatever waited beneath the tree in Georgetown.

Them.

All three of them.

Together.

And Christmas Eve had only just begun.