Spending the Schuyler Fortune

PAYBACK: SPENDING THE SCHUYLER FORTUNE

CHAPTER 1

by Simon Mohr

This fictional story is just that: fiction. It is intended for adults only. If you are a minor, please do not read this story. No reference is inferred or intended to actual people or circumstances. Thank you for a donation to Nifty to ensure continued access to stories you enjoy. All Rights Reserved.

If you read about the Schuyler family, you might remember this family, their fortune, and their unusual way of life.

Some called that life decadent and immoral; I think they viewed their life through the same lens the rest of us see ours through, i.e., the steady effort to make sense of the world we find ourselves in, the quest for enough pleasure to balance pain, the work we do to convince ourselves we are making a difference, and the ongoing struggle to maintain autonomy.

I'd heard the name. In Flourtown, there is a large estate named the 'Schuyler Estate.' Nobody my age talked about it. My friends at school didn't. It wasn't on my radar screen.

My name is James (Jim) Schroeder. Neither name came from my biological parents; my adopters had the pleasure of naming me after my uncle James, a guy who couldn't have been more my opposite.

James was short, fat, a slob, bald, and had a laugh that sounded like a donkey braying, for the same reasons most donkeys sound as they do.

Like many 'opposites,' I differed from my uncle, especially sexually. His giggling asides when I got into my early teens about his conquests with women left me feeling like a cold rock in a geology museum.

I didn't know my original last name before the disaster in Flourtown, the accident that killed the only set of parents I ever knew. I didn't care what my name might have been.

The funeral that my brother Tyler and I walked into a few weeks ago was for those adopted parents, my 'adopters,' the couple that adopted me (my younger brother Tyler's biological parents).

Just thinking about the decision to adopt me had shaken something loose inside mom or dad, maybe both. Anyway, for a few months out of each year, he and I were the same 'age'. Mom had always told us that she was carrying him for a while knew she didn't want to be pregnant again, but both parents wanted a family of two kids. I was a year old when I arrived at their house.

When our parent's car ran out of gas and stopped on the train tracks, they had little time to escape the vehicle before the freight train struck. Dad didn't have help to push the car out of the way in time.

That train had too much momentum to stop short of a mile (about the distance the train dragged them down the track).

Put more accurately, the train's tremendous mass and momentum created massive inertia, the force that resists change in rate (the speed of motion); their small car, with zero velocity and a much lower mass (nearly zero inertia), had no chance.

The first policeman on the scene asked the train engineer to consent to a breathalyzer test after the officer smelled alcohol on the man's breath. The breath test measured .25, a result just this side of stupor. The engineer couldn't walk a straight line to save his life.

The only bright spot Tyler and I could see was that we weren't with them that day and that the freight train was going over its rail 'speed' limit that day, opening the railroad to what our lawyer said was 'unholy' liability.

Tyler told me he thought that word described the lawyer's estimate of his firm's share of that upcoming settlement. Tyler was a smart kid.

Dad had quickly escaped after mom looked out the car window and yelled to warn him of the train's approach. Mom's seat belt buckle was always difficult to release on a good day.

The bend in the defective buckle chose that time to be even more resistant to brute force, and dad went back to help her with that. Neither survived. Neither of them suffered long enough to regret not having had the damn seatbelt fixed.

Tyler and I comforted ourselves with that. The principal came to my Algebra class and then to Tyler's English class, knocked, and spoke with the teacher. We both ignored that at first.

The principal, Alice Hudson, came into classrooms at times on different errands. When each shocked teacher said our names and asked us to go with the principal, we looked at the teacher, our normal lives changing in a second.

Thinking back, I remember Tyler arrived at the principal's office before I did. He was sitting in a blue upholstered chair and gave me a concerned frown and a shrug. "What gives, bro?"

I sat down in the other blue chair and with an answering shrug gave Tyler my best 'hell if I know' face.

"Are we in trouble, Miss Hudson?" I asked.

"Neither of you are in trouble. I need to tell you about a bad accident," she answered. "Please brace yourself for some terrible news.

Miss Hudson continued with details; I just kept thinking this bad dream couldn't happen to Tyler and me. Things were normal and we were in class just fifteen minutes ago--even less than that!

A taxi took us home. That ride was short and quiet as a tomb. I don't remember paying the driver. I think the school called the taxi and paid for it. Our housekeeper, Eva already knew. The school had called her before we got home. She hugged us; then she shed tears with us. "It's time for hot chocolate," she said.

"You need to set up a fortress, guys. Choose any warm room where you can burrow. Take a shower and change clothes. We'll order in. Your dad would have liked pizza, OK with you?"

"Charge up your cell phones. You both have your own feelings; survivors also must deal with other people's feelings. It's hard work."

I remember bits and pieces of the funeral. Some people cried, I heard snippets of 'orphan' talk, and the word 'disaster' cropped up more than once. Lots of people attended to pay their respects at this rite of passing.

Some bits still whip around inside my head.

The ice-cold November wind cut like fiercely sharp little knives into my face; the patches of blue ice on the city streets of our small town greased the wind's progress.

A big mass of people jammed into their hats and heavy wool coats slowly filed up the imposing stone staircase into the largest church in town. The ushers struggled with the standing-room-only crowd.

Our parents were baptized at that church and had attended for nearly 60 years.

I saw many of mom's Flourtown country club friends and their families and dad's Flourtown Real Estate partners and broods at the funeral. Our 'church family' and friends came too.

The church secretary sent out notices. I guess one of those went to the Flourtown Daily News along with the obituaries. The service was a 'must show' for everyone in town.

The city's hangers-on appeared in their usual numbers. These men and women spent their seemingly unlimited time, uninvited, going to funerals saying nice things about the departed (whom they never laid eyes on in life), reveling in the drama, often summoning up tears when they felt watching eyes on them.

After the funeral and once safely in the church's social pavilion where the reception hummed, most of that bunch quietly looked around for a buffet table, not to mention, hope against hope, a free bar.

My brother, Tyler Schroeder, and I were stunned, not hungry. For one thing, we'd choked down some scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns that morning that Eva, our housekeeper, had cooked for us. The regular cook was off that day. Eva, great at cleaning, making beds, doing laundry, and organizing. Eva had not inherited the gene for genius in the kitchen.

Tyler and I lost our appetite after breakfast, not all Eva's or our fault. After all, we chose to eat her food that morning.

Tyler and I, stressed out, facing a church ordeal neither of us wanted to go to or talk about, didn't want to face this funeral for all the obvious reasons.

The 'small' matters of where to live, how to pay bills and get food, tuition for school, and an unforeseeable future without our parents weren't trivial questions for us. We had big questions, some still unvoiced; these were emotional burdens piled on to the loss of our parents.

Lawyers had called us, some from out-of-town, chasing Pennsylvania's biggest ambulance to roar by in some time. Circling vultures had nothing on these clowns.

After the reception, my adopter mom's sister, Aunt Hattie, fresh in from Chicago that morning, found us, scowled, and rudely tried to take charge.

Dressed in a severe high-neck, long-sleeve, black-velvet dress, Aunt Hattie chose a moment after the service to walk over to Tyler and put her bony arms around his shoulders. Her unsmiling pinched mouth looked like she had just chewed and swallowed a teaspoon of bitter quinine.

Tall and thin, Hattie's body reminded me of nothing so much as the drawings I'd seen of a Salem witch. Hattie's eyes glittered, and her back hunched forward like a vulture ready to launch into the air currents above the Grand Canyon.

Aunt Hattie addressed herself to me, ignoring Tyler, her signature voice high-pitched and mean. "You and Tyler will need to find a place to live other than in the mausoleum where your family lived."

"Your uncle Tom and I will sell the property and put the proceeds in your trusts, most of it to Tyler, naturally, since you were adopted, and he's real."

"Screw you. Who died and made you empress?"

OK, I might have over-reacted.

Incensed at the unfairness and afraid of those precise consequences, my 'inner Jim' quickly analyzed that exchange and I winced inside.

It took me four seconds.

I had calculated our ages, location, the funds likely to pour in from the railroad lawsuit, my probable inheritor status along with Tyler, and my conceivable 'emancipated minor' position soon.

I didn't think much longer than that.

"You don't own that house. Unless you inherited it (which I can't imagine) or you've stolen it (which I can imagine), the house isn't yours to sell."

I stared her down and firmly told her. "Tyler and I own it, and we're not selling."

My aunt was lucky--and I more so--that I didn't deck her on the spot.

At 18, I could have inflicted a broken nose; at the very least, she would have spent some time in the Emergency Room. At worst, the penalty for assault could have landed me in jail. Temptation had struck, but my adopters taught me that yielding to temptation was the sin, not the attraction itself.

My reply did not daunt Aunt Hattie. Ignoring my outburst and speaking to Tyler, she continued. "You will stay with us as long as you like, Tyler. Jim will make some other housing arrangement."

Suddenly arrogant, in our face, especially after a goodbye service for her sister, she suddenly chose to be a monster. Why she felt possessed to interfere and be rude was a mystery until I did more thinking.

Tyler and I both remember only fragments, like I said, of that occasion, but one thing is clear: Aunt Hattie was rude that day. She said things that she couldn't 'unsay', only regret. Not that we expected her to. Regret that is.

This funeral was a stress for her too. She wasn't going to be able to talk to her sister again, she probably had given up on getting anything in the will, and, perhaps, had some unfinished personal things to say to her sister (regrets possibly, apologies perhaps). Tyler and I were handy targets for her fear and guilt.

We stood up to her at age 18, hoping she wasn't our future guardian.

We 'hoped' she couldn't be our guardian. We didn't feel it, though. We took Hattie's threat seriously, like kids who fear monsters under the bed, having never seen one. She was his genetic aunt; I was not her 'bloody' nephew.

Tyler and I hitched a ride home with friends, settled in, closed the windows, and locked doors. We dragged heavy furniture in front of the doors and brought baseball bats from the basement. We were in 'us-versus-the-world' mode that night.

Tyler and I shared a shower in our parent's bathroom. I soaped his back and scrubbed him up; he returned the favor. I dried him off. He dried me off. We hadn't ever slept together before but didn't want to be alone that first night. We both jumped into our parent's big bed, going into a deep sleep.

Toward morning, a thunderstorm woke us. Tyler felt as warm as a heater, somehow comforting.

My hand and arm tracked around Tyler; we both slept.

By eight a.m. the following day, neither of us was a virgin. We did some exploring and one thing, as is said, led to another. I kept pushing until I was inside him, Tyler encouraging me on.

Tyler told me he felt stretched and packed full; specifically, he told me to speed up, go harder, and not quit.

After we shot, we kissed a while and cleaned up. Tyler's tongue was a revelation.

Then I remembered neither of us had brushed our teeth or used mouthwash that morning and felt I'd plumbed the secret of the universe that morning.

We both decided I would be the 'top' from here on out unless he asked otherwise. He loved my cock inside of him. He told me it was a combination of the jabs to his prostate, the moist warmth, feeling full, stretching, giving me pleasure, his awe of what he was doing to me, and the fun of watching me come.

He chose the 'bottom' role when we were together. However, he put his cock in a few men in later years, always with me in the room whenever he did, even when Loren and Tom Schober, high school buddies of ours, came over to the house the next night to chill and we invited them to stay for burgers on the grill and a swim after the staff left for the day.

We'd known them for a long time, and they knew we'd want company. One thing led to another in the covered and heated pool.

Loren and Tom, both muscled, lithe, looked pretty good to us in their birthday suits. All that and beer, too, was a combination enhanced with the vision of firm asses and generously plump cocks, not to mention their free-swinging testicle sacs.

While in the pool, Tyler and I noticed the glances our way, so after supper, we invited them to stay the night since they had had a few. We never forgot our play that night with these hunky swimmers.

Tyler asked to take all three of us that night; our cum got splashed inside and over him, complete with sloppy seconds and thirds. Tyler turned like a roasted chicken being basted on a spit by three crowing roosters.

Tyler didn't blink an eyelash when Tom announced that he hadn't 'done' brothers and proceeded to ask if Tyler and I would fuck while Loren lay by, taking a short break. Tom sat on Tyler's cock, moaning, laughing, and grunting simultaneously. I was sure Tyler's brain would make the switch to a top preference. It did not.

Tyler and I went downstairs together the day after the funeral after Loren and Tom left. That day, we stuck together like glue on paper, checking doors and windows and watching the driveway for visitors.

The cook was back on duty, and breakfast was a wonderful thing: Blueberry pancakes, thinly sliced watermelon, orange juice fresh from the orange, apricot compote on her breakfast cake; it was all good. We scarfed down the cold milk.

The cook found casserole dishes on the front porch from neighbors, each with a note like 'warm in the oven for 15 minutes at 250 degrees and return the dish to Mrs. Nelson.'

A couple of notes attached to the screen door seemed to be condolences from people who hadn't managed to make it to the funeral.

The next day, my cell rang all afternoon. My 21-year-old trust-fund friend Janey Netherton soon had the news. All business, she analyzed everything and broke all problems down into options, freely sharing them whether (or not) the recipient wanted to hear them.

"Jim, find your biological family. See who they are and if they can (will) be part of your support group. It's not hard. The library has books that tell you how to find family."

"I know," continued Janey, just getting started and not out of breath, "Why don't you get Ancestry and a couple of other companies that do DNA tests and see if you can find your biological family?"

For some reason, that question resonated. The first step, I decided, was always the hardest step.

The future with just me in it seemed risky at age 18. I already knew that my parents had made a will but wouldn't know the details for another two weeks.

Janey and I walked up the library steps in Flourtown, Pennsylvania, just as it opened at nine a.m. that Friday.

The library was one of those libraries that Andrew Carnegie's steel fortune had built across the country in the last century. The library was one of the previous that the steel millionaire from Scotland donated in 1919.

A Google search told me about the symmetrical columns in front, the arched windows, and the brick construction of a typical Carnegie library. Our library was a decent example.

We made notes for four hours before our stomach growls caught the attention of a strict librarian who coughed to get our attention and shook her head toward the door.

We had Impossible Burgers at Burger King and chocolate milkshakes.

Janey was a vegetarian and introduced me to plant-based foods. I had decided to like some of them for her--just before learning to like them for myself.

I could eat beef and chicken though anything from a pig gave me hives. It was the same for bacon, ham, trotters, hocks, shoulder, ribs, jowl, cheek, and chitlins, you name it.

Unfortunately, most seafood had the same effect.

It turned out I could eat soybeans, nuts, and derivatives without hives.

One week after the funeral, Jack Darnell, President Barbara Darnell-Schuyler's widower, lay in his bed at the estate in Flourtown. He slowly came out of his night fog, noted he was alive, and decided this was another morning. Reaching over to the other side of the empty bed, he confirmed he had slept by himself.

Last night, Jack Sr., his nickname used by all his friends, had told his close friend and lover, Richard Roberts, that he would be up late with projects out at the estate and wouldn't be staying in town at Richard's house. He felt warm enough, thought he might be hungry, and started to plan breakfast.

After he had decided, he dialed his valet and ordered breakfast. His usual morning schedule, subject to change at any moment of any day, was to place his breakfast order first, take a shower, shave, and try to come out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around him to coincide with his valet setting up a table in his room.

On lucky days, his valet similarly undressed, and both men dropped the towels after a smile and a look. On other days, primarily different due to time constraints, a little grab-ass had to suffice. This wasn't one of the 'lucky' days. Jack Sr. stepped out into the hall and greeted the Secret Service agent there.

He remembered, dispassionately, that his wife had died some years back. She was aware that he and his friends played together.

As President, his wife's White House duties kept her busy around the clock; their arrangement worked. Jack was a great dad and a supportive husband; she had left him the estate and a fortune. She was not the beneficiary of the Schuyler Trust, so she couldn't bequeath that to him.

The White House years crossed Jack Senior's mind as they did every day, and, as usual, Jack felt his cock twitch when he remembered the cut White House Usher who had graced his bed more than once.

William, with the magnificent ass, an astonishing cock, and the capacity to use them in the service of his country with energy and sinuous grace--was a quiet force of nature at work.

At play, William fucked with the power of a Marine Sergeant, which he had been. Jack Sr. wondered whatever happened to him. Was he still in the White House?

In Manhattan, Jack Darnell-Schuyler Jr.'s thoughts turned to his dad, Jack Darnell Sr. Their relationship wasn't cold. It just wasn't much of anything.

Jack Jr. had his hands full as the beneficiary of the Schuyler Trust. None of those tasks involved his dad. Jack Jr. began to consider the Flourtown Five, those friends of his father from Jack Sr.'s high school days; these were friends who had sworn eternal 'friends with benefits' status, and Sphinx-like silence to their graves about their group.

Jack Sr., former first 'First Husband' and Richard had attended the funeral together a week ago; everyone in town who knew anybody went. He'd gone through the line like everyone else, shaking hands with the aunt and the boys. He remembered shaking hands with one of the boys of the deceased couple, thinking he had met him before but told himself he couldn't have.

There were people in the back, and the line quickly moved along. There wasn't time for conversation with either boy, much less the aunt, who appeared to have swallowed something bitter.

The notes Janey and, to a lesser extent, Jim made, indicated some genealogy companies sold access to records about their ancestors.

Other companies took DNA samples in addition. Some did both and added global access to many cemetery lists, obituaries in newspapers, birth and death records, and census data in a host of countries for primary source research.

"I will never know why," I told Tyler years later, "Janey pushed me to include all three, so I went online."

Mom and dad paid their bills promptly, and they had no current debt. Their bank accounts, both checking and savings, swam in cash, and their debit cards were still active. So, Tyler and I spent their money.

"Like I said," I continued, "I had no idea yet what they had invested and no real idea what other property they owned."

I'd never seen the contents of their safe deposit box. Their attorney hadn't notified the bank yet, and their Visa, Mastercard, and American Express cards still worked since I knew the PINs written in mom's 'house' book on her desk.

Two weeks after the funeral, the attorney read the will.

The parents left everything to Tyler and me in a trust fund 'supervised' by the attorney, an accountant, and a banker in town until I reached age 21. They expressly specified that Aunt Hattie would receive precisely ten dollars. She promptly stormed out of the attorney's office. We never heard from--or saw her--again.

The will instructed our family attorney to continue accessing all the parent's assets, including the liquid part if all hell broke loose. It had. Cracked wide open, I mean.

The parents had fully paid the house and the ten-acre property mortgage. They owned no other property. Edward Jones hosted about $700K of various dividend-yielding equities, and a few bonds, nothing risky.

The dividends paid property taxes, household expenses, clothing, and insurance premiums--but not enough for college tuition, expensive cars, yachts, or airplanes.

Mom collected black opals. Her favorites were in the safe-deposit box. The largest was a stunning 9-carat gem with a high dome and bright colors, vivid blue, green, yellow, orange, and red highlights.

The accident ruined our car; the railroad's share of the mess would replace it.

The attorney then surprised us. Mom and dad had taken out life insurance two years ago for $1.5 million each and faithfully paid the premiums. He assured us he would file the claims on behalf of Tyler and me.

A few weeks later, DNA results showed I had a biological father. I hired a private investigator in Flourtown to find him. Kraft and Roberts, Private Investigators, LLC, called two days later.

A secretary introduced herself. "Can you come in to talk to Mr. Roberts this afternoon after school, say, at six p.m. at our office?"

"Sure, I guess so. Where is the office?"

"We're located at 1028 South Collins. See you then?"

I repeated the address and time back to Mr. Robert's secretary for confirmation. "Sure. Tyler and I will be there. Thank you."

I hung up, wrote it down, and stuffed the address in my pocket. After school, Tyler and I walked over to our appointment, a few short blocks away from school.

Located in a long, one-story building, Mr. Robert's office was neatly landscaped and sported two large, barred windows. I noted a small brilliant-green square patch of lawn. "I saw five antennas on the roof," whispered Tyler, breathless.

Mr. Roberts turned out to be a handsome, thirty-something, well dressed (suit and lavender tie), wearing expensive leather shoes. He had a broad smile, full lips, and an expressive face. His defining feature was a dimple in his chin that, to me, begged exploration as he sat on the front of his desk.

I tried not to stare, but I glanced at his crotch and immediately spotted a thick, long sausage hanging down the left side of his pants about halfway to his knees, tenting his pants out a bit.

If I didn't know better, I might have guessed he'd just been with someone fun behind the door by his desk.

I was 18, skinny, with good skin and blonde hair, and dressed in school clothes that needed washing, wearing cheap sneakers. Tyler had told me that my one redeeming feature was my 'crazy good cock.'

"I've done a fair amount of research with your date of birth, found your place of birth, and obtained court records finally (don't ask how, since not all of our methods bear a detailed discussion)," said Mr. Roberts with a grin, his slightly flushed face clear to see. Now I could see a wet spot on his pants near the tip of his cock.

Okaaay, I thought, you've been behind the not-so-green door within the last few minutes.

"Your biological dad," he continued, "never knew you existed. He is well-known and wants to meet you as soon as we can arrange it."

"Yes." My answer was immediate. "I don't care if he's well-known or important or well-off. I do want to meet my real dad, though. I don't have money to make the trip to see him. I'm paying you with money from my dead parent's accounts."

A tall, good-looking man resembling me--and surprisingly familiar from the funeral reception line-- interrupted us, opening the door behind Mr. Roberts. He just walked in, seeming a little short of breath.

"Richard, is this my son?" Again, a little 'mind jiggle' happened inside my head. Out of the hundreds of people that stressful day moving through the line, I remembered a stranger who triggered something in my head resembling 'that guy looks like the guy I see in the mirror every morning.'

"How do you." I was about to say 'do'--when the tall guy asked if he could hug me, moved in, and I didn't have time to think about.

That hug was deep and what I imagined it would feel like if a real dad met a real son for the first time. My eyes watered, and I hugged him back. His chest and abdomen were solid muscles.

I wasn't sure I wanted to release him.

"Yeah," I managed to say. "It's nice to meet you, dad."

I earned another hug for using that word, I guess. My father investigated my face, must have liked what he saw, hugged me again, buried his face in my neck, and sniffed around for a minute. I had a feeling that I was comforting him somehow.

"Mr. Roberts and I are solid, very close buddies. I've known him since high school. I always called him Trey; his dad was Mr. Roberts then," said my dad. I glanced over to 'Trey.' His eyes were glued to a spot one quarter of one inch from my dad's bulging package. Trey's lips were twitching oddly, but he wasn't drooling, a good sign, I guessed.

"This must be Tyler. How did you put up with this guy for all these years, man?" Dad, on a charm offensive, hugged Tyler. Tyler fell for it and hugged dad right back.

"Nice to meet you, dad." Tyler blinked. "That sounds weird to say. Jim called my biological father 'dad' since he learned to talk, and I'm sure I'll get used to it."

"Trey, I'll see you later. I'm taking my 'new-to-me' sons out for pizza." My bio-dad took our hands as if we were five years old. We crossed the street and walked down to a pizza shop. The guy behind the counter recognized my dad.

"Hi, Jack, welcome back. Usual table? Usual order? Who are these young men?"

"You're looking at my sons, Jim and Tyler. They just found out their last name could become Darnell or Schuyler. I hope they choose to become Schuyler brats one of these days after they think it over."

I later learned that Jack Sr. and the pizza man had been friends from that 'small group' since high school.

All were sexual partners since Physical Education classes during those early years--glimpses in the showers, sleepovers, horseplay at campsites--a group of five youth became men together.

The men founded a group and stayed together in many ways during the rest of their lives. No matter what form their nuclear families took, no matter their later professions or marriages, children, fame, wealth, or lack of it, they were the same quiet family that began in high school.

Tall, short, skinny, large, sturdy, introspective, or outgoing, the one common thread drawing them together was their open emotional and physical love for each other, expressed on-demand, on sight. The group, one in business matters and advice, one against the world in general, all for similar projects, had each other's backs and other bits.

Their second common bond was their delight in knowing their group was inexorably private; this 'family' was their shared, secret bulwark against the rest of the world. One or all were welcome at the Schuyler estate outside town for beer, comfort, to get held, to brag about their kids (or not), and mourn--the list of flimsy excuses to get naked and do each other was long.

Over pizza and root beer, my dad told us he married his high school best friend, Barbara Schuyler, after his first wife, Connie, divorced him.

With Barbara, he sired three kids, two girls and a boy, all that time unaware he had already sired a son. "You would have thought some reporter would have found that little nugget," Jack Sr. marveled, humbled just a little to know that First Husbands become 'out of sight, out of mind' of the press after Presidents die. "I told Barbara before we married that Connie and I were divorced."

His second wife, as President known as Barbara Darnell-Schuyler, had a political career and became President. Tyler connected the dots about his internal, learned list of presidents and something about a fortune and a near-assassination.

"Oh, that--President--um, Schuyler!" The words slipped out, frozen in time. Tyler was unable to call the terms back to 'unsay' them.

Jim learned that President Schuyler had died a few years later, and his biological dad had come back to Pennsylvania, his roots, to be with the high school group and play together in their later years. Richard 'Trey' Roberts and his dad had been buddies in high school along with 'pizza guy,' one William (Bill) Longmire, and a couple of other high school buddies.

"I need to tell you that Trey and I are closer than brothers. He never married. We were closet buddies in school; now, when I'm not at the Schuyler estate on the edge of town, Richard and I live and sleep together at his house in town."

"I connected with my first wife at a party about 18 years ago; one thing led to another. She knew we 'weren't suited' for each other, never told me about you, and promptly adopted you out."

Jim's eyes looked like he felt. Shocked, surprised, and happy, Jim and Tyler snuck a look at each other. Tyler's face grew red. Both boys had lived in Flourtown all their life and had passed by the Schuyler estate entrance many times. Neither had a reason to visit the estate.

"Well, dad," Jim replied, "as long as we're unloading, Tyler and I aren't blood brothers; we are legal stepbrothers, and we've already hooked up since we're now over 16 in Pennsylvania. So, that makes us 'family' that way, dad."

During Trey's investigation, he found that Jim's likely father was Jack Sr. When he spoke with Jack Sr. about the case, the girl's name slipped out, and the DNA tests matched.

Jim's father was excited beyond belief. He had lost contact with his girls and, to some extent, his son Jack, who was busy with the Schuyler Trust in New York.

Jim told Jack Sr. about the mansion his adopted parents lived in, their death, aunt Hattie, and their initial fear of homelessness. Jim told Jack Sr. he wanted his best friend Janey to live in the house with them also if she wished.

"I believe an attorney will convince your Aunt Hattie to stand down. Since she doesn't own the house or the property, she can't sell it."

"According to Pennsylvania inheritance law, it's yours unless it has been willed to someone else. Have you seen a will yet? If not, there's a lawyer friend in our group that will guide you through that if you want. I have already taken the liberty of telling him I didn't know if there was a will."

"Tyler and I have already consulted an attorney, dad. She is our family's attorney; our parents liked her a lot. I think we'll stick with her for now but thank you for the offer."

"If you need a car, an allowance, anything, I want you to come to me and say so. I'm not buying you. You don't seem like a guy who wants to be bought, but you could use some 'lovin', which dads are for, among other things."

Mr. Schuyler continued, "My other kids, your stepbrother and stepsisters, will want to meet you. We Schuylers have some things in common, and your stepbrother will want to meet you."

Jim and Tyler thanked Jack Sr. for the pizza and agreed to dinner at the Schuyler estate the next day. They weren't particularly shocked to find other guests at dinner, all men. Jack Sr. introduced Jim and Tyler to the group and told the group he hoped they would welcome his sons to their group. None of the group showed any sign of objection to new, uh, 'members.' whose eye candy value alone would have qualified them.

After dinner, JT (as Jim and Tyler became known to the group), were warmly welcomed in and around the private pool. That occasion wasn't held in formal dress. No one was dressed either in or out of the pool. JT played with most of the others; no one at that dinner party remembered feeling used or abused.

Not more than a day later, Jim and Tyler had learned more about the Schuyler Trust and its history and present status; the teens were making notes about their findings, names, amounts, holdings, and activities.

Jim and Tyler were both uncertain about wealth in general. "We're the poorest of the poor, and that bunch is the richest of the rich," Tyler moaned. "This may be a star-crossed relationship in the making! Blending us to them in any way and vice-versa won't be an automatic positive conclusion."

"Yeah, I feel ya."

"I hope you do," replied Tyler.

"Maybe Jack Jr. will be surprised and happy he finally has brothers," Jim replied.

"Hope he doesn't kick us back to Pennsylvania when he finds out we fool around sometimes." Tyler wasn't about ready to quit their exploration activity for anyone."

"We'll just tell him that he was our age once and had raging hormones. Being rich, he might be conservative and want us to go to church with him."

A little worried about that conversation, Jim felt sure he needed to continue to find a home in Tyler's warm and inviting ass. He was equally certain that Tyler craved that also. When Jim took charge, Tyler felt he could let go.

Jim vividly imaged his dad asking Tyler if he wanted to play to the crowd on a blue chaise by the pool at the party--both were a little high--Tyler's excited eyes, 'do me, Jim', Trey swallowing his dad on the next chaise over, Jim's visible, hard excitement, the power fuck, Jim coming hard on Tyler's chest . . .

"I wonder if Jack Jr.'s house in Manhattan is big enough for both of us to visit?" Tyler 'the Practical' had graduated to living accommodations as his main worry and topic of conversation. "Should we take one suitcase or two? If we take two, it'll look like we're moving in."

"Dad said he would make sure our house stays in our possession," I replied. "It doesn't matter if our stepbrother asks us to move in with him or not because we'll still have the house in Flourtown."

"Dad also offered to buy us a car and give us an allowance. That takes a lot of pressure off. I still don't know about tuition for us."

"Anyway," I told Tyler, "Maybe our 'new' stepbrother could help with that, but I hate to ask him for anything because our shared dad pulled out his cock at a party."

Tyler giggled. "Hey, you work with what you got, I guess. You could make me happy and pull out yours. We're emancipated minors. Your dad likes it. Do you want it?"

"That may be," replied Jim. "On the other hand, each state has slightly different laws about sex between two people and what ages are legal."

"I already looked it up," Tyler quickly replied. "In Pennsylvania, it's 16 and over between consenting persons as long as one doesn't have authority over the other. You don't have authority over me or me over you. I consent. You do too. So, we can legally get it on if we want."

"I could kiss you this second if you even blink at me," said Jim."

"Shoot," said Tyler. "If I just wanted kisses, I'd have offered a buck to Aunt Hattie already and got my needs met in a heartbeat. That woman will do anything for money."

I laughed. Tyler was a good guy, but the wounds from the loss of their parents and Aunt Hattie's declaration that Tyler was 'blood' kin made my head spin. I think Tyler was offended by her speech on my behalf. His hackles were still up.

How Tyler would take my New York stepbrother and stepsisters, I didn't know yet. For that matter, I didn't know how they would take Tyler and me.

Three men got out of the pool that Tuesday morning in the Schuyler Museum after a session consisting of horseplay and a few laps to convince themselves that they had exercised. As they soaped and rinsed in the large shower room, they touched each other, rubbing their rear ends, gently pulling any cock close by, and kissing. A passerby would have assumed they were lovers. They were that and more.

Jack Schuyler, the beneficiary of the enormous Schuyler Trust, stood naked, watching his lovers Joe and Eric make love, their tight skin stretching over their young muscular frames. The twins had initially been uncomfortable with physical love, hadn't been raised together, and hadn't even known each other until the last year. Both were enthusiastic sex partners with Jack when they first met him.

A month into their new arrangement, they were still in one of those rapt honeymoon-like cocoons. Joe and Eric took turns receiving. Both had taken to sex with each other, wondering what took so long.

A knock sounded on the pool room door. Jack wrenched his eyes from enjoying his lovers' happy play, wrapped a towel around his waist, and opened the door a little. His secretary, Henri's cousin, Jean, told him a vital phone call awaited him in his office.

Jack thanked Jean and headed up to take the call. His dad was on the line. "Hey, am I interrupting something fun?"

"How're things going, dad?"

"News. I need to share it with you. Can you send a Gulfstream to Flourtown to pick us up on Thursday morning? I'm bringing two new family members with me. Do you have room for three of us for a week or so?"

"We have room, Dad, and I'll have the Travel Office make the arrangements today. Is eight a.m. at Trenton OK? Are the guest's names a surprise? Tell me you didn't go and get married again."

"Eight a.m. is fine, Jack. I have a bombshell for you. I've been told by Richard, my PI friend, that I have another son, your stepbrother, adopted out at birth by Connie, my first wife. He's 18 years old, and I would like to bring him and his partner (and stepbrother) Tyler to Manhattan to meet you. They are nice kids, almost as nice as you, Jack."

"Oh my God, dad. You have been busy. I thought--I thought--you were into guys now."

"You aren't wrong, Jack."

"I had a high-school girlfriend that I married and divorced before meeting your mom. We met at a party again after your mom died, and I had too much to drink. I don't remember much about that night."

"Nothing stands out, but I guess something stood up and out for long enough that night. The DNA matched, and I naturally remember Jim's mother's name. Richard confirmed that she saw no reason to tell me since she saw no future with me and felt able to raise Jim without me in the loop."

"Uh, OK. See you Thursday morning then, dad. We'll go into celebration mode then. I've always wanted a brother, and you and the President were not forthcoming, so this will have to do. A joke, dad. I'm kidding."

The flight from Trenton Thursday morning to Teterboro was very short; it excited Jim and Tyler. It was their first on a small private jet; it was their first jet flight period. After getting acquainted with the knobs and levers in the cabin, they bamboozled the flight attendant into serving cookies and Coke.

The attendant smiled to himself, remembering his first flight and its incredible newness, the sensations of being pushed back into his seat on takeoff, the noise, and the anxious thought of how high in the air he was.

He remembered the announcement informing the passengers that they had reached their cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. He had divided that by 5,000 and decided that almost 7 miles up were a long way to fall. The travel office had scheduled a limousine pickup for the three men. It rolled up to the Gulfstream at Teterboro by the hangar emblazoned 'Schuyler Aviation.' Jim and Tyler were impressed at the long black auto, which came complete with a uniformed chauffeur with an official cap. Two hunky uniformed off-duty NYPD motorcycle policemen, one before and one after the limousine, watched them enter the car.

Both Jim and Tyler were a little self-conscious, trying to act nonchalant.

The ride lasted 45 minutes. The distance wasn't the issue.

The traffic delayed them, which only gave them more time to appreciate the tall buildings, their circumstances, and begin organizing what they might say to Jack Jr., whom they had started to feel must be the richest man in the world (in their world at least).

The limousine pulled into a park through giant metal gates, and they caught their first sight of what looked like a large hotel sitting in the middle of the park.

Jim gasped; he managed not to say anything. Tyler just stared. Watching them in the rearview mirror, the driver said, "Well, guys, there should be enough room for you here if we shift things around a little."

"We'd been wondering if Jack Jr. had enough space for three extra guys," Jim spoke first.

"Guaranteed. Food too, round-the-clock room service like the fancy hotels. The housekeeper will assign a suite and a footman to you to make sure you fit in and wear the right cufflinks to supper and what time which meals begin."

Charles, the chauffeur for this trip, was eager to make the guys feel comfortable.

"So," he continued, "your assigned footman can show you how to use the phone system. He won't get drugs for you or girls or booze. If you get hungry at 3 a.m., he'll show you how to order what you want from the kitchen. It is always open. Anyway, stay on the good side of your footman."

"When I first visited," added Jack Sr., "Jack Jr.'s mom, Barbara, and I were assigned a suite. After all these years, I still have the same footman and the same suite. Charles is right."

Jim and Tyler just took it all in.

A crowd of employees lined up at the massive front entrance and greeted the men. Jack Jr. strolled over to the car and hugged his dad.

"Dad, it's been too long. Who are these handsome guys?"

"Jim and Tyler, I want to introduce you to your older brother Jack Jr., Jack Darnell-Schuyler Jr. Jack, these are Jim Darnell-Schroeder and his brother Tyler Schroeder. Tyler's parents adopted Jim about 18 years ago. Jim is my biological son whose mother decided not to tell me about him. We just met recently at Jim and Tyler's parent's funeral after their tragic accident."

Jack Jr.'s face lit up as he hugged both.

"How cool! I've got little brothers!" he exclaimed. He turned to Jeff, the housekeeper. "Give them the full treatment. Celebration mode for the whole place!"

Jim and Tyler grinned. They hadn't known what to expect. This guy seemed to be glad they were there.

"You have to meet Joe and Eric, my guys, at supper. Jeff, please show Jim and Tyler to their family suite and my dad to his suite. Dinner can be at seven p.m. if the kitchen agrees." If Jack Jr. noticed Jim and Tyler's jaws drop, he kept it to himself.

Jeff Haskins had been the housekeeper at the Schuyler Museum for the last four years. At age 28, Jeff had completed his degrees in hotel management and hospitality at Cornell with honors.

His partner, Osbourne (Ozzie) Vance, was a general surgery resident at Cornell-Weill University Medical Center, would be Chief Resident next year, and divided his time between Jeff's suite at the museum and his 25th-floor condo across from the hospital when off-duty.

Ozzie and Jeff, freshman college roommates, had arrived at South-West College on the same day. Both had come from 'comfortable' homes where money wasn't an issue, but iron parental control was. They moved in, shook hands, and were stunned to feel an instant physical sign of attraction to each other.

Jeff took Jim and Tyler by their necks in the crook of his arm playfully. "Come on, studs. Let me show you your new digs here in New York." They paused before a massive wood door off the 3rd-floor hallway. Here are two keycards, one for each of you. Jeff took his master key and tapped it on the door, which opened quietly.

"Here's your safe place, guys. When you sleep here, you may relax. What happens here stays here."

"Titanium fences and gates stand around the park, and world-class guards patrol around and below. Access anything you wish, including the jet and helicopter fleets, go visit any safe place on the globe you'd like to visit. Your access to the family fortune is a perk of being a Schuyler or the spouse or lover of a 'Schuyler' if Jack Jr. so approves (and he already has, Tyler)." Jeff grinned.

"We require that you sign an NDA, a non-disclosure agreement, before moving in. That is a legal promise to keep any information about this place or the persons who live here to yourself."

"The beneficiaries of the Schuyler Trust are owners of the fortune and the assets that belong to the trust. For many decades, the decision has been to grow the fortune, tend it like a garden, and not spend it down. The Trust is not advertised or marketed except the museum's name, which is open to the public."

"The amount of the fortune," continued Jeff, "what Jack Jr. decides to buy or sell, what objects are in his collections, private details of his life or travel routes, anything about what happens here or doesn't happen, and how many people work here are details that the NDA bans you from disclosing."

"The nature and value of the art or jewel collections, information about the staff, the jet fleet, who fucks who, the limousines, and the contents of those collections are also personal details covered under the NDA. Entry codes, details of the security arrangements certainly--all of that-- is secret."

"You don't want to know what a violation of this NDA would mean. First, I can tell you Jack Jr. would be very disappointed, perhaps angry, and damaged. As far as I know, he isn't vindictive. With his wealth and connections, I don't want to find out."

"I am sure that a violation of the NDA would result in your leaving and never returning here, at the very least. Even if a court doesn't uphold it in the future, unwanted consequences will happen, I'm sure. Don't test it."

"So, if I haven't been clear enough, err on the side of keeping your eyes open and your mouth shut about this place and what you know about it. Jack Jr. is pretty open to discussion if you have questions."

"So, that's the theory of the NDA. The short, practical version is that if you are outside this park and you contact someone not in our group of principal's and staff, no information about you is their business. Period. Not where you live, not who lives there, not anything, including money, art, sex, banking, or personalities."

"Supper is at seven p.m. in the Rose Salon. The dress is formal. You may not have brought formal wear with you from Pennsylvania, so a tailor and personal shopper will be here in an hour to show you samples and measure you."

"Your footman assigned to you, Jim, is your same age. Michael has worked as a footman here for two years. Tyler, your footman, Gary, also your age, began a year ago. Both men are discrete, though all the footmen probably gossip a little about those they care for and serve."

"They depend on each other to share necessary information about likes and dislikes and sizes, etc. so the other footmen can step in as temporary replacements when needed."

"They are charged with being loyal, however, to their assignees. None of them will be shocked at anything; it isn't unusual for a footman to be asked and willingly jump in the shower to wash someone's back. Requiring that as a job task would be illegal. The NDA covers all knowledge of sexual activity in the museum. That's my spiel, and I'm sticking to my story--any questions?"

Jim and Tyler signed their documents, which Jeff witnessed and notarized.

"I'll leave you guys to meet your footmen and unwind before supper. Your footman will be happy to give you a tour of the place. The only off-limits areas are the deep basement levels where the art collections are stored."

Gary and Michael came in after Jeff left, smiling, and introduced themselves. Both were handsome, medium height, polite, fit, and uniformed without caps.

Gary's hair, honey-blonde, curled neatly on top of his head. He was slightly taller than Michael. Michael, wiry, wore a short dark-brown hairstyle.

"Did you get enough to eat on the plane?" Gary asked.

"Not really--I could use some food before seven p.m. or I might waste away," replied Jim. "How easy is it to get some?"

"Me too," chimed in Tyler.

"What sounds good?" Gary asked. "We can get anything you like from the kitchen and show you how to dial for it unless you'd rather wake up your poor tired footman to order for you. Just joking, we're happy to stumble out of bed at your beck and call. We get paid to do it."

"Can I get a cheeseburger and French fries and a chocolate shake?" Jim needed basic food groups right now, he decided.

"Same for me," added Tyler.

"No sooner said than done, guys. We will order and deliver. That sounds good to me, too," Michael added quickly. "Let's just agree that if you don't answer the knock on the door within 30 seconds, we'll assume you've changed your mind and gobble the food ourselves." He grinned at the thought.

Why don't we just order four, and you both eat with us here in Jim's suite and tell us more about what we just got ourselves into here."

"It's against the rules," gasped Gary.

"It's not a great idea," added Michael, "but let's do it anyway."

"Hey, you are the senior footman here," Gary answered. "I bow to your superior decisions." Everybody in the room grinned.

"If you get hungry early in the morning and want to order your food yourself, say, to have three caviar eggs put on a fried yolk instead of four, just pick up the phone and touch 'kitchen.'"

"A chef will answer, will know who you are and the identity and location of your assigned footman. When ready, the chef will call that footman to get his butt to the kitchen to deliver food."

"Like magic, you will get three caviar bits on your egg yolk delivered within minutes to your room."

"Unbelievable." Jim was beginning to think this must be how the rich lived.

"You wouldn't, I suppose, appreciate four servings of butter brickle ice cream sent up with your meal?"

"Try me," said Tyler.

"Yeah," echoed Jim.

"After we eat, the tailor and his assistants arrive, then we take the tour of the park and museum, then we'll place our menu orders for dinner, and then rest and freshen up if you wish," Gary warmed to his subject.

JT heard the juicier bits of Schuyler's history during the meal that followed.

The tailor and the personal shopper measured and prodded their tender parts and inquired about their history of wearing formal wear which in their case was brief: never.

They informed their footmen they would nap for a couple of hours. "Sure," said Gary, "Michael and I will wake you and assist you with the formal wear in enough time to get to supper right on time. Don't do anything we wouldn't do."

Jim and Tyler weren't sure what this might mean precisely but didn't ask. 'I wonder what they get up to?' Tyler thought.

Jack Darnell-Schuyler, Jr., enjoyed his work as the beneficiary of the Schuyler Trust, the largest trust on the planet. He measured 5ft 10", and now 32, handsome, a full head of blonde hair, a sprinkling of soft, curly blonde hair on his chest and a bush of it surrounding the base of his thick, long cock with its mushroom head, he didn't have plans to grow any more. Jack was taller than Eric or Joe and had a shapely butt. Jack knew he desired men; he wasn't so sure about women They didn't light his fire. He didn't dislike them and didn't want close physical contact. It was a fact Jack couldn't explain; he wasn't sure the effort (to understand why or how that feeling was what it was) was worth spending time on.

Eric Bole and Joe Kelly, now 28 years old, the other two men, were biological twin brothers who spent time every day in the gym. They had not grown up together. Eric and Joe's lives intersected after the kidnap attempt at Harvard; their lives intersected with Jack the same week. A police detective from Boston, Joe had fallen in love with Jack after Jack and Eric, college roommates in Cambridge, Mass., had been separated. Joe had enabled Jack to find Eric and, in the process, found his twin.

Both Eric and Joe were good-looking men. After getting acquainted with their minds and bodies, Jack appreciated, desired, and frequently made love to both, sometimes together in the old Schuyler throuple tradition. Jack couldn't have imagined life without them. Jack felt that bedding the twins completed him.

Eric had been Jack's first lover, a bottom at first, then versatile, more recently a dominant lover, tender and kind, balancing his sexual aggressiveness. If Jack asked him, he was happy to vary his sexual activity. Joe was cheerfully versatile in bed, getting or giving happily.

For the first few years of their uneasy acquaintance, Eric and Joe (tense because both loved Jack) didn't have sex with each other. Both felt it might be wrong to love one's brother 'that way.' Eric initially felt slightly anxious about sharing Jack with Joe.

Those feelings had changed over time. The three of them played together sometimes. Joe and Eric began to enjoy each other after a kissing episode in Jack's suite on his huge bed.

Jack had excused himself one day to use the bathroom after a lively session together. The brothers found it awkward to just lie on the bed and talk about the weather, so when Joe pivoted on top of Eric and brought his mouth to Eric's, Eric wasn't shy about nibbling Joe's upper lip, licking his stubbly chin, and opening his mouth to Joe's sweet, strong tongue.

Their mutual exploration rapidly broadened from there. Eric flipped his brother over. "I want to fuck you, Joe."

"Uphold the family standard, man," replied Joe.

Joe promptly 'spread em.' Eric's mouth found itself attached like a limpet to Joe's butt, and shortly after that, Eric's stiff tongue plunged into Joe, followed not long after by his magnificent cock.

Joe easily accommodated his brother; he was used to Jack's monster. His brother, however, was different. His brother was a very different guy. This sex was wild, this family thing, and his mind finally came to the source of his excitement. My brother, a part of me, is inside me, he thought.

Joe's excitement astonished him. The brothers fucked like rabbits--only a lot noisier--and when Jack came out of the bathroom, sweat covered both twins. Eric continued to mine Joe's hole. They broke out in grins looking at Jack.

"Where have you been keeping my brother?" asked Joe. "He's a world-class fucker."

"I know," said Jack. "I figured you guys would figure it out sometime, so I gave you space and time. Now that you are 'up' to speed, I have plans for both of you in the next few hours."

Joe immediately understood that Jack meant to get down and dirty with them. A little busy while Jack was speaking, Eric took a little extra time to absorb Jack's intention. Eric finished with a loud appeal to the deity as he dealt with an exciting, volcanic end to his breeding session.

"Shall we have something to eat before we get down to brass tacks? Someone told me that food provides energy for man's greatest needs." Eric was always hungry, and it seemed to Eric that sex fueled that hunger.

Jack raised his voice over the volume of their shower and spoke, "Number one, let's order from the kitchen. Two, after we finish eating, let's practice loving each other again. Three, I need some advice on something and would like to talk it over with both of you in my office." Hearing no objections, Jack touched the kitchen icon on his bedside device. Soon after, a footman delivered their orders, his eyes straying down to their naked bits.

Some hours later in the afternoon, the men gathered in Jack Junior's office. Eric herded Joe into Jack's office to find Jack already there, smiling at his lovers' new behaviors. The ever-so-slight tension between the brothers vanished after they made love, and a new relaxed set of twins entered.

"First, the phone call from my dad yesterday. It seems as if he found me a 18-year-old stepbrother and partner (brother) that we didn't know about. You've already met them."

Jack went on, "I hope you two will make my dad and my new brother and his friend happy and welcome in your inimitable ways."

"Now, onward," Jack continued. "Guys, you already know about the Schuyler Trust. You know that the original plan for the Trust was to preserve and grow it like a garden. The original fortune by Frank Schuyler plus Carol Schuyler's imaginative dealings with museums around the world formed a large part; the addition of Alain Industries, which make nuclear fusion reactors to the mix, then formed the bulk of the Trust. Now Alain Industries also contributes the largest share of our income to the Trust."

"The old works of art, the cash, the incomparably unique jewel collection--these are all a huge positive mass of wealth, a garden which is too much for anyone to convert to cash, then spend in a lifetime, no matter how high the spending level," Jack observed.

"The current Fund manager for the Schuyler Trust in Manhattan, Roslyn Jacobs, tells me that our total equity value exceeds the Dow by 10% each year. The value of our art has probably increased with the population growth in the world."

"In other words, 'more people' equals more collectors and more buyers. The intrinsic value of the art, however, is still worth what someone would pay for each piece, and since we have held this art for many years, it is difficult to estimate its true value. We can look at similar pieces by the artist and recent sale prices for other works to guess what our art objects might bring at auction."

"The jewelry value may not have changed a lot, and if we begin to buy, prices probably will continue to reflect demand, not surprisingly. Selling a few of the rare, huge stones to museums and collectors is a small market. If we, known as the largest collector in the elite circles that understand these things, begin to sell rapidly, that market will notice and prices will tumble, reflecting individual's and organization's hopes to buy later when the prices are lower."

"As a buyer group, royal families are declining slowly. Not all that many new crowns or tiaras are being manufactured or sold. As individual royals give to their families, they generally look for gems with royal provenance or historical significance from their collections for broaches, bracelets, and necklaces. The number of crowned heads around the world isn't increasing."

"Despite all, there are still population groups that value possession of gold and gems simply because those are portable items of wealth and trade easily for goods and services in some world regions."

"I have decided to change the course and direction of the Schuyler fortune," said Jack. "I could apply for a change in Trust documents, but Pennsylvania politics right now are just fluid enough to make changes in the Trust a risk. This current legislature could make 'creative' changes that we want--or not. A future group of politicians might just decide to refuse permission to make needed changes."

"Guys," continued Jack, "I will start the payback phase of this fortune. My question to you is where and how do we begin. We've nourished the garden, so to speak, and grown it, watered it, and fertilized it. It's time to do some active good with it. Covid, Ukraine, environmental work, living space, internet for all, feeding hungry people, clean water for everyone, voting for all by mail or secure internet, paid education----Jack paused for breath----the list goes on, single-spaced, for many pages."

The twins looked at each other, clearly puzzled. "Are you thinking of giving away money or jewels or art or all of the above?" Eric was trying to break down the possibilities.

Joe added, "Are you thinking of benefiting individuals or groups? Perhaps states or countries? Don't you already have an office in the museum that handles philanthropy (including requests for aid)?"

"I want to put our personal touch on giving. Giving personally, deciding who gets what over time ourselves, can only add satisfaction to our small family, the satisfaction of improving one life at a time, or one classroom at a time." Jack could now say what had been a vague sense before their discussion began.

"For instance," Jack went on, "we might find a person with a college tuition bill they can't pay or someone who has decided not to attend because they can't afford the entrance fees and tuition, not to mention books and transportation, not to mention room and board." Jack warmed to his topic.

"There are ways that philanthropy and government can add to personal economies. Jobs, access to healthcare, carefully selected debt forgiveness, lottery payouts paid in cards for gasoline, and many other innovative ideas have been proposed."

"The easiest and for some, the toughest way, to add wealth to a personal economy is a job. The only way to having the basics in life is income, whether an active job, a pension, dividend income, an inheritance, etc. Either make more or spend less. It hasn't varied in thousands of years. Many people defined as poor by the poverty guidelines are elderly or disabled, unable to work."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars a year is considered a good Social Security income within that group; many elderly persons get only 600 dollars a month on Social Security and live on that amount when they need extra money for medications and food."

"Many people choose between food and medicine every month. One out of three elderly families in this country that go bankrupt do so because of medical bills."

"We are not the wealthiest continent, not even the wealthiest country anymore. China is the per capita richest country now. We are #2, followed in order by Germany, France, UK, Canada, Australia, Japan, Mexico, and Sweden."

"Why can't your new stepbrother use his generation's 18-year-old skills to find college men or women who need an anonymous boost?" asked Joe.

"I'm sure he'd do it. We'd have a tough time paying all that for everybody," Eric said.

"You might consider 'leveraging' your giving to do more for more people." Joe, ever the thoughtful detective, wondered what had brought that idea to his head, a little surprised to hear it coming out of his mouth.

Jack picked up the idea. "Yeah, like use the money to lobby for universal tuition, free education at any college if a student is accepted?"

"Well, are there countries that provide free education to higher levels than high school?" Eric asked. "Just asking because I don't know."

"Let me Google it," Joe replied, massaging the back of Eric's neck a couple of times.

"Looks like all Nordic countries, Germany, and France provide either free or low-cost college education per Google search," Joe announced. "I don't know what the hell I'd do without Google. It's my portable brain."

"Yes, we can have our people in Washington, D.C. look into 'leveraging,'" said Jack. "Something gives me the feeling that the idea of free advanced education failed."

"Something else I can't explain tells me that there might have been significant political opposition, perhaps from the entrenched colleges themselves fearing government interference from accepting taxpayer dollars or dictating lower tuition rates or perhaps fear of 'socialism.'"

"Perhaps the teacher's unions weighed in." Jack's mind was spinning out 'possibilities,' not 'probabilities.'

Eric chimed in. "We could begin with individual assistance and work our way up."

The three men worked through the afternoon. Their conversation began to form patterns of ideas and goals in Jack's head. It became clear that the men wanted to see direct results, wanted anonymity, wanted to relieve economic suffering, and valued education and access to education."

"I'm looking forward to this project. What shall we call it?" said Jack.

"How about 'Payback'?" Joe rapped it out.

"I like it. Other suggestions, Eric?"

"Sounds descriptive," replied Eric.

'Operation Payback' it is," pronounced Jack as they rose to attend dinner in Salon A.

Evening dinner at the museum for the principals and their guests usually consisted of menus planned six weeks ahead of each meal. The chefs considered individual likes and known dislikes, food allergies, and last-minute requests.

The waitstaff provided hot towel service and finger bowels after the entree before dessert. The bread plate was removed with the flatware and cutlery when dessert service was ready, leaving the dessert plate with a doily. The footmen placed lemon slices and water in each bowl to cleanse the guest's fingers.

The cutlery above the dessert plate was brought to the guest's side, the spoon on the right, finger bowl placed by the guest on the upper left side where the bread plate had been.

Jack had tried the vegetarian route for two months a few years back. He hadn't been careful to replace the vitamin B-12 that only animal products provide, had become slightly anemic, and had experienced low energy levels. When he returned to carnivore status, he ate meat once or twice each week, not daily, and felt better.

He knew that eating a burger was a watery mess. Producing a pound of beef took roughly one thousand eight hundred gallons of water after watering the pasture, giving drinking water to the cow, cleaning the barns, not to mention growing the grass and grain to feed the cow.

Ninety-eight per cent of that water went to watering the grass, forage, and feed over the cow's lifetime.

With agriculture and electrical needs and drought and increased heat in the forests of Colorado, mountain snowpack depth measurements were down, and trees lost more water directly to the air. Lake Mead's water level decreased the height of the Statue of Liberty, and not that far further down was the 'dead pool' level, the water level at which water would be too low to make electricity or flow through the dam to irrigate crops in more than one state.

As the celebration dinner progressed to raspberry-laced flan, Jack Jr. watched his brother and Tyler. They still seemed stunned by the details at this point. He'd wait a few days before tasking Jim and Tyler to the job he had in mind.

At ten a.m. the following day, JT finished their bath and breakfast and were about to get dressed when Michael and Gary knocked again.

"Apparate in," yelled Tyler.

"How are you two doing?" Michael asked.

"Fine, with an exception or two."

"How can we help?"

"We brought one suitcase of clothes out of the two we own. I'm going to need clean clothes at some point. Like probably today."

"There is a hamper in that closet. Just toss in what you want housekeeping to launder, and the maid will pick it up at eleven a.m. It gets returned, usually about four p.m. the same day. You can tell us if you wish any piece dry-cleaned. If you need any item cleaned and dried immediately, please call one of us."

"We've been noticing that everybody dresses up for some occasions. We're using the parents' credit cards for now; we've got money, but where can we get better clothes in Manhattan and some advice on what to get?"

Gary took this one. "You have a personal shopper who can go with you. He is hired to help you; it is his job."

"How does that work?"

"They come here to the Museum and pick you up. A car takes you. The alternative, if you wish, is for you to plan your store itinerary and phone it to the travel office downstairs. They would have a car take you to each store in the specified order. One or both of us go with you to carry what you purchase back to the car where security watches over the lot."

"As for paying for the clothes, you both have access to the Schuyler fortune now. Your shopper could go in with you to advise on style and quality and negotiate with store employees; the shopper also keeps track of purchases. The bills go to the Trust."

Jim and Tyler thought it over. "The second option sounds right."

The shopping trip opened Jim and Tyler's eyes. They had no clue before this trip about the services many stores dish out to capture the business of the very rich. Providing personal shopping, fashion assessments, off-hours shopping, security services, liaison with drivers, secured parking--nothing was off-limits if enough money changed hands.

That same afternoon, Jack Jr. sat at his desk with his dad, Jack Sr. "Dad, there's big news I want to share with you and the 'steps' today. You got a few minutes?"

"Sure, Jack."

Jack Jr. touched a button near the desk, and Jean answered. "I need you to call Jim and Tyler Schroeder-Schuyler now and ask them to come to my office, and then I want them and you to tap on my door and come in."

A few minutes later, Jack Sr., Jim, Tyler, and the secretary, Jean, knocked and came in. They all looked a little puzzled but took seats near the desk.

"Guys, after a lot of thought, I have planned a major change to the Schuyler Trust operations. I want to share those changes with you today. This conference might take an hour or two; if you need a bathroom break now, the bathroom for this office is right there. We can easily get tea or coffee delivered if you like."

Jack Darnell-Schuyler Jr.

I had planned to share all of this with my family, but now that the moment had arrived, I had second thoughts. What if this turned out to be a bad call? What if they thought it was stupid? What if it ended up as the end of the Schuyler Fortune?

I had to talk myself down out of that, and it took a few seconds to reassure myself that I'd done OK so far with the Schuyler Trust, that our history as a family couldn't be erased, that we still owned more 'stuff' than we could ever spend, that it didn't matter if anyone liked it or not.

The Beneficiary of the Trust didn't have the luxury of pleasing everyone. Attributed to a former President (before my mother), the phrase 'The buck stops here' (or words to that effect) came to mind.

As for 'Operation Payback' turning into a wrong decision?

Perhaps I could only wrongly decide would be to choose something illegal (this wasn't), something immoral (open to interpretation), or something harmful to others (this hardly qualified).

All these concepts mattered to me: forward momentum, progress, and change in the status quo.

With that self-pat on the back, tea and coffee arrived. When the footman left, I began.

"Guys, there is accumulating evidence that ocean levels will rise again over the next decade or two. Both Greenland and Antarctica are unstable, melting at a faster pace. Reputable climate scientists are sounding the alarm and we cannot afford to ignore the risk of any sea rise here. Much of the visible effect will be lowering of beach housing values over time which is a sector in which we aren't centrally involved. Manhattan is essentially flat, and the bulk of the subways are below sea level."

"Art storage underground in Manhattan may be difficult to access when that time comes. Our space will remain dry as it did last time around, I'm certain, but we would still need regular access to it."

"I am going to, once again, transfer our objects to the Colorado site for storage. There is enough room there, and access won't be a problem because we've kept the Denver and Salt Lake tunnels in good shape."

JT glanced at each other, puzzled. Jack Jr. noted the glance and grinned. "We've a larger duplicate of this place in Colorado at elevations where ocean levels don't matter quite as much."

"The Museum here in Manhattan isn't making or losing money. However, it seems like a good idea to provide housing for some recently displaced families. We will interview the staff to see if they will stay and serve those families at hotel service levels and pay and benefits. Some staff will need to move to Colorado; some won't wish to leave New York."

"I have purchased a giant block of land in Eastern Oregon and plan to build a giant food factory there; to be more specific, we'll have the world's largest vertical farming operation for vegetables which I intend to distribute to vulnerable populations first, then at cost or above to those who can easily afford them."

"Significant disadvantages and essential advantages exist. Hurricanes, tornados, and tsunamis are among the disasters that don't happen there. Volcanic eruptions west of the property with ash deposits can happen, but those same mountain ranges between the Pacific Ocean and Eastern Oregon will let us ignore sea-level changes."

"One drawback to the site is simply the list of advantages of not having a large city close by. We must plan food storage and water treatment. Hospital services are available in Salem and Portland, but those require some travel. We may need to build a small hospital on the site and pay specialists to staff its Emergency Room with the jet fleet available to transport patients, which will require a heated runway, hangars, and a full-time tower."

"Planning for access to our markets, remembering that access to Salt Lake City isn't always guaranteed to be easy from Eastern Oregon, may need to involve commercial rail between from Salt Lake City and Portland. I would foresee ranch to Portland via our tunnel then rail to Salt Lake, then by our private tunnel to Denver, then rail and air eastward."

"I have an option for another two thousand acres of land next to that Oregon site. I want to build greenhouses and begin a massive vertical gardening project to provide jobs and food."

"We have unlimited resources to begin 'Operation Payback'."

"Like Colorado's tunnel from the Museum there to Denver, I want to bore a tunnel from the Oregon site to Salem or Portland, perhaps built with a spur to serve both. It will be a long tunnel, perhaps initially built for just light rail, but direct straight-line access to a nearby city will allow a market for our greenhouse products."

"Before my time, a doctor and his partner bought a ranch in Eastern Oregon just east of Salem and ran it successfully for many years. That ranch was productive. It employed many gay men who had difficulty finding or keeping jobs in the city."

"It may be necessary to fund some of this activity by selling some of our collection slowly to avoid depressing the art markets. Our collection's value depends on what another museum or art collector will pay for it. Those entities are always eager to get a good deal on a transaction and may decide to buy only in a depressed market. If we release an object on a slower schedule, we have a better chance of getting a better return."

"Finally, it is time to plan. Jim and Tyler, you came along just in time. I'm not getting younger."

Jim and Tyler glanced at each other, puzzled at where this might be going, both sensing something important headed their way.

"Every beneficiary of the Trust has the responsibility to decide who the next person will be to lead the Trust."

"For decades, the tradition of this Trust is to train persons in Art and Finance to facilitate the process of selecting qualified persons to lead the Trust."

"I am pleased to offer you, Jim and Tyler, that training in those fields since you are relatives of Carol Schuyler by marriage and by love."

"If I choose you, Jim, as the next Beneficiary, you will be the richest man on the planet. Naturally, our entire family will be glad to help you spend it. Let's prepare you for that."

"Tyler, Jim will need a trained financier to look after the assets and investments of the Trust. Let's train you for that. My suggestion is that you get an MBA and then mentor with our investment supervisor, Roslyn Jacobs, here in New York."

"The way it works is that the Beneficiary owns and spends the money. The finance guy is in complete control of investments for the Trust's fortune."

The room was quiet for a very long time. No one spoke.

When Jim and Tyler got back to their suite, Jim spoke. "What do you think, bro?"

"I think Aunt Hattie's would just shake her head and have a cow. That's what I think."

Jim laughed. "Yeah, like when her bank calls her mortgage due suddenly one day in the future. Nah, I don't hate Aunt Hattie and wouldn't do that--on the other hand, I don't have tender feelings for her selfish, hard heart, that's for sure!"

"Hattie passed up a chance to be kind and healing at a crucial time in our lives. I can't help but wonder if that is her modus operandi. Perhaps she was damaged by someone or some event in her past."

"A few weeks ago, we huddled in mom and dad's bed after their funeral, afraid of the world. I felt like we had each other's back against forces I couldn't even name. We had no idea what would happen to us, and now just a few weeks later, everything looks brighter. I love you, Tyler. Don't leave me ever, OK?"

"I remember, Jim. I've still got your back. I love you too. I'm horny, brother mine. My ass needs your cock in it."

"When we got up afterward to pee that day, it must have been one a.m.," said Tyler, "and I remember your cum trickling down my inner thighs; my ass felt a little sore in a good way. I'm trying to say that you never have to ask to use and love what is already yours."

"All you need to do is give me that look you do," replied Jim, "and we will mentally or physically fuck right there, no matter where we are or what is happening around us. I'm the luckiest guy in the world, Tyler. How do you feel about learning finance?"

"More than OK, oddly," answered Tyler. "I wouldn't have thought of that for a life's work, but in this situation, I want to have your back, all of you! Did Jack Jr. mean to tell us that you decided how to spend (or conserve) the fortune while I make the investment decisions?"

"He implied just that. If his plan to make me the next Beneficiary happens, decisions about major spending projects would be mine to make. You would have access to the fortune and have control over investments. We'd work together to further the Trust."

"Are you OK with learning about Art? It seems like a lot to learn: Art History, Provenance, Restoration, Maintenance, Markets, et cetera," Tyler laid it out.

"It's new to me; I won't lie," answered Jim. "As you say, though, I'll need to know all of that in this situation."

"Tell you what," ordered Tyler.

"Yes?"

"I feel the need to give you the first lesson. It's about Art Maintenance. I intend to sweet-talk you into letting me maintain your property, my backside--right now."

"Teach it, baby."