by Dylan Allen
Get your shit together, Hayes.
“Sorry.” I shoot her an apologetic smile. “Turn around,” I say and she nods before she does. I reach over her and drape the chain across her neck. I look over her shoulder. The teardrop is resting in the middle of her chest. I drag it slowly up and into place. I watch, transfixed, as it glides over her skin like I imagine my own fingers would. When it slides into the small hollow between her collarbones, I draw the clasp together at the nape of her neck.
I fumble with the tiny closure a few times. “My hands are big.” I apologize as my fingers brush the soft skin of her neck. She exhales sharply and gooseflesh ripples over her skin. There’s no air conditioning in the hallway. I smile to myself. Maybe this weekend won’t be as mundane as I’d feared. I manage to close it and she turns around and rewards me with the prettiest fucking smile I’ve seen all year.
The loud trill of my phone fills the air like a siren, and she jumps back. I glance at the phone in my hand and grimace. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I say and send her an apologetic smile.
She smiles understandingly. “Of course. I’m on this floor … maybe I’ll see you later,” she says.
“Absolutely,” I respond before I turn toward my room and answer my phone.
“Hayes, honey, you there?” my aunt Gigi asks as I walk into my room.
“I’m here. How’s my favorite girl?” I ask.
I flip the switch on the air conditioner, pull my shirt over my head, and go stand beneath the wall unit that’s perched above the south facing window.
“You sure know how to make your Gigi feel special, Hayes. How was your flight?”
“It was good. I worked,” I tell her.
“Of course, you did. Now, before I get down to business, I want you to make me a promise,” she says.
“That’s not fair. I can’t agree to promise if I don’t know what you’re going to ask,” I cajole her. Even though I know exactly what she’s going to ask.
“Don’t be smart, Hayes,” she chides me in the way only she can.
“Pardon me,” I apologize sincerely.
“I want you to promise me you’re going to try and have a good time. Don’t scowl so much. That face of yours is so handsome when you smile, honey,” she coos.
“Okay, sure thing. I promise,” I say.
“You’re lying, but I love you for humoring me,” she says airily.
“It’s what I live for,” I return dryly.
“Don’t be smart. I’m helping the movers sort boxes and they can’t find the box with your crockery.” She sounds distressed.
“What’s crockery?” I ask and lean against the door of my room and gaze out the window at the copse of pine trees that provide a natural border for the property and perfume the air all year round.
“Your plates, glasses, bowls,” she explains.
“Oh, that’s because there are none. I never eat at home. I didn’t see the need for them,” I answer honestly.
“Oh, Lord, Hayes. People will think you were raised in a barn,” she cries.
“No one will think I was raised in a barn,” I say dryly.
“I’m going to the Crate Barrel in Highland Village to place an order. I don’t know if they deliver, so you’ll need to pick it up when you get back. I’m just going to go over the list of things I’m getting,” she says.
“Thanks for doing this for me, Gigi,” I say.
“Well, it’s the least I can do since I won’t be here when you actually move in. And I should be thanking you for going to the wedding for me, honey. I know he’s a pretentious little shit, but his mother was my dearest friend in Positano. I would have hated to not have anyone there. And maybe,” she drawls conspiratorially, “you’ll meet the girl of your dreams,” she ends hopefully.
“Have you seen Thomas?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No.” She sniffs like she smells something bad. “He and I haven’t been in touch at all. I just shudder to think what the foundation would look like if he had even one more year with it. I’m so glad you’re moving back here,” she says.
“Nice to know you’ll miss me,” I say dryly.
“Of course, I will, baby. But I’m glad you’re getting on with your life,” she says. But I can tell there’s something on the tip of her tongue by the way she catches her breath at the end of that last sentence.
“What’s going on?” I ask and brace myself. My aunt is the most direct human being on the planet. The only thing she’s ever been hesitant to talk about is Renee. “What did she do this time?”
“She accepted your offer,” she says.
“How do you know that?” I ask. I put her on speaker and open my email application.
“Well, I was at that lovely restaurant in your new neighborhood … oh, Hayes, I love it here,” she says dreamily.
“You were about to tell me how you know about Renee,” I say impatiently.
“Oh, sorry, I just get so carried away talking about this place. The Wildes have done such a good job—”
“Gigi …”
“Okay, sorry,” she says like she’s being put upon.
“Just tell me about Renee,” I say with feigned patience. She doesn’t like to be rushed. And slows down purposely sometimes when she is.
She clears her throat, and I can just see her, tucking her feet underneath her and sweeping her dark, salt-and-pepper hair off her shoulders before she speaks. “Well, like I said, I was at a restaurant. Her lawyer was sitting at the table right behind me!” she says triumphantly.
“How did you know he was her lawyer? I don’t think I’d know him on sight, and I’ve sat across the table from him at least a dozen times in the last two months,” I say.
“Hayes, you know I never forget a face. Also, I heard him say her name. It’s why my interest was piqued in the first place and then I realized who he was and what he was talking about,” she explains. “Stop interrupting and listen,” she says impatiently.
“Excuse me, go on,” I say sarcastically.
“Of course, he had no clue who I was. He was celebrating. His thirty percent is more than you should have given that disloyal little bitch all together,” my aunt says in her most severe voice.
“I’m just glad it’s done.” My voice is toneless. Renee, my ex-wife and my biggest regret, sued me two weeks ago. Gigi introduced us. We were all in Carmel for an annual party one of her friends throws every Fourth of July. I had just finished my MBA at Wharton and was working for a KPMG in Rome. I’d come out for the party because I was turning twenty-five and had somehow managed to let Gigi convince me that I needed to find a wife. This party she said would be crawling with women who would be suitable. Suitable meant she’d be from a wealthy family and a well-trained socialite who never put a foot out of place publicly.
Renee—on paper— was perfect. That she was sexy was icing on the cake.
I learned early on one of the hazards of having a lot of money. Your worst impulses have all the fuel they need to turn into your biggest regret. We were married within weeks of meeting each other. Our alcohol and sex-fueled dash down the altar had lasted a grand total of twenty-two days. Once the booze wore off, the sex got boring. Once that was gone, we realized we didn’t even like each other very much.
When we divorced, everything I’d earned during our marriage was half hers. That was barely anything considering we were officially separated less than thirty days after we found each other.
Our divorce finalized on my twenty-fifth birthday. The same day my inheritance from the Rivers Trust, and what Swish had been setting aside for me for the last ten years, all vested. She’d never known the details of it. There was never any need for her to.
I gave her enough money to get settled in a new place by herself and to give her breathing room until she could find a job.
She found a new husband before she found employment, and I was off the hook for alimony.
Then, a year before my thirtieth birthday, coincidence created
a set of circumstances that set us on a course for a much-less-than-amicable reunion. A job took her and her new husband to Houston. Less than six months later, he’d left her for another woman, and her divorce was being formalized.
The Houston press was in a tizzy about my impending return. Would I be able to navigate the treacherous swamp of Houston’s upper-class society when I spent my formative years in Europe? Did I even still speak English? How had becoming one of the wealthiest men in the country—practically overnight—change me?
It was that last question that got Renee’s attention. Though she’d never married without a prenup again, none of her husbands were green enough to let her walk away with more than enough to satisfy that “the lifestyle to which she was accustomed” clause in their prenups. So, when she heard that I’d gone from successful accountant to the new “Rivers King,” as they called me in the press, she pounced.
She sued me for a share of my inheritance. She argued that it should have been included in our community property because I concealed its existence from her and because it matured while we were still legally married.
I pushed back. She was asking for thirty percent of my estate. I wasn’t willing to give her thirty cents. The day after our first court hearing, she showed up at my house with a bottle of wine and an offer for settling. I slammed the door in her face.
The next morning, she sat down on a local talk show wearing sunglasses and implied that I’d removed her—physically—from my house. The police paid me a visit and set the rumor mill spilling.
My lawyers advised me to settle. Gigi wanted me to fight back. But, I didn’t want a court battle. She just wanted my money. And that is the one thing I have plenty of. It kept the foundation’s and family money out of her reach.
“Don’t let it get you down,” Gigi says. She mistakes my silence for sadness.
“I’m not down. I’m glad she’ s gone,” I say honestly. It’s true. I hope our paths never cross again.
“Most people aren’t so calculating,” she says. “You had one bad experience. You can’t stay single forever because of it.”
“Why not?” I say it like I’m joking, but I’ve actually considered it.
“Don’t say things like that! People will start thinking you’re like that ridiculous George Clooney,” she says.
“He looks like he’s doing all right,” I say frankly.
“Hayes McGregor Rivers,” she says sharply, and I laugh at how riled up this topic always gets her.
“I know I got Renee wrong. But, in my defense, I didn’t think you’d marry her a week after you met. If you let me leave this earth without grandnieces and nephews, I’ll will haunt you forever,” she says.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. I like having you around,” I retort. She lets out a pained, long-suffering sigh.
“You’re thirty. You need to start thinking about it again. Especially if you’re going to make a successful transition back into Houston’s society.”
I can’t suppress my groan. We’ve been having this argument for the last year.
“Gigi, let me do one thing at a time. The foundation needs my attention right now. The wife hunt can wait.”
“Well, there are lots of eligible girls from very nice families in Houston,” she says.
“Gigi—”
“Oooh, if I’m here more often, I could be your matchmaker,” she says hopefully. I start to quip that she’s done enough by introducing and encouraging my liaison with Renee. But, it goes beyond whatever her hopes are. I have watched one marriage of convenience after another fail and fall apart. It’s the last thing I want. So, I level with her.
“I’m not interested in being with anyone who would use a matchmaker. Especially not if it’s any one of the women you’re talking about. They wouldn’t care if I was eighty, sterile, and impotent. They want my money and they want to secure themselves a lifetime of monthly checks in the form of child support when they birth little Rivers heirs, and they would sleep with our gardener to make sure they got it even if I couldn’t give it to them,” I say.
She’s completely quiet.
“Gigi?” I call her name.
“You need to think about who you’ll move on with,” she says finally. Her voice is completely normal. I put her silence down to a bad connection.
I’ve already moved on. To a place where choosing a wife will never be an impulsive, uninformed act again. I’ll never put Kingdom at risk like that again. “I will. If you will drop this conversation,” I say.
“Deal. I had lunch with Henny yesterday,” she says perkily, and I relax a little. Rivers Wilde gossip, I can deal with.
“How was that?” I ask.
“She looks wonderful. Retirement agrees with her. We ate lunch in her pool and drank an entire bottle of wine. Her friend Sally made lunch. It was grand,” she giggles to herself. “I was sick to my stomach when I got home, but it just made me think about how much I miss living here,” she says dreamily.
“Perfect, I’ll buy you a house and you can move with me,” I say.
“I-I couldn’t leave Positano, but I’m thinking with you gone, it won’t feel like home. I spent the first twenty-five years of my life in Houston. Being back here, especially in Rivers Wilde … I’m tempted to start spending part of the year here. It’s charming,” she says happily.
“Charming isn’t how I would describe it, but I think you being there would make it feel less like hostile territory,” I say.
“I wish your brothers would come home. You need them. Though, with that dreadful mother of theirs, I can understand why they scattered the way they have,” she says ruefully.
“They will,” I say with more confidence than I feel. I certainly hope they will. So far, their responses to my request have been less than promising. But, Gigi’s right, I need them. They’re all the real family I have left.
Houston doesn’t feel like home anymore, and I have to find a way to make it so. Having them around might make that easier.
“Oh, dear.” My aunt sounds dismayed. “I shouldn’t have mentioned Renee. She always spoils the mood.”
“She’s good for that,” I say.
“Just goes to show how money can’t buy you anything that matters.”
“Right,” I say shortly. Talking about Renee and money are two things I’d always rather not do. But when I think about all the money I spent to book this particular suite in the hopes of finding quiet, and how that, too, has managed to elude me, it makes me downright antsy.
“All right, baby, you go on. Just promise you’ll try to have a nice time,” she says.
“I promise,” I say and hang up.
I walk back to the door and open it.
The corridor is empty. Oh, I plan to have a very nice time.
GOLD DIGGER
HAYES
“This is paradise.” A female American voice drifts into my ear as if carried by the light sea breeze and interrupts my afternoon nap. Reluctantly, I open my eyes slowly and sit up. I squint against the afternoon sun’s glare and sweep my eyes over the huge veranda. I’m as alone as I’d been when I first came out here to lie down.
I listen and don’t hear anyone talking. I walk over to the ornately-carved stone wall and rest my forearms on the smooth, sun-warmed cement rail and stare out at the view.
The sweeping green and blues of the sea, sky and verdant, lush landscape seem endless. The light breeze isn’t stiff enough to do more than ruffle the very fine hairs on my arms. But it carries with it the smell of lemon and pine. The salt of the sea spray gives the air a bite that’s softened by the sound of the sea’s lazy current.
The sea stretches and disappears into the curve of the horizon. I gaze at it and understand why people thought the world was flat. From here, I can imagine falling off the illusion created by the glancing kiss it shares with the sky.
The mossy cliff that runs along this stretch of beach surrounds the villa making it feel secluded even though there are neighboring villas on
either side. My room is one of only two massive suites on the fourth floor. I thought it would be quiet. I hoped that if I had neighbors, they would be people who wanted to be as far away from the festivities’ noises as possible.
A cacophony of excited women’s voices tears a hole in that hope. Laughter and unintelligible shouts of delight spill through it and splatter all over my mood. It was good while it lasted, I tell myself. I pull out my phone and scan my emails.
I scroll through email after email of bad news. Kingdom is being hit with lawsuits left and right. From breach of contract to improper dismissals. In the last fifteen years, my uncle’s failure to manage Kingdom and all of its holdings properly is matched only by his lack of transparency. He’s stacked the board with his minions instead of competent people. We are in violation of hundreds of regulatory guidelines in nearly every facet of our business, and everyone is looking to me for answers I don’t have.
It’s been two weeks since I became chairman of the board. The first email I received in my official capacity was from my newly-appointed executive assistant. In it, she asked me to send her a guest list for my swearing-in ceremony and banquet. My reply informed her that, until we had something real to celebrate, the banquet was postponed.
This wedding couldn’t have happened at a worse time. When Gigi asked me to attend on her behalf, I said no.
She pinched my ear, told me not to talk back, and booked my flight.
So, here I am.
“Let’s go out here. I want to see the ocean,” the same voice that woke me says. Even though I can hear the women, I can’t see them, and they have no idea I’m here.
“Yeah, I can’t believe we’re here. This is beautiful,” another voice gushes.
“You know, I live forty-five minutes from the beach, and I don’t think I’ve seen the ocean all year,” another voice raves. Like the other voice, hers is bubbling with excitement.
“It’s the sea, Cass. The Ligurian Sea. Not the ocean, and I’ve got a headache. I’m going to lie down. Have fun with the girls, okay?” This voice makes my ears perk up. It’s my elevator girl. But she sounds decidedly unhappy.