by Charles, Eva
Just what I need, a little father-son time. Like this night hasn’t already sucked enough life from my soul.
“You’ll be the face of Wilder Holdings while I’m president. And that includes the pharmaceutical arm. But I expect daily briefings.”
“Daily briefings?” Jesus Christ. He expects to talk to me every day? That is not happening. “I thought the whole point of putting your shares into a blind trust is so you won’t be privy to the day-to-day operations.”
“No one’s going to listen in on, or question, a friendly conversation between a father and son who miss one another. You will miss me, won’t you, JD?” He snickers and I want to slam my fist into his jaw.
“Don’t you think you’ll have enough on your plate running the country?”
“My interests and those of the country dovetail nicely. I can multitask. It’s how Sayle Pharmaceuticals got to the top. Despite what your grandfather believed, you don’t get to be one of the big boys unless you play the game.”
“I don’t think my grandfather or my mother saw their beloved family business as a game. And I certainly don’t.”
He pounds a fist on the desk. I stand perfectly still, ignoring his antics, like an adult watching a toddler throw a tantrum. Apparently, he doesn’t appreciate being reminded who lawfully owns the company.
“No one’s indispensable, JD. Least of all you.” He leans back in the chair and clasps his hands over his stomach, like he’s the fucking king issuing a proclamation. “This is my business, including Sayle Pharmaceuticals, until the day they inter my body. Maybe even after.”
He flashes me a blinding toothy smile as fake as his wife’s tits. “Do your job, JD, but stay out of things that don’t concern you or you’ll force my hand. Your job is to babysit the company, not to make policy, or implement changes, or to harass the employees. The babysitter is supposed to keep things running smoothly and follow instructions until Daddy gets back. If he snoops in the bedside table, or in the medicine chest where he doesn’t belong, he’s promptly disposed of.”
“You mean fired.”
“You can take it to mean whatever you like.”
Sayle Pharmaceuticals is my birthright. I would have to die for that to change. DW doesn’t have the balls to do it himself, but he’s not above having me killed. I’m sure he’s thought about it over the years, and I’m even more certain he regrets I wasn’t in the car with the others when it went over the embankment. But this is the closest he’s ever come to saying it.
Power is intoxicating. It makes people careless. The more people feed his ego, the more careless he’ll become. Eventually he’ll make a mistake. And I plan to be standing right there when it happens.
“I think we’ve said everything we need to for tonight. I’ll be downstairs.” I turn to leave, but I don’t escape quickly enough.
“JD, how’s that girl you used to bang in the back of the stable like she was a bitch in heat? Vivien and William’s daughter. Gabrielle, right? I bet she had a sweet little cunt, didn’t she, son?”
I freeze with my hand on the doorknob, rage and terror flooding into every crevice of my body, until I can barely breathe. Do not let him see it, JD. My fingers squeeze the cold metal knob until they ache. “She’s fine, I guess. Lally says she’s engaged.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve always wanted to tap that tight ass. Engaged makes it more complicated. Sometimes more complicated than married. But I’m the president now, all things are possible.”
Focus on the endgame. Don’t let him distract you with shiny objects he knows you can’t resist.
My only job this evening is not to scowl while my father accepts the presidency. If I can do that, everything else will fall into place. One small step at a time. You’ve waited a long time for this opportunity. Breathe, JD. Breathe.
I picture him with an orange jumpsuit yanked down around his ankles, beefy inmates waiting in line to spear his virgin ass with long thick cocks while he cries like a baby. The image settles me.
I turn to him with a practiced smile and ice water barreling through my veins. “I think it’s about time to go downstairs and face the world, Mr. President.”
5
Gabrielle
“I’m sorry, Ms. Duval. The bank would love to help, and we certainly appreciate how you’ve turned the blight of the neighborhood into a shining jewel, but there’s nothing we can do in this situation. You haven’t built enough equity in the hotel for the bank to extend a line of credit.”
He might be doing his job, but there’s not a less sincere man than Jacob Lott, the vice president of State Street Bank. My friend Georgina calls him smarmy, and he is. But there are so many other things about him that are off-putting, too. His bulbous nose is always bright red, like a man who drinks too much, and he always smells like he’s just eaten pickled onions. And while we can’t help our genetics, the man surely earns enough to find himself a decent tailor, and a bottle of shoe polish.
“The Gatehouse is fully booked a year out, and the restaurant doesn’t have an available table for months,” I explain, trying to appeal to reasoning. “We’ve been invited to join the Blackberry Inn and the Hotel Savannah for the Christmas celebration this year.”
“I did hear about that. That was so good of them to invite you.”
“We’ve worked very hard. I like to think we deserve the honor.”
A woman knocks on the glass partition, between the offices. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he asks as he scurries out the door.
“Of course.”
Nice of them to invite you, what a prick. The Gatehouse is celebrating Christmas with two other small hotels in Charleston. They’re exquisite hotels with an upscale clientele. Not so different than us in that regard, but they’ve been around for decades.
The Blackberry Inn will serve Christmas Eve dinner for guests from all the hotels, The Gatehouse will host Christmas brunch, and Savannah will pull out all the stops for Christmas dinner. It’s genius, and there’s been so much excitement about the holiday event that all three hotels were fully booked on the day of the announcement, six months ago. For The Gatehouse, it’s an opportunity to showcase our best to a group of people who normally stay elsewhere in Charleston. It has the potential to change everything for us.
“Where were we?” Lott asks, on his way back into the room.
Nowhere good. “What about the underwriter?” I ask. “You’ve turned me down without even talking to him.”
“Ms. Duval. I haven’t turned you down. You haven’t even filed an application.” He sighs, a long, exacerbated breath that distributes the tang of pickled onions into the tiny office. “I’m just trying to save you the trouble. As you know, the loan process is lengthy and very involved. I’m just apprising you of the almost certain outcome before you embark down that road.”
“What if the underwriter feels differently?”
“He doesn’t.”
“You’ve discussed it with him?”
“I spoke with him after you called. He’s sorry to hear about your mother’s declining health, but his initial commitment was to the restoration and preservation efforts in Charleston, not to the hotel specifically, or to you.”
I nod. “I understand, and I’m very grateful for his generosity.”
“There are so many people in need, we can’t possibly expect him to solve everyone’s financial woes.”
That might be the case, but I’m not taking your word for it. “No, I don’t expect that, but I would appreciate a loan application.” His tongue clicks softly in disapproval. “My mother always says you never know unless you try,” I add, with a smile sweet enough to make rhubarb palatable.
Five minutes later my loan application and I are on the sidewalk headed toward the parking lot. There’s no way I’m getting the loan. I insisted on the application in part because Lott was so condescending. But I will submit the paperwork. All I have to lose is time—something I don’t seem to have much of these days.
* *
*
I pull into the driveway of Georgina’s house. It’s a cute bungalow with a newly painted picket fence. Georgina Bressler Scott has been my best friend since before I could walk. And she was with me from the beginning, when The Gatehouse was little more than an empty shell, badly in need of a facelift and some love.
Georgie’s waiting at the door when I come up the porch steps. “I want to hear why you were at the bank. I take one day off, and you’re already borrowing money?” She pulls me into a hug.
“You look great,” I tell her. “Those pregnancy hormones are good for your skin. It’s all glowy.”
“Don’t lie, I look like a whale.” She rubs her hand over her expanding belly. “Can you come in for a few minutes? I have cookies.”
“What kind?” I ask, following her into the kitchen.
“Lemon sugar.”
“I would never say no to a sugar cookie. Especially a lemon one. Did you make these?”
“Yes. Can you believe it?” she says, pouring iced tea into the tall glasses embellished with bees that she usually saves for company. “I think it’s a nesting thing. I read somewhere that around the third trimester all of these maternal instincts kick in as you prepare for the baby. Maybe I’ll become the next Martha Stewart.”
“There’s about as much chance of that happening as there is of me becoming the next Julia Child. But about our baby.” I hand her a bag from Mimi’s, my new favorite store.
“Gabby, you buy this baby more clothes than you buy for yourself. Oh my God. Look at this!” She holds up a onesie with newly-hatched chicks on it that will be perfect for spring.
“It’s adorable, isn’t it? It was on sale, and I couldn’t resist. She can wear it Easter morning before she puts on the cute ruffled dress we’re going to buy her. The one with the matching shoes and tights.”
“She could be a he, you know.”
“I don’t think so, but maybe. That’s the only reason the ruffled dress is still in the store. Before I forget, here’s the paperwork you wanted. It’s not so adorable.”
“Thanks. Wade’s away tonight and it’ll give me something to do before bed.” She takes the color-coded folder and puts it aside. “So tell me about your appointment with the bank that I didn’t know anything about.”
“Like I told you earlier, I was trying to persuade them to loan me some more money, but I wasn’t successful.”
“Why do you need money? Is it for the quarterly insurance bill that’s coming up? Don’t borrow money for that. I have a few dollars put away. I can help.”
I shake my head. “My mother has been offered some experimental treatment that might prolong her life. Or at least make it better.”
“Oh Gabby! I’m so happy to hear it. I’ve been so worried about her since you first told me she was sick. And worried about you, too.” I nod. Georgina doesn’t take her eyes off of me. “Experimental treatment. It sounds expensive. That’s why you need money?”
I draw a breath before I say the words out loud. Even as they come out of my mouth, I still can’t believe them. “JD helped my parents find the doctor, and loaned them the money to make it happen. I was hoping the bank would lend me the money to pay him back. Then I could get him out of our lives. Things were better for me that way.”
The color drains from Georgie’s face, and I haven’t even told her any of the ugly details. It’s startling to watch. “JD Wilder?” she whispers, like she might summon the devil himself if she says his name too loud.
I nod. “I don’t like it either. But it is what it is. My mother needs the treatment, and Jacob Lott said they aren’t giving me any more money. I’m still going to apply for the loan, but it’s not likely to come through. It might be her only real hope.”
“Nothing good happens when he’s anywhere near you. Remember that whole boarding school thing? Instead of breaking up with you like a normal boy, he had his father send you away.”
I cover my face, making small circles over my tired eyes. “I know. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since I found out my parents took money from him.”
“Isn’t there another way? Being indebted to those Wilders is—it’s not good.”
“No,” I sigh. “It’s not good. But the treatment is very expensive. Believe me, I’m searching for another way to come up with money.”
She looks at me with those round hazel eyes, framed by soft inky lashes. I see the worry in her face. The pity. She knows about my history with JD. Not all the things we did in the stable, but everything else. I cried on her shoulder the night I found him with Jane, and for months and months after.
“When we were kids, I was always jealous of you,” she says softly.
“Oh, come on. You talk about this like you committed some big sin. Kids are kids. And I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t remember you being jealous of anyone.”
“I was. I loved you, but in my heart, I always wanted what you had. It didn’t matter how much you shared with me. I coveted every single thing about your life, like an unrepentant sinner. A mama of my very own, and a father who didn’t stumble around drunk while kids taunted him. And JD—I wanted him most of all.”
She gets up and pours us each some more sweet tea, wiping the lip of the pitcher with a pale-yellow dishtowel. “I was closer to his age, and it never seemed fair that he wanted you instead of me. But it didn’t matter how much I flirted, or paraded around in shorts that were practically indecent, or showed off my belly button to him. None of it mattered. He chose you. Every day he chose you.”
Every day he chose you.
Until he chose someone else.
A ball forms at the opening of my stomach, and even the tea can’t go down smoothly. “Everyone wanted his attention, boys or girls, it didn’t matter. I never noticed you flirting with him more than anyone else did.” And I would have noticed.
“Because you always saw the good in everyone. Especially in me. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
“You always deserved it, Georgie. And JD didn’t turn out to be much of a prize. Consider yourself blessed.”
“Mmhm. I do.” Her voice trails off, as she smooths the wrinkles from her cotton skirt. Her left hand finds a soothing rhythm, but it does nothing to ease her crinkled brow. “Do you remember when I visited you at that school in Connecticut?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I counted the minutes until you arrived. I was so lonely and homesick.”
“All those terrible girls who called you Black Brie and Brie Noir, like you were some wretched French cheese gone bad. You put on a good face, but I knew how broken you were inside. How awful it was to be around those girls with too much money, who couldn’t get their noses out of the air. My heart hurt when I said goodbye that Sunday. Leaving you there in that dreadful place, full of mean and spiteful girls who talked with funny accents. I cried all the way home. It was the very last time I was jealous of you.”
I wrap my arms around my middle, cupping my elbows. “I cried after you left, too. Cried for hours until I fell asleep. I was so miserable.” Those first few months at boarding school, when I was the strange new girl, were the worst.
“I never told you this, but that visit changed my life, Gabby. It made me grateful for what I have.” She twists a small section of hair around her finger, and for several seconds her mind is somewhere else. “I never again wanted to be you. I asked God to forgive my envy, and thanked him for his mercy. Thanked him for sending JD to you instead of to me. I’m so sorry.”
“A lot of the girls were awful. But looking back now, after the first semester, it wasn’t all bad. My parents coddled me. I was too soft. At boarding school, I learned to tune out the noise, and to push through adversity. It proved to be an important life lesson. Painful, but important. And just so you know, they’re quite sure that we’re the ones with the funny accents. I can’t believe you remembered they called me Brie Noir.”
“It was terrible. It sounded exotic, until I found out they called you
that after they saw the picture of your mother.”
“Mmhm.” My mother is biracial. Her skin isn’t particularly dark, but she has tight, tight curls, that she wears natural. The girls didn’t know what to make of it. They only knew she wasn’t white. White women don’t have that kind of hair. And biracial wasn’t part of their elite vocabulary.
Georgie is quiet and calm now. But I feel like there’s more she wants to tell me. I don’t know what dredged all of this up today. We haven’t talked about any of it in more than a decade. Maybe longer.
“Did I ever tell you Brie Noir is a real cheese? I tasted it when I interned at that hotel in Paris. I thought about those nasty girls while I enjoyed a sliver with some pink champagne.”
She doesn’t smile. “You have so much, Gabby. You worked so hard. He’ll ruin it. If you let him near you again, he’ll take everything. He can’t help it. It’s how he is. How they all are.”
She’s right. But it won’t do any good to tell her that. And it won’t do me or my mother any good to wallow in self-pity. “I won’t let him this time. I’m prepared, and my brain isn’t filled with fairy tale endings. I know his game this time.”
“Be careful. Be careful of all of them.”
Georgie is afraid of something. Her face is still ashen, and she’s pushing back her cuticles, like she does when she’s anxious. “What aren’t you telling me, Georgina Bressler Scott?”
Georgie opens her mouth, then presses her lips together. I wonder if something happened with JD when we were younger. Maybe they made out behind my back. There was a year or two in there—it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. I love her, and nothing she can say will change that.
* * *
I’m going to be late meeting JD. I stayed longer at Georgina’s than I planned, and now I’m stuck in traffic. I’m sure he’ll have plenty to say about it, too.