by Mia Carson
Stephanie yelled in aggravation, throwing her hands up over her head. “You arrogant jackass!”
“It runs in the family,” he said proudly, and she chucked the newspaper at him.
“You horrible, ungrateful man!” she yelled, the insults continuing. They probably would’ve kept going, too, but the doorbell rang, the chimes echoing merrily through the house, and interrupted her rant.
Stan flicked the paper out crisply. “You going to get the door?”
She flipped him the bird before turning on her heel with a huff and storming away. Stan’s eyes saw the words on the page, but he didn’t read it carefully. Stephanie meant well, they all did, but he didn’t deserve their kindness, didn’t want to see it day in and day out. They could never understand what went on inside his head, and he was far from trying to let anyone in to even attempt to help relieve the burden of guilt he carried with him. He was better off alone in this huge house where he couldn’t bother anyone again.
“Mr. Wellington, I think you should come here,” Stephanie said through the intercom system in the house.
Setting the paper down, he wheeled his chair over and pressed the button. “What the hell for? If it’s that damn delivery guy, you tell him he knows exactly what he’s supposed to do with shipments from the factory.”
“It’s not the delivery boy, and I think you should be careful what you say next.”
Stan leaned back in his chair. If it was anyone from the office, they wouldn’t wait for Stephanie to lead them inside. His family members all had their own keys, so who the hell was at his front door? “I’ll be there in a moment,” he said and wheeled his way out of the kitchen.
The hall to reach the main entrance was long, and when he finally cleared it, he gripped the wheels, jerking his body to a sudden stop. Standing behind Stephanie on the stone and brick front porch was a woman in her mid-forties with greying, frazzled hair. She had a frumpy look with rumpled clothes and could do with some makeup to perk her face up a bit, but she wasn’t the reason Stan’s hands refused to move his chair any further forward.
“Mr. Wellington?” Stephanie asked, clearing her throat. “Mr. Wellington, is everything all right?”
His head bobbed, but the words remained stuck in his throat. Standing beside the woman was a boy with curly auburn hair, freckles dotting his face, and blue eyes of ice Stan was all too familiar with. He saw them every morning when he woke up and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His heart thundering behind his ribcage, he pushed himself cautiously closer to the three of them.
“Sorry, um, how can I help you?” he asked, directing his question to the woman though his eyes darted back to the boy.
He shifted on his feet and shot Stan a dirty look before staring past him into the house. His eyes widened for a second and his mouth opened in a look of awe. Then, as if sensing Stan watching him, his face shut down again, and he glared at the stones beneath his sneakers.
“My name is Theresa Applebaum, Mr. Wellington. I work for Child Services for the state of Connecticut,” she said and held out her hand for him to shake. “May we come in?”
Stan released her hand and wheeled back. “Of course. Please, come in. How can I help you, Mrs. Applebaum?” He glanced at the boy who hid behind the woman now.
“Do you know a woman by the name of Lara Templeton?”
Stan’s stomach plummeted. “I did, over ten years ago. Why?” He looked to the boy again, and the sinking suspicion he knew exactly who this kid was washed over him before Mrs. Applebaum sighed and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“This is Louis, her son,” she said, introducing the boy. “Lara has claimed you as his father.”
Stephanie gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Are you sure?”
“Lara had been ill the past few years, and she worked with several different lawyers on her will to ensure her son would be taken care of when she passed.”
Louis sniffed hard, and Stan caught tears brimming in his eyes. “You’re saying Lara… She’s no longer with us?” he asked, trying to put it gently. Louis shot him a dirty look and wiped his face on his arm. “Stephanie, maybe you should take Louis into the kitchen, make him something. Would that be all right?”
Mrs. Applebaum asked Louis quietly if he would mind leaving them alone to talk. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like he’s going to want me anyway,” Louis snapped angrily as he passed Stan. “And he’s in a stupid wheelchair.”
Stan’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair as Louis and Stephanie wandered down the hall towards the kitchen. “He seems in a pleasant mood.”
“You have to forgive him. He’s been staying with a foster family since Lara passed, and it hasn’t been easy.”
“Why are you here?” Stan asked again.
Theresa frowned, wringing her hands. “I would have assumed that was obvious, Mr. Wellington.” Hanging her head, she sucked in a breath, and when she faced Stan again, she seemed to age even more. “Lara designated you as Louis’ guardian in the event of her death. He is your son, after all. Don’t you want to be with him?”
“Son?” The word was strange in his mouth. “She never told me. We weren’t even dating. We had a few crazy weekends together and that was it.” How could she think he would be able to take care of her son? My son, he mentally corrected himself. I have a son. “Are you even sure he’s mine?”
“She insisted, but we would also like to be thorough in this. A DNA test will be required before Louis can come to live with you, and after that, you’ll have regular visits from our office to ensure you are capable to be his guardian,” she explained in a rush as if afraid he would kick her and Louis out the door before giving this a chance.
You are, aren’t you? You can’t have a kid. Kick him out now and save yourself the trouble of dealing with the fall out later when this proves to be a shitty idea. His foot twitched, but there was no chance of him getting out of that chair and walking, not anytime soon. “As you can see, you’re not exactly catching me at my best.”
“Yes, the accident,” she said nodding. “I read about it in the papers. A horrible tragedy, and I am so sorry to bring more stress to your life, but he needs someone, Mr. Wellington. He needs his father.”
The kid looked like Lara, but those damn eyes were an exact match for Stan’s. He didn’t need the DNA test to tell him that boy in his kitchen was his son. Lara. When was the last time he even thought about that firecracker of a woman? She traveled around the country for her job, a financial lawyer for companies such as his, which was how they met. An ember of warmth grew in his belly as he remembered the first night when they had tumbled into bed together, twisting the sheets around their legs as they shook the walls with their screams of pleasure. Every time she passed through town, she stopped by his place and they had a weekend fling, a night on the town, sometimes just a quickie in the bar bathroom before she was gone again.
Stan never saw himself having a steady relationship, but if he would have had one, Lara would’ve been the woman he asked to marry him. But she was wild, never one to settle down. She stopped coming around after a while, and he accepted her moving on with her life. He moved on to other women and expanding the family’s gunsmith and ammunition business. Never did he think their ten-year-old son would show up on his doorstep, bringing with him the news that Lara, his wild woman, was dead and buried.
“How did she die?” he whispered, the need to know driving him to roll closer to the social worker.
“Breast cancer. She fought it for seven years before she couldn’t any longer,” she replied quietly. “The poor kid was there through it all. I think he blames himself.”
“He didn’t give her cancer,” Stan argued hotly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“He’s a kid—that’s what they do when a parent dies. I see it all the time,” she answered wearily, as if such a sight wore her down more each day. “Add that to how angry he is with you, so he’s not the most sociable little boy right now.”
Stan slammed his hand on the arm of his chair. “I didn’t know I had a fucking kid. I never even knew she was pregnant,” he ranted harshly. Regretting it immediately, he sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, really. It’s just not the type of news I expected today. Things have been a little rough around here.”
“As they have been for Louis. He just lost his mother and you are the only person standing between him and being sent to foster care,” she said, her voice louder. “He has no other family—no one—so while you sit there and complain that things are rough for you, imagine how they will be for a ten-year-old boy who thinks his father doesn’t want him!”
“I never said I didn’t want him,” he argued. “I just… This is a lot to take in. I never knew Lara was pregnant, nor did I know she was sick. I would’ve done something to help her, been there…damn it.”
Mrs. Applebaum’s face softened and she patted his hand. “I assumed as much, which is why I held out hope of you being a gentleman.”
“Why is that?”
“So you wouldn’t be like many other rich men who I come to with their children and they turn them away and force them into the system. It happens more often than people think.” Her brow wrinkled and she glanced to the kitchen. “The DNA test will take two weeks. Is that enough time for you to get yourself and your house…in order?” She hesitated when she looked around, finally seeing the mess that had become the Stanford Wellington mansion. “Oh dear.”
Stanford remembered a time before the accident when the place had been spotless, but that was before he stopped caring and slowly destroyed each room bit by bit, tearing apart everything reminding him of brighter days. When the staff started to quit, Stephanie was the only one left, and she apparently wasn’t joking when she said she flat-out refused to clean up his mess.
“I’ll see it gets cleaned up and that there’s a bedroom and a bathroom ready for him.”
“Do you have any nieces or nephews?”
“None—at least, not yet,” he said with a sad smile. “It’s not for lack of trying on their part.”
Sarah, his oldest sibling and sister, had tried for a baby with her husband for three years. Now, the next time Stanford saw them all, he would have Louis with him. The first grandchild in the Wellington family. He cringed, praying his sister wouldn’t hold it against him.
“I’ll send a package of all that is required to ensure your home is well within the parameters for becoming a guardian,” she assured him. “Two weeks should be plenty of time. Are you home most of the time?”
He glared inwardly at her but kept his face even as he responded. “Most days, yes, though I can’t exactly drive and my chauffeur quit a month ago…or two.”
“Perhaps consider a live-in nanny? At least until you’re in a better physical state.”
“A nanny?” Stan knew what nannies were like. His parents had had one for him and his sisters when they were toddlers. She had been a grouchy old woman with a bad attitude and always smelled of sour milk. She did what she was supposed to, but he shuddered to think of hiring such a woman for a son who already hated the father who hadn’t been in his life yet. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said simply.
“That’s all I can ask. I’ll send a lab tech over in the morning to collect the DNA, and you will be required to take a drug test as well.”
“I do take pain meds, is that a problem?” he asked, hoping they wouldn’t be. Why? This could be your way out. You can’t take care of a kid, you moron. You can’t even take care of yourself.
“Fill out the form she gives you so they know it when it shows up. I’ll fetch Louis, get him out of your hair for now, and you can get started on planning your new lives together,” she said happily and marched away.
Stan spun around in his chair. The mess of his life surrounded him—literally—and he was bringing a ten-year-old kid into it. What the hell was he thinking? It was the middle of summer, but school would start soon, which meant helping with homework and parent-teacher conferences and having people see him in public in a damn wheelchair. He hadn’t left the house except for once a month to check in at the company he ran with his dad, Sampson Wellington. Other than that, he stayed at home and ran things from his home office, where no one stared at him or gave him pitying looks he couldn’t stand.
“Say goodbye to your dad, Louis,” Mrs. Applebaum said, the boy behind her and Stephanie bringing up the rear.
Louis stopped in front of Stan and reluctantly threw out his hand. “Bye… I’m not calling you Dad,” he added as soon as Stan took his small hand.
He gave it one shake and looked the boy square in the eyes, seeing that the same stubbornness which ran in his family continued in this kid. “I don’t expect you to—not yet, at least. How about Stan?”
Louis screwed up his face to the side and smirked. “Stan? Okay then, Stan.”
“Louis, show some respect,” Mrs. Applebaum whispered behind him.
“No, it’s fine. I think we’ll get along better than we both think. See you in two weeks, kid.”
They left, and as soon Stephanie shut the door behind them, she turned around and glared at Stanford. “If you think I’m cleaning this whole damn house by myself, you’re dead wrong, mister.”
“I’ll help you, I promise,” he insisted. “But I’m not sure where to start and I think we need to hire a nanny.”
“We? What’s this ‘we’ you speak of?” she mocked.
Stanford picked at the leather on the chair arm. “I know I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry, but I need your help. Please.” She crossed her arms firmly over her chest, tapping her foot hard on the stone floor. “Help me find a nanny and get this place cleaned up and you can quit, and I’ll even throw in a nice leaving bonus for you,” he said, hoping she realized this was as close to begging as he would come. “Please, Stephanie, as a friend?”
Groaning and cursing, she gave in. “Fine, fine, but we do this my way, understand me?”
“I don’t have much of a choice at this point. I can’t do it myself.”
“No, you damn well can’t. I’m going to get us some iced tea and we can start right here.”
She turned sharply on her heel and clicked down the hall, leaving Stan to roll himself into the front sitting room. Several broken trinkets lay scattered around amongst the mess of pillows and cushions, random items he’d dug through after the accident. This room bore the brunt of his anger those first few weeks when he took a baseball bat and shattered everything in reach. Stephanie cleaned some of the mess then, but when he only destroyed the new items she moved into the room, she gave up and let him have his destruction.
He moved his chair to the couch, and using his arms, wincing at the pain shooting up his legs, he hoisted himself over to the cushion and dragged a box towards him. The day was already long and it would only get longer.
3
Remy stepped back, wiping sweat from her forehead with her forearm, and admired the sculpted piece before her. She turned her head this way and that, pinching her tongue between her teeth as she wondered if it needed any more done to it.
“That’s quite a piece,” her mom, Abbey said, as she entered the old shed they let Remy use as an art studio. “You always amaze me with what you come up with.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Remy held up her hand to gauge the size of the figure’s face and huffed. “It still needs work, though. Something’s off about the face and I can’t figure out what.”
“It looks fine to me.”
“Really? And what is it supposed to be?” she asked, smiling as Abbey fumbled for an answer.
“An interpretation of you, maybe?”
Remy’s laughter echoed around the studio. “Not even close, but I’ll take it anyway.”
“You’re not even going to tell me the right answer?”
Remy shrugged and ran her fingers over the wet clay, gently smoothing out the cheekbone more and pressing in around the eyes. She usually worked with paints and canvases, but lately, cl
ay called out to her and she was teaching herself to sculpt the human form. Her art always took an interesting turn, tending towards the darker aspect, though she never really understood why. Her childhood had been a happy one as far as she could remember, and everyone told her she was so bubbly. Until they saw her art. Then they questioned whether they knew Remy at all.
“Nope, because even I don’t know. Maybe I should stick with paint.”
“You should do what your heart tells you to do, which is why I still don’t understand why you wasted time with a hospitality degree,” Abbey mused, plopping down in the hammock seat hanging from the studio ceiling. “I know your dad said pick something that would make you money, but I wish you’d stuck with art.”
Remy lifted the large plastic to cover her piece so it wouldn’t dry out until she decided to work on it later. “Where’s this coming from? I thought you were on board with what he wanted.”
“Eh, I changed my mind. You’re happy when you’re sculpting and painting and whatever else you make in here,” she added, and Remy turned to see her staring at the massive set of wires she’d started working on last night. “What is that going to be?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She washed her hands in the utility sink and dried them on a stained towel, a rainbow of colors from all the paints she had used the last two weeks she was home. “If you didn’t come here to tell me I need to find another job and move out, why are you in here?”
Abbey grinned mischievously, reminding Remy where that side of her personality came from. “Oh, I am, but I’m trying to be subtle about it. You’re twenty-five and you have plenty of money saved up. Go start your life away from your parents. Please.”
“Kicking me out,” Remy sighed. “Damn, Mom, that’s harsh.”
Abbey tucked her daughter’s chestnut hair behind her ears. “No, I’m simply worried about you holing yourself up in here. I know you were close to those three families, and with Mr. Bayard dying… I want you to find your next adventure.”