by Lucas, Helen
Ah, the glamorous, jet set life of a billionaire!
But today was a quiet day. The Jenkins deal falling through meant that damage control was needed, but there was no reason for me to micromanage that. My being there might even taint the process. At this point, we were still waiting for them to decide what they would need from us for them to be willing to continue with the acquisition. Until then, we could do nothing but twiddle our thumbs and wait.
I got home with the intention of researching charities I might be interested in and, instead, I found my way into the liquor cabinet and into an old bottle of Lagavulin.
My father had always liked Lagavulin. He gave me my first bottle when I graduated from college, and then another on my birthday each year, until he… Until he…
I didn’t let myself think about it. Couldn’t think about it.
I stripped off my tie and unbuttoned my Brioni shirt down two buttons, sighing and feeling… Free. For someone who spends his entire day in a suit, I really do only feel free and liberated when I’m half naked, with no tie around my neck, shirt unbuttoned… Finally able to breathe deeply, to breathe freely.
It was then that my cell phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. It looked like a Connecticut number.
“This is Stone,” I said, my usual, curt answer. Maybe it was someone from the office—maybe Jenkins had finally gotten back to us with an answer?
“Hi, uh, Kyle?”
I paused. My people at the office did NOT call me Kyle. At least, none of them did with the exception of Nicholas, but he was an old friend, after all.
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“This is, uh, Karen. Karen O’Lowry.”
Karen O’Lowry.
“We used to be, uh, brother and sister,” she said lamely. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Oh, did we? Sorry, I had forgotten.”
“Oh, shut up. How are you?”
“Wondering why my ex-step sister is calling me. How are you?”
“Wondering if you’re still as much of a dick as when we were kids.”
“I hear you’re teaching at Silliman—so, you’re basically still the same giant nerd you’ve always been?” I said, a grin still plastered on my face as I strode out onto my terrace overlooking the city. I settled down into a lounge chair and took a sip of my scotch.
“Well, judging from the story in the National Inquirer this morning, you’re still the same prick you’ve always been.”
I froze. And then, much to my own surprise, I burst out laughing. God, but it felt good to LAUGH. It felt good to laugh about that whole stupid business.
“Yeah, I guess it sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” Karen replied. “My mom wanted me to call you and make sure you’re not crying yourself to sleep on a hooker’s lap. She thought you might need a friend.”
“What? Hookers can be friends, Karen,” I said coolly. I placed my hand over the speaker and called back into my condo, to no one in particular. “Do you hear that, girls? My sister things you should go home.”
“Do you actually have people there? Am I interrupting anything?”
“If you were, would you care?”
“You know, considering the kind of company you keep… I actually don’t.”
“There’s your answer. Listen, Karen, I appreciate the call, but I’m doing just dandy. You know what I’m doing right now?”
“I’m dying to know and I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.”
“I’m sitting in my penthouse overlooking Park Avenue. Directly in front of me, I can see Central Park and the sun setting, way, far, far out in the West. To the South, I can see the lights of Midtown and Wall Street. Like an unending day. There’s a cool wind blowing in from the north too, and I’m drinking a Lagavulin 21-year. My ex-wife isn’t here, and I am, literally and figuratively, on top of the world.”
Karen sighed.
“Oh boy. And here I was just going to watch Scandal and go to bed.”
“I’m doing just fine, so you can tell your mom that.”
There was an uncomfortable pause from the other end of the line. Karen said nothing for several seconds.
“Karen? Tyesh? What’s going on there, sis?”
“Kyle, listen. I didn’t just call to check up on you. I’ve kind of… Got a favor to ask you.”
“Ohhh… Here it comes.”
“Shut up. Listen, my department at Silliman is in trouble. We’re looking at bankruptcy in the next month.”
“This really sounds like a Karen problem and not a Kyle problem, sweetheart,” I growled. “If you eggheads can’t balance a check book, that’s not my problem.”
“It’s not that, you asshole. The department is bankrupting itself defending one of the professors against a sexual harassment law suit.”
“Again, not my problem.”
“Kyle, I’m looking at losing my job.” He voice cracked. “I’ve worked so long for this, worked so hard. It would be nothing for you to help out. Absolutely nothing. It’d be a drop in the bucket.”
“That’s how a lot of things work,” I growled, my voice cool and low. “But if I helped out everyone who needed me, I wouldn’t be a billionaire anymore, would I?”
Her voice grew angry now.
I liked it angry.
“Jesus Christ, Kyle, can’t you think of anyone else besides yourself for one second? If the department dissolves, my publisher is dropping my book. If they drop my book, I’ll never get another job again. And if the department dissolves, I’ll lose the job I have.”
“So go to law school,” I said, my voice teasing and needling. “Your mom has done pretty well as a lawyer. I bet you’d do great on the LSAT. How about that? I’ll pay for my little sister Karen to take an LSAT practice class…”
“I’d rather you paid for me to keep my job.”
An interesting proposition. But I had a better one.
“Remind what exactly it is you teach?”
“Nineteenth-century American literature.”
“Sounds fascinating. Really. I’m rushing out right now to buy that great nineteenth-century American classic, the one that all the kids love… You know, the one everyone wants to read…”
I heard her sigh in complete and total exasperation on the other end of the line.
“Fine. Goodbye, Kyle.”
“No, wait, I’m not done. You couldn’t even work on the twentieth century? Toni Morrison, Ralpha Ellison, all the greats! But the nineteenth century… Wow, that’s dark.”
Then, I laughed.
“No offense.”
“Go to hell.”
“On my way, but wait! I don’t like the idea of helping out your department, because I don’t agree with sexually harassing pretty young undergraduates, no matter how much fun that sounds. Is that what happened?”
“Yes,” Karen sighed.
“But I do agree with helping out my sister in a jam. So, listen: come to New York. I want to see you. This weekend. Pitch to me. That’s what I have to do when I want a loan from a bank. I need to pitch and tell them what I’m doing and why it’s important.”
“Really? Kyle, really?”
“Yes, really. Convince me that nineteenth-century American literature is important and I’ll fund a professorship just for you. Silliman gargles my balls for alumni donations anyway. If I think what you’re doing it worth it… I’ll make sure you can keep doing it.”
“Oh, my god, Kyle, thank you!” Karen all but squealed. I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“Calm down—you don’t have the money yet.”
“Right, right. You want me to come over when? And where?”
I gave her the details, suggesting that she come by Friday evening. If I remembered correctly, it was a two hour train ride from Silliman to Penn Station. I told her I would have a car there to pick her up.
“A car, really?” she said, vaguely skeptical.
“Why that voice?” I replied. “I know
you’re a big girl now and you can take the subway, but I’m still sending a car for you and that’s final.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
What was that note in her voice? A note of surprise? A note of… What else? Maybe affection? Could that be it—could it be that Karen was finally warming up to me, if only a little?
Couldn’t have that.
“I won’t even charge you for it.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. You’re so generous… Bro.”
With that, we said our goodbyes and hung up.
Karen O’Lowry, huh? I gazed out over the city again. Karen O’Lowry.
I remembered when she walked into my life: a cute teen with curves to die for and a nerdy vibe that I had loved, even when I was nineteen. I had always had a thing for girls like her—the type with killer bodies, but modesty, who look like they could be wild—if only they had the chance…
Karen O’Lowry. Her name sounded good on my lips. It sounded… Dangerous.
Karen O’Lowry. I couldn’t wait to see her. Couldn’t wait to see how she’d grown up and matured. Deep down, I was glad she was a professor, glad she had stayed a nerd. I bet she was cuter that way. I bet I’d like her more that way.
I immediately began to make plans for our evening. I’d get a nice bottle of wine—nothing less than a good Bourdeux, of course. Maybe order in some dinner for us, show off my terrace, show off the view of the city.
For once, I didn’t have plans that Friday. Normally, my Fridays are booked solid with all sorts of social engagements—gallery openings, galas, courtside at the Knicks with Spike Lee—you name it, I’ve done it.
But in addition to becoming a business pariah, I’ve become a social one as well. After the tabloid hit, I suddenly found that I wasn’t getting invited to galas and openings. Spike Lee didn’t seem to have extra tickets for me.
And so, I had been looking at working through till Saturday morning.
But no. Now, I had something more interesting to do.
This could be my charity case, my PR coup. Bad boy billionaire endows professorship in American studies, saves ailing English department. Give scholarships for dozens of poor black students to study at Silliman.
And I couldn’t deny that I was curious about Karen, curious to see what had become of her.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing.
Yet, there’s nothing I love more than danger.
KAREN
The car picked me up at Penn Station right at 7:45. A tall man, clad in a particularly fine black suit met me in the main hall, holding a sign with my name on it. When I identified myself as Karen O’Lowry, he immediately took on a hyper deferential attitude towards me.
“Right this way, Ms. O’Lowry. May I take your back? May I get you a coffee or water for the ride?”
We fought our way through Manhattan traffic, inching our way uptown block by block until we arrived at Kyle’s building. Kyle called ahead and let the doorman know who I was. I was buzzed in and directed up to the penthouse.
So, this was the world of the rich and famous. It made me a little sick to see how well some people lived, when everyone else is just scraping by. More than that, though, I was curious. Curious and jealous. And feeling like that, that only made me feel… sicker.
I thought the elevator ride up to the penthouse would never end. Finally, the elevator dinged to a halt. I realized it hadn’t stopped on any of the other floors, nor did it even have buttons for the other floors. This was a private elevator to the top of the gorgeous, pre-war parkside building.
The elevator doors slid open and, just like that, I was in Kyle’s living room.
And oh god, what a room. I never really realized how rich he was until I saw that room.
It was bigger than some of the lecture halls we crammed hundred or so students into. My entire condo could fit into it two or three or more times over. The walls were beautifully decorated with particularly fine art—I was sure I identified a Picasso and a Miro hanging on my ex-brother’s wall on either side of his fire place—while one wall was all sliding glass doors, leading out onto a magnificent terrace, stretching far out of my range of building, seeming to go around the entire perimeter of the building. A carefully cultivated garden expanded along the terrace, with themes ranging from a Zen Japanese retreat to a more tropical style and then roses and other flowers.
It was on the terrace that I spied a figure, dressed in a dark Navy blue suit, leaning with both hands on the railing looking over the city. He sure did cut an impressive figure against the rich, silky blue of the mid-autumn New York sky.
I stepped out onto the terrace, shivering as the cold November wind washed over me. God, but the air up here was so fresh and clean. We were so high above the muck and grime of the city, so high above all the petty squabbles and strifes that so occupied the lives of those earth-dwellers while we, cloud people, lorded over them…
“Kyle,” I called out. The figure raised his head and turned to me.
Oh, god, but he had grown up.
And he had grown up good.
He was taller than I remembered and not as skinny. Not that he was fat—simply, he had put on muscle, and he struck a powerful, imposing figure. His light brown hair was casually and carelessly tousled, the look of a man who spends a lot of time trying to look like he doesn’t really care, though I could honestly believe that it had been the wind, whipping stereotypically through his brown locks…
His face was gorgeous but strangely distant and numb, like a handsome face looking at you from out of an old photograph: partially obscured, partially abstracted by time, but still present. Still legible.
He strode towards me with precise, broad steps. Commanding steps. He stopped three feet away from me and smiled. White teeth, light pink lips, and grey eyes that flashed with his grin.
“Karen. It’s been a while. How are you, sis?”
He reached out a hand to me and I took it. He pulled me close, into a hug, and I let him, let him press me against his broad chest. It felt so damned strange, in his arms, feeling his powerful chest, just barely contained by the fine suit. I breathed in his cologne and immediately, I was transported back to the time, years ago, on the beach, when he had stolen my book and I had found myself briefly intoxicated by his scent, by the smell of young masculinity in summertime.
As we drifted apart, I smiled.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it’s good to see you too.”
“Won’t you have a seat?” he said, gesturing to a table and chair set. There was already a decanter full of red wine and two glasses. Well, wasn’t he prepared?
He poured me a glass as I sat down and then poured himself one. We clinked glasses and I took a sip of the blood-red liquid, savoring the way it melted my jaw, sending shivers up and down my spine.
“That’s a 2007 Bourdeux,” Kyle informed me. “One of my favorite vinters.”
“Well, it’s way better than the two dollar stuff I usually buy,” I found myself admitting with a smile.
“I aim to please. So…” he said, swirling the wine in his glass, letting it splash around lazily. “Tell me. What’s so special about nineteenth century literature?”
And so I told him. I told him about the importance of re-imagining American literature to include the voices of women. I brought up the poignancy of the situation of writers like Harriet Jacobs, writers not far removed from slavery. I mentioned the debt that American society owed to its former slaves. I talked about all the interesting writers that scholarship has yet to focus on.
“For instance, Harriet Jacobs got a lot of attention in the ‘90s, but there’s another writer I’m particularly interested in, Maribeth Wilson, who was a former slave who bought her freedom, ran a brothel in New Orleans, and actually wrote novels and poetry right up until the Civil War, while keeping detailed notes about all the famous customers who came to her establishment…”
“Famous like who?”
“Well, Jefferson Davis, for one. The President of the Confederacy.”<
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“So, tell me—what are the chances that this lady writer of yours made the beast with two backs with the President of the Confederacy?” Kyle asked, once again swirling his wine, that shit-eating grin back on his face. I scowled and kicked him under the table. He mimed being hurt.