Cross My Heart

by Kris Jayne

  She turned to me, eyes glistening and a haunted smile on her face. It was the first reminder that this should be a family grieving.

  “He loved heading out to the ranch. We used to ride out there as children and go boating in the summer. Starwood was dusty and unforgiving. He was always happier at Love’s Crossing. He bought it right before he married our mother.”

  Her voice fell off into nostalgia.

  Jazz would love living in Big Sur. She was outdoorsy and very California with her love of all things crystals, tarot, and woo. But Nate on a horse ranch called Love’s Crossing? I chuckled under my breath.

  “Is this amusing to you? The dismantling of our family legacy?” Reese asked through gritted teeth.

  “It’s not my legacy, so yes, seeing you all crumble under the weight of your privilege and snipe at each other like assassins is strangely entertaining,” I replied.

  “It’s your legacy, too. That’s all John Peter wanted,” William said. “It pained him that he couldn’t play a larger part in your father’s life. Carter Sr. was his eldest and his only son. You’re his oldest grandchild. By his count, what he built should be yours to share with the rest of the family.”

  Well, his count was way off. All J.P. had done was spark trouble—back when Dad was born and now.

  “It’s obscene.” Marie shook her head and blanched, her lips trembling as she spoke. “What he did was obscene. How he died was obscene. How dare he?”

  Theresa still had her hand at her throat. Her ruffled collar rose and fell in a steady rhythm. “He always wanted a son.”

  “And so did you,” Reese ground out, glaring at her brother. “Pity we all disappointed him. Maybe he wouldn’t have done this to us.”

  “Always the bitch,” Anthony shot back.

  Reese’s voice rose. “Well, it’s not fair. Just because we’re women, we get cut out. We get screwed.” The company’s current head of finance and operations pressed her fingers to the ridge between her brows, then dropped her hand and sighed. “Mom ran this place—”

  “Dad—” her brother started.

  Reese waved a hand. “Dad was Mom’s proxy, and everyone knows it. Women have kept this place going, and now, everything we’ve worked for gets tossed out because we don’t have a useless appendage swinging between our legs.”

  “Vulgarity isn’t becoming,” Marie interjected.

  “Give it up, Aunt Marie. You’re not more righteous than the rest of us. You’re just as angry as we are,” Reese shouted.

  Everything about her screamed CEO-in-waiting. Her brother had a meaningless title but did little but land in the society papers. Now, she had to turn her lifeblood over to a cousin she’d never heard of.

  Sympathy bloomed in my chest. Then, she spoke.

  “Before we accept any of this, we need a DNA test. I need proof.”

  Perhaps that was inevitable, but still, my conciliatory feelings congealed into indignation.

  “That’s not necessary,” William piped in. “John Peter knew Carter Sr. was his. I assure you.”

  Now even I wondered how he’d been sure. William had said my father knew nothing about him.

  “But we don’t know that he,” Reese pushed her finger toward Carter, “is his grandson. We don’t know anything about his family.”

  “Are you saying my mother doesn’t know the father of her children?” The control I’d maintained since arriving in the lobby of the Star building started to slip.

  Theresa’s right shoulder lifted in a lazy shrug. “I wouldn’t impugn your mother. I don’t know her, dear, but Reese raises a valid point. We need to dot our Is, if you will.”

  The easy way she called my mother a slut while her own father died in a sexcapade with a prostitute dredged up strains of of old DMX rap lyrics in my head. I felt on the verge of losing my mind up in this monstrous place.

  But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t turn into everything these people probably thought I’d be. They already thought my mother and my grandmother were whores. Acid crept into my throat.

  I leaned forward, hands clasped, with my heart thumping like bass.

  “I understand you want to formalize everything. But you can do that without impugning my mother. You act like we’re all tainted by what my ancestor did, but she did it with yours. So let’s get real. Do you really want to start comparing family dramas?” I asked and glared at each face around the table.

  “This is all off topic.” William’s voice rose with a thunderous impatience. “I know, and John Peter knew, that Carter is his grandson. You can dither and dicker about it, but it changes nothing. He set specific conditions, and this kind of talk isn’t going to get you what you want. Carter’s participation in the company is a condition of inheritance. For him. For all of you. That’s not negotiable, and it doesn’t even matter why. He will inherit. He will come to work for the company for three years, and unless there’s some intervening factor that renders him incapable, he will take over as CEO. These were John Peter’s terms.”

  I sighed, both weary and wary. “For how long? What if I say no?”

  “For at least six years to fulfill the terms of the will. And anyone who quote, ‘interferes, sabotages, plots, or schemes’—those are John Peter’s words—against him will be disinherited, and their portion forfeited to either charity or to the non-familial shareholders. It depends on who we’re talking about.”

  Theresa reached the end of her tolerance. “Was father out of his mind? He can’t expect to enforce these ridiculous requirements!”

  She grabbed her daughter’s hand, but Reese yanked it away. “All you have to do, Mother, is not kill Carter, and you’re in no different a place than you were. You were going to step aside in a few years anyway. I lose my future. Grandfather never liked a woman in charge. He always wanted a man to run the company. Anthony’s such a lost cause, he went out and dragged in this, this…interloper!”

  I held my breath, waiting to see where Reese’s outburst would dock. As far as destinations went, “interloper” wasn’t so bad. I ignored her and focused on William.

  “I’ll have to think about this.”

  Theresa’s eyes went wide. “There’s nothing to think about.” The panic in her voice swelled then abated. “You have to do it. Think about your family and what this could mean for them.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me about my family. And we’ve been doing fine without you,” I said without even looking at her and stood. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Reese spoke. “I get that you have to think about this, but can you do us a favor?”

  Theresa jerked her head toward her daughter, who held up a hand to keep her mother silent.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Can we keep all of this inside the family for now? The publicity is out of hand already, and it’s best that we settle in and see how this goes before adding more fuel to that fire,” she said.

  On one hand, my joining the company was bound to raise questions. On the other, since J.P. was gone, there would be changes, and I could slide in, maybe unquestioned, and get a feel for things. It probably would be easier to do that without the spotlight of a questionable family history.

  “Define ‘for now,’” I said.

  Reese paused. “I don’t know. We can play it by ear. Six months or a year. Just not now.”

  “And if I don’t want to join?”

  “Then, you’ll be doing whatever the hell you want,” Reese answered with a grim smile. “So I don’t expect we’ll have any say.”

  “True. I’ll let you know my decision before the end of the week,” I said and headed for the door.

  “Wait, Carter,” Theresa snapped. “William!”

  “Theresa, do something,” Marie screeched as the rest of the family barraged William with questions.

  I blocked their pleas from my mind and exited the room. The breath stuck in my chest until the elevator doors closed, and I exhaled in a whoosh. John Peter’s “conditions” turned over and over in my mind
.

  Leave the position and life I’d built on my own to join this nest of vipers? All that asphyxiation for fun must have left J.P. Star brain damaged.

  4

  Nisha

  I barely suppressed my smile, nearly waggling my steepled fingers like a cartoon villain. A smoking hot lead had dropped straight into my lap. Well, sort of.

  Last Christmas, I attended a party and one of the guests mentioned off-hand that she worked on the executive floor at J.P. Star Energy.

  “Must be interesting being around those Stars all day,” I’d asked her.

  “Not really. Theresa and Reese Star-Hunter work like demons all the time. Trying to get the old man’s attention, I guess. No one else ever comes into the office—except Anthony. He only comes in for every other board meeting to flirt with the interns.”

  I logged the data away and laughed. Libby, J.P. Star Energy insider. A connection like that might prove valuable some day.

  Today was that day. Maybe.

  After a series of phone calls to get Libby’s last name, I finally reached her a week ago via social media, and she called me back. We talked about nonsense until the hottest topic in town to pop up, and then I pounced.

  “Didn’t you say you worked at J.P. Star Energy?”

  “Yeah. Whole place is in a tizzy. They’re reading the will on Thursday,” Libby said.

  I lowered my voice as if I wanted to protect the city’s hottest gossip. “How exciting can that be? He was rich, and now his kids are even richer.”

  Her voice wavered. “I don’t know. Things are kind of tense. You know that Theresa and her sister barely speak.”

  “Really?” I feigned doubt.

  I had heard that. The twin daughters of John Peter Star had different lifestyles. Theresa was hardcore corporate and wanted desperately to be CEO of the company only men were deemed fit to lead. Marie—despite being the elder of the two by a few minutes—was a philanthropist. One spent her time making buckets and buckets of money, the other giving the buckets away.

  My boss, Danny, speculated that Marie had some rich lady guilt about being a billionaire simply because she emerged from a particular uterus. But then that was Danny’s job—speculating about the travails and motivations of Dallas society’s elite.

  That was my job, too. My colleague—definitely not friend—Shayna and I helped Danny get the dirt. The three of us wrote the “Sparks Says” column, allegedly written by Abigail Sparks, since the early 1990s. The real Abigail died ten years ago, replaced by a slate of reporters. Danny, Shayna, and I were currently Abigail.

  I spun in my chair, letting the framed journalism degree from Texas Christian University on the wall of my office whirl in and out of view. My gut twinged.

  Fuck it. This job paid—unlike a lot of journalism these days. Reporting was reporting, and I was good at it.

  Libby seemed energized by having information I didn’t. “Oh, they can’t stand each other,” she replied and drew each word out with glee.

  Perfect. She was dying to share what she knew.

  “Huh. I have a friend who works at The Dallas Post. She does research for that gossip column.” I lowered my voice again to draw her in and let the information dangle until Libby bit.

  “‘Sparks Says’? I love that column.”

  My Cheshire grin almost made it hard to speak. “It’s not my thing, but I know she’d love to hear about the Stars. They pay. I gave her a tip once, and she gave me a thousand dollars.”

  “I couldn’t. I’d lose my job,” Libby demurred, but her tone raged with interest.

  “I can pass it along if you want. So she doesn’t even need to know it was you.”

  The line went silent, but I knew with a tiny push, I’d have her.

  “Let me text her and find out how much she’ll pay.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see how much. I know a few things,” Libby said. “Crazy things.”

  Crazier than the old man dying in a sex romp gone wrong? My pulse raced away from my guilty feelings at the scent of a scoop.

  We shot the shit about more nonsense, then I—surprise, surprise—got word back from my “friend.”

  “Wow. She says they’re paying double for dirt on the Stars.”

  That was the trick. Let Libby expect one thousand, up the ante, and she spilled. Easy peasy. She spilled.

  I stared down at the name scratched on my memo pad.

  Carter Cross.

  Libby didn’t know who the guy was, but her boss added him to the security sheet for the private elevator at the last minute, and the Stars seemed peeved when the guy—a black guy—showed up.

  “There are hardly ever black people in the executive offices. So, you know, it stands out. No offense.”

  I stifled a laugh. Nice white people always felt the need to say, “no offense,” about every racial observation—racist or not.

  “And he’s there for the reading of the will?” An excited squeak threaded through my voice.

  “The lawyer was here to talk about the estate, yes. He went in with the family. I mean, there’s the obvious reason, but…” Libby paused. “That can’t be true. He was young, you know. Too young to be John Peter’s…right? I can’t even say it out loud. It’s too crazy. And gross.”

  I swallowed hard to turn a cynical snort into a non-committal noise.

  No one was too old. A man caught dead with his pants down could have toddlers in every area code. Age had nothing to do with it.

  “Anyway, do I still get the two grand?”

  “Yeah. We’ll meet up for happy hour tomorrow. My friend will meet us and give you the cash.”

  I would get there early and tell Libby that my buddy hadn’t been able to stick around.

  “Cool. And you won’t tell anyone? The money is nice, but you know, I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “I’ve done it myself. I totally get it. I won’t say a word,” I promised. And I wouldn’t. I never wanted to turnover a source this connected on a story this hot.

  “O-k-kay,” Libby stuttered, breathless.

  “No worries,” I tittered with the upbeat ease of friendship. “And if you have anything else. Cindy will totally pay more. Shit! Don’t tell anyone I said Cindy.”

  “Oh, God, no! I won’t say anything.” The woman heaved a relieved sigh into the phone. “See you tomorrow.”

  We hung up, and I leaned back, feeling thrilled—if, yes, villainous.

  All I had to do is figure out who this Carter Cross was and what he had to do with the Stars.

  Easy peasy. I typed the name into my computer and got to work.

  If this panned out, maybe I’d finally get assigned more than stories about professional football players and the occasional basketball player. Plus, Danny had a bounty on Star news. At least, two grand for another lead item. Five for a story worthy of being above the fold—not that most people read our print edition these days. If this was as big as I thought, I could get two or three items above the fold and maybe a promotion to lead reporter with a bump in pay.

  Eat shit, Shayna.

  No more relegation to the stupid escapades of athletes—the black athletes. It was getting boring.

  “You blend,” Danny said.

  It grated on my nerves. Shayna covered hockey and baseball plus the Dallas party scene. There were only so many stories I could write. Well, not really. There were always stories about football players in Texas. That could be a full-time job in itself, and the readers had an endless appetite for it.

  Still, the society beat had more juice to it—elite parties, a clothing stipend, and significantly fewer nights hanging out in the alleys behind strip clubs or sliding Edgar the barber fifty bucks for information. Shayna wasn’t half the reporter I was, and I’d love to write about the stupid stuff white folks did for a change.

  5

  Nisha

  I turned the phone in my hand over and over, expecting it to buzz at any moment with a reply text from Maya. Where was she?


  I hated getting home late. Leaving her unsupervised made me nervous, never more so than when I stepped through the door of the duplex to find the place as clean and quiet as when we left that morning. That meant she hadn’t even been home. My mind and my stomach churned with the things a fifteen-year-old girl could get up to in the hours since school let out.

  Me in high school? The squarest teenager imaginable. I never even thought about drifting out of the lines.

  I got myself to and from school, did my homework, made my dinner, and got to bed on time so I wouldn’t be tired when I had to walk that straight line again the next day. I wanted everyone on the outside to see nothing but a good student—well cared for and the last one you’d think had chaos at home.

  “Just get through school. Get your work done. Don’t get pregnant.”

  Those were the words I had repeated to myself like a mantra, and that was the advice I flung at Maya every chance I got. Keep your feelings under control. Stay focused.

  She showed her emotions more, acted up more, stomped her feet more in the face of her circumstances. All things considered, she was a great kid, but she had a stronger taste for trouble. Sometimes, she took after—

  I halted the thoughts midstream. No matter how often the words, “You’re so much like your mother,” tried to rise in my mind, I beat them back. Maya wasn’t Lisa. Or at least, I was determined that she wouldn’t be. She just needed stability and someone who could show her how to hustle within the lines—work hard, do well in school. Versus, well…whatever Lisa was doing, wherever she was doing it.

  She’d been gone for more than six months, which was the longest she’d ever been gone. Per usual, the longer her daughter stayed with me, the more routine her life became and the more settled and happy she seemed. I hated wishing my own sister would stay gone, but when she blew into town on a jetstream of drama, it reversed every bit of progress Maya made.

  I tried calling again.

  “Hey, Maya, it’s Aunt Nisha. Call me or text me when you get this. I’m home.” I paused and hooked a finger over the edge of the bag of takeout on the counter. “I got Chinese with extra pot stickers. Let me know where you are.”