by Kris Jayne
“Good afternoon. You must be Carter. I’m Hannah Carlsson, Theresa Star-Hunter’s assistant.” The older, icier blonde woman moved forward.
“I must be.”
My taut grin excited a plastered smile from the woman that cracked for a second as we shook hands.
“Theresa and the rest of the family are in the boardroom. I’ll walk you back.”
I followed through reception to the broad hallway extending to the left.
One after the other, more pictures came into view all the way down the hall. In one, a younger version of the old man stood arm-in-arm with T. Boone Pickens–a tick shorter and slighter but, somehow, he still filled the frame. The brim of his straw hat half shaded his face, so only one crystalline eye was visible as if he were a Western pirate. The man’s angled jaw formed a clean-shaven foundation for his pointed features.
This bony redneck?
Hannah deposited me at the doorway of a huge, paneled room with a massive, burled-wood table in the center and seating for over twenty.
Five nervous people already sat clustered at the far end of the room. One wall of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked all of downtown, peeking over every high-rise except the green-lit building opposite them across the city center.
I barely looked at them. Over their heads, dominating the wall, was a portrait. It had to be at least five feet high.
The thin, sharp-cheeked white man stared back in a black suit and bolo tie. A black cowboy hat with a feather perched forward on his head, framing sharp blue eyes. The man’s wide smile curled, flexing like a crossbow poised to launch.
The news of the past week floated through my head again, less funny and more stomach-churning.
Grandma Etta must have been out of her mind to get mixed up with him. This pervy, fucking liar. This conniving, double-dipping prick. This manipulative, sneak-down-to-the-quarters piece of shit.
My grandfather.
29
Carter
“Have a seat.”
The silky, Southern tone of an older woman drifted toward me as I walked into the room. I patted the burgundy silk pocket square tucked in my dark gray suit jacket. Like me, it was one of Grandma Etta’s creations.
She’d died twenty years ago, but I had rows of them neatly folded and rolled in a closet drawer at home and in my suitcase here. This one featured her favorite flowers, tulips, embroidered in yellow connecting along the edges. A cluster of blooms dotted each corner with her signature, an E and a tiny cross swirled together in the foliage. Yellow tulips meant remembrance. She’d taught me that.
I felt calmer with that square of scrap fabric at my chest. She made the pocket squares with material left over from the interior design business she’d run with a partner until she died. He’d then retired, not wanting to continue after the artistic soul of the business was gone. Maybe he had more information about my grandmother who had suddenly transformed from a clever, hardworking, and reliable matriarch into an enigmatic woman with secrets.
I stared down the side of the twenty-person board room table to the end where the family sat.
Two women anchored the head of the table—one with a platinum blonde puff and the other with a bright auburn bun sitting high atop her head. The difference in hair distracted from the mirror image of their faces. I couldn’t tell which had spoken.
“Yes, Carter, have a seat.” William pointed to an empty chair opposite him. A couple of empty chairs buffered him from the family—or maybe it was the other way around. He had already told the Stars about me. The family didn’t introduce themselves, so I said nothing and sat down.
Flanking the two older women were two younger ones. One had a sleek, unnaturally black bob, and the other had pulled her straight, light brown hair back into a low ponytail. I recognized them from my week’s worth of online Star research—Willa Samson née Gale, daughter of Marie Gale, and Reese Star-Hunter, daughter of Theresa Star-Hunter. Marie and Theresa were J.P. Star’s twin daughters and my father’s half-sisters.
I glanced down my side of the table and saw a young man and a young woman, but I didn’t have a chance to examine them before William cleared his throat with a low-pitched hack.
“If this is all of us for today, we can get started. I know this is an awkward situation, but I’m hoping we can get through this as civilly as possible.”
“Where’s Jude?” Reese asked.
Marie’s auburn bun didn’t move as she turned to face Reese before answering the question about the missing grandson. “He couldn’t get away.”
A disgusted, masculine chortle rumbled in the corner, and I leaned forward to glance on my right. I recognized the only other male relative in the room from the occasional TMZ reports that came across my newsfeed. Anthony Star-Hunter. The oil baron’s entitled, drunken grandson partied with starlets and models, burning through his inheritance until the old man had allegedly cut him off a year ago.
The woman with hair like a thinly gilded cloud gave the kid enough maternal stink eye to warrant a gas mask. That was definitely Theresa Star-Hunter.
William forged on. “I should start by saying John Peter was very specific in his wishes. As difficult as his revelation is, eh, to the family and to you, Carter, he had hopes that you would all find a way to accept each other.”
Anthony grumbled again. “Not likely. Can we get to it? We’re here to discuss Grandfather’s estate, not for a therapy session.”
William removed his glasses and placed them on the table in front of him, folding his hands. “You may want to pay attention to these terms, son. And if you need therapy to meet the requirements of your inheritance, that can be arranged. Theresa, your son—” William started to address the blonde, but she cut him off.
“Nevermind him, William. Continue.” The exasperation in her voice veered toward boredom. Theresa was the power player. All the chaos bearing down on her family because of its own secrets and lies, and she had the nerve to sound put out.
Her twin and the other family members pressed their lips together, looking between William, Theresa, and Anthony with glints of suppressed irritation.
Marie raised a brow. “It has been terribly embarrassing, Theresa. His behavior is appalling.”
Theresa’s voice crisped like winter air. “Quiet. Let William say what he needs to say.”
Marie pinched her features tighter and tighter, tamping down rage. Her eyes narrowed as Willa’s widened to near perfect, terrified circles. Her inky black bob shimmied with every head turn as she followed the angry banter.
I struggled to keep the corners of my mouth from curling up. This stellar family was a mess like any other.
Ignoring her sister and niece, Theresa tilted her chin up and prompted William to speak.
“As I was saying, the thrust of his wishes was to do his best to bring all of his heirs together—including you and your siblings,” he paused, looking my direction. “I’d hoped Jasmine and Nathan would be here today.”
I hadn’t told Jazz or Nate about our relation to the Stars. I also had asked William not to say anything to my mother yet.
“As I told you on the phone, I’m representing the Cross side of the family,” I said, leaning forward to rest my elbows as I had on many a boardroom table. My new aunts and cousins folded their arms, looking like they’d swallowed poison.
“I’d have thought all of you would be champing at the bit to meet your new family,” Theresa crooned.
“We have a family, and we’re not looking for a new one,” I replied with committed calm. If she thought she could ruffle my feathers, she was in for it.
“Not a family with billions of dollars,” Reese answered.
Reese worked as J.P. Star Energy’s chief financial officer and president of business operations. All the money went through her. J.P. had been the CEO and chairman of the board. Her mother, Theresa, sat on the company’s board—along with Marie. Her father, Ken Hunter, had been an executive and board member, but no more. From what I could tell, Mari
e’s husband, Robert, had nothing to do with the business except using its dividends to fund his investments.
According to articles I’d read, Reese might have been in the running for CEO one day, but her grandfather and the other old school relics on the board balked at having a woman in charge just as they had when Theresa had wanted an executive position. Back then, the men got together and decided Ken should be J.P.’s second in command as chief operations officer and president of field operations. Consensus was that Theresa pulled the strings until eventually pushing her husband gently into retirement and taking over as COO.
Eventually, she insisted that her daughter be CFO. Theresa must have had some sway over her father because, despite his suspicion of women running he show, women formed two-thirds of his top-level executive team when he died.
Below them was a sea of men, including Anthony who had a non-descript vice president title.
I met the obstinate challenge mixed in Reese’s eyes with a hard, steady look that usually evoked a trickle of fear. When she didn’t blink, I answered her in a measured tone. “We don’t have billions, but we’re a family nonetheless—with no one who’s run a woman off the road with his car and avoided jail by pretending to go to rehab.”
I glanced at Anthony, who opened his mouth, but Theresa took hold of his arm and interceded. “Let’s hold the commentary, shall we?”
“It was quite the embarrassment.” Marie sniffed with loud, exaggerated disgust.
So that’s what I was dealing with. The billions may have made them the envy of grasping strangers all over the state, but their family dramas were no different.
At least when the Crosses got together, we didn’t eye each other with barely concealed suspicion. The Stars were coiled in their corners, waiting to strike at anyone who got between them and their money. Maybe it was easier when you didn’t have much.
My father may have died when I was seven, but I had an entire extended family of aunts, uncles, and cousins who’d looked out for me. Being a Cross meant someone had your back.
Joining the Star family looked less and less attractive. Jazz, Nate, and I were probably about to inherit some serious cash. If we had hit the surprise inheritance lottery, we’d smile, take the money, and give them the Heisman. I laughed again to myself, imagining the extended arm of the college football trophy stiff-arming each Star. Or maybe it was more of a, “Get thee behind me, Satan,” situation. That’s what Grandma Etta might have said. Maybe that’s why she stayed mum about Dad’s parentage before she died.
“Can we get on with it, William?” Theresa barked. Her tone frayed at the edges with frustration.
“Yes. John Peter’s stipulations are clear. He’s put the company and his holdings in a series of trusts. Everything in his personal estate has been divided relatively equally as has his seventy-five percent share of J.P. Star Energy. One third for each branch of his family—Theresa, Marie, and Carter Cross, Sr., deceased.”
“Wait.” The burgundy bun perched on Marie’s head bobbled, nearly taking flight. “He inherits the same portion as Theresa and I?”
“He and his siblings collectively, yes.”
“What about the rest of us?” Anthony asked.
“Reese holds some shares in the company in line with her position. The rest of you still have the trust funds you already inherited. John Peter set aside additional funds for each of you, and you’ll inherit the company stock and other moneys just as the Cross children have, assuming your mothers distribute their inheritance evenly,” William explained, glossing over the implied demise of the twins.
Willa’s eyes slid sideways to her mother. Anthony flashed a look of worry at his mother and then a sneer of betrayal at each of his sisters, presumably for their existence. Reese’s face stayed impassive. Quinn Yamazaki, his other sister, smirked back at her brother.
I wondered why Jude wasn’t at the meeting. He and Anthony used to be photographed together running amok on yachts around the world, but unlike his cousin, Jude managed to stay off the police blotter if not out of the tabloids. I couldn’t imagine why an heir to a billionaire wouldn’t take the time to show up alongside his sibling and cousins.
Maybe he had about as much interest in the drama as his cousin, Quinn. The middle Star-Hunter child was less than a year older than Anthony and observed the proceedings with a look of amused detachment.
“So Carter gets more than I do or any of the other grandkids,” Mr. DUI huffed.
Marie squawked. “That. …Well, it hardly seems right.”
Quinn interjected, “It’s Granddad’s money. He can do whatever he wants. He always has. It shouldn’t surprise anyone in this room that he’s messing with us from beyond the grave.”
“Of course, you’d say that, Quinn. You’re always siding against the family,” Anthony charged.
“At least I can support myself without begging Mom and Reese for handouts, little brother.”
“Quinn,” Theresa’s face reddened as she said her daughter’s name with warning.
“What, Mother?”
An unspoken exchange of fury passed between the mother and daughter and ended with a snort from the younger woman. William tried to regroup.
“They are inheriting directly because their father died. In the almost fifty years I knew him, John Peter was always clear and direct about what he wanted. While he never knew his other grandchildren, he intended for them to share in his legacy fully. ”
Anthony grimaced. “Never knew him. Are you sure? This sounds like… What would you call it?” He twisted frantically in his boardroom chair as if the words were hidden somewhere in the room. “Undue influence.”
I flattened my palms on the table. The coolness of the wood seeped into my hands. “How? My father’s been dead for over thirty years. I just found out about—” I stopped myself from saying “y’all.” Even if these people were Texans, I didn’t want to sound like a yokel in front of them. “I only found out about you in the last few days.”
William waved a hand to pacify my new relatives. “There’s been no influence at all. Carter Sr. never knew about your grandfather—per his mother’s wishes. But John Peter paid for his education and kept an eye on him and his children over the years. Etta Cross, Carter’s grandmother rejected any other help. If she’d wanted more, she could have had it.”
I’d heard all this already, but what no one had explained was how my nineteen-year-old Oklahoma-born grandmother, a young black woman in the late 1950s, got pregnant by a white wildcatter nearly ten years her senior.
I pressed my palm to my gut. Old John Peter’s glacier blue eyes menaced the room from the giant canvas, giving me a chill to go with my queasiness. “We don’t need to go back through history.”
“I can understand why that might be uncomfortable for you.” Theresa’s sharp tongue couldn’t be dulled by the phony sympathy in her voice.
“And for you,” I shot back.
However Etta and J.P. got together, it was after he and his fiancée Abigail’s engagement announcement appeared in a Houston paper. Dad was born the following April—just seven months after his marriage—and Theresa and Marie in September of the same year.
I’d bet everyone in the room would’ve liked to tighten that bolo tie until those sharp blue eyes bugged out of the J.P.’s bony head. The memory of how the old man died hit me again, and my stomach squeezed.
No. Descending from that old man held no appeal at all. Nevermind the money. All of these bickering, cutthroat people seemed to wish they weren’t related. However, I couldn’t argue with DNA or, likely, whatever William was clearing his throat yet again to gear up and announce.
“William,” Theresa said the lawyer’s name like a command, and the family quieted.
“J.P. arranged the trusts so everything is divided into thirds. Each of his children receives roughly one third of his company shares and one third of his personal estate, minus some specific set asides for family and valued staff and associates.”
; I calculated what it meant if Jasmine, Nate, and I split what could be our father’s share. The total company was valued at just over twenty-two billion. John Peter was worth an estimated fifteen billion more. My entire body hummed and burned, and my ears rang. I did well, but nowhere near a fraction of that well. Jesus.
Jasmine would be okay with the sudden flush of money, but Nate? I’d have to make sure he didn’t blow through it all on schemes with his shitty friends.
William plowed on. “Before we delve into the specifics of the bequests, I’d like to discuss the trust’s conditions.”
Somehow, the air left the room without anyone breathing.
“Conditions?” Willa finally found her high-pitched voice.
“Yes, conditions,” the lawyer repeated, looking as grim as I felt.
30
Carter
“Such as?” Reese adopted her mother’s bored tone, but her fingers had gone white gripping the edge of the table.
“Each inheritance—even shares of the business for his children—is contingent on a few factors.” William cleared his throat and dove in.
“For example, Willa, your inheritance will remain in a trust with me as the trustee unless you legally divorce your husband. Until that time, I must approve any requests from money out of the trust,” he said.
Willa’s cheeks flushed. “Granddad never like Michael, but I never thought he’d do this,” she moaned. “That’s not fair. I’m thirty-three. I can’t decide for myself how to spend my money?”
“Again, it’s not yours. It’s his. It’s always going to be his,” Quinn countered, drily. “And I suppose Granddad gave me the same conditions? He didn’t even come when Ben and I got married. Most of you didn’t. God forbid everyone didn’t fall in line with what he wanted.”
“Well, I was going to get to that in a moment,” William said, turning a deep shade of red and starting to sweat a little. “Actually, um, you have no conditions on your inheritance, Quinn. He has set aside the Lake Tahoe house, his apartment in Tokyo, and $100 million for you. Now, this is a generation-skipping trust, so there are some particularities in transferring the deeds, but they’re yours.”