by White, J. L.
“Oh, there’s no harm,” she says dismissively. “It’s not my fault my son happens to be the best in the business.”
I groan.
“What?”
“I wish you would please stop doing that.” She’s done this once before. “You’re going to get one or both of us into trouble. I can find my own work.”
“Of course you can, son.” She says this in the same tone she used to encourage me to tie my own shoes.
I roll my eyes. I’d go for another subject change, but between her fussing about the court thing and interfering with my career, I’m zero for two. It’s time to bring the conversation to an end.
Not long after, I’m pulling up to the Alexander Building in downtown Swan Pointe. It’s a beautiful white brick building that was the Jacob Alexander Department store when it was built back in 1902. It’s been through various incantations since then, but has been beautifully maintained and restored (thanks to one of my mother’s predecessors some thirty years ago) and now houses several offices. Other occupants include an accounting office, a husband and wife real estate team, an interior design firm, and an investment company.
I climb the stairs to my company’s offices, which are on the third floor, and use my keys to let myself in. It’s past five so my office manager is gone for the day.
I pick up the messages she left me on my desk and settle in. I’ll most likely be here until late. I don’t really have to. I just will. I do like my work, so that’s one reason why, but the truth is, it’s better than facing what’s at home.
Which is absolutely nothing.
Chapter 4
Lizzy
I’m sitting on my parents’ couch—now my couch, if I want it—in the family room of my parents’ house—now my house, for certain—with Corrine sitting next to me. We have my Surface Pro 4 open on my lap and are combing through Pinterest for ideas for the cottages.
My dog, Montana, is sitting on the floor at Corrine’s feet, his massive head resting on her lap. He’s a tan and white hound with a sweet, pouty dog face most people find hard to resist. Corrine adores animals and spoils him silly, so he’s bonded with her as much as he has with me.
My mother never used to allow animals in her house. She was kind of a neat freak and couldn’t stomach the fur all over everything. Even when I lived in my old house, before my parents died and I moved in here, Montana was pretty much an outside dog. But since then, I’ve gotten lax. I installed a doggie door that let into the utility room where I have a great big pillow set up for him. It used to be that and the outside and that was it. But more and more I let him into the rest of the house too. I even let him up on the couch from time to time, and in spite of regular vacuuming, the upholstery has the occasional stray hair to prove it. My mother would never approve.
Other than the doggie door and, you know, the actual dog, the place looks pretty much the same as it has for years, though. Most of my stuff’s still over at my old house, where Connor’s been staying ever since mom and dad died, since all he had for a home was a boat. He didn’t want to get a place of his own until he knew if he was staying for sure. Now that he is, I suppose the whole issue of housing is going to change eventually. Slow as he’s being about it, I’m not too worried though.
Tonight’s the night of our monthly family dinner, though we had to bump it up by two weeks due to a couple scheduling conflicts. This is the one tradition we’ve kept up with. Our parents died in October, so the holidays last year were all kinds of hellish and we bailed on most of the usual traditions. We just couldn’t deal. But this one. This one we’ve kept from the beginning.
Corrine and I are waiting for everyone to arrive. She’s already here because this is where she stays when she’s not off to school, same as she did when my parents were still alive. My brothers and I jointly inherited the house, but I was the only one who wanted to keep it. Even after I bought out their shares and the house became officially mine, I didn’t see any reason to change up Corrine’s living arrangements.
She’s the youngest of the four of us, three years younger than me, but we’re more like sisters than cousins. I like having her around enough that I’m never too excited when the next semester starts. Two weeks from now, in case you’re wondering, which is reason number one why we couldn’t do the dinner on the fourth Sunday of the month, like usual.
Fortunately, it’s her last semester. Finally. She’s been attending Hartman College off and on for six years now, thanks to not one but two rounds of chemotherapy. The cancer’s gone, so they say, but there are times I’ll worry the cancer will come back again and that’s when I notice anew how thin she really is. She’s always been of slight build, really, but she came out of the other side of those treatments looking just this side of fragile. People tend to be surprised when they see her in action, because she’s more energetic and tougher than she looks, but I saw her at her lowest and I know how close we came to losing her. I try not to dwell on it, but ever since mom and dad died so suddenly, I know there are no guarantees and find myself worrying about her even more than I used to.
Her slender hand swipes decisively past images on the screen. “Ooh, this is such a great look,” she says, pointing to a photo of a beach-themed room in white and blues.
“The maids would be cursing our names,” I say, remembering what it was like to work the housekeeping shift back in the day. Since our teen years, my siblings and I worked just about every position the resort offers before our parents moved us into management training. “Freaking everything shows on white.” I pin it anyway. After all, presentation comes before ease in a business like ours, and I do like the look, though I’m not sure it’s upscale enough.
“I like this, too.” I point to another image. “It has kind of an upscale Caribbean feel to it.”
“Very luxurious,” Corrine agrees, tucking a stray lock of her short hair behind her ear. She’s still growing it out and it’s in that frustrating stage where she feels like she can’t do anything with it. I keep reassuring her she looks great, which she does, but she misses the long hair of before.
“I wonder if this is actually too luxurious.”
Corrine tilts her head. “Almost a little pompous?”
“Yes. It doesn’t seem the quite right for the Cottages. Except for maybe the bed frames. Those are great.”
Montana takes a deep breath and lets it out in a big, doggie huff. Corrine and I both pat him in response and his thick tail thumps happily on the carpet as we keep looking.
It’s going to be a challenge to balance pampered luxury with the casual feel I want the Cottages to embody. I still haven’t decided if I’m going to hire a professional designer or not. I honestly don’t think I’m quite the polished designer my mother was, so I probably should, but I’m having too much fun playing with my own ideas for now. It soothes my nerves too, which still flare up from time to time, so even though I’ll probably end up hiring someone when we get to that point, I’m putting off making that decision final.
Besides, it’s still early stages. There’s a shitload of remodeling to do before the decorating can begin. Over the past few days, I’ve had to go down to the site several times. I only saw Brett Carmichael once, thank God. He was talking with one of his workers, in a room adjacent to the one Rod and I were in. Our eyes met for a moment, then he gave me a lazy salute. It wasn’t exactly mocking, but I could tell he was trying to get a rise out of me. I rolled my eyes and he smiled a bit, but other than that, we let one another be.
The sound of the garage door opening announces the arrival of one of my brothers, and minutes later, Rayce comes in. Even though he hasn’t lived in our parents’ home in years, he still has a garage door opener. It seems to be the entrance everyone prefers, whether they live here or not. Montana scrambles up and hustles over to greet him. He bends down to give him a few long strokes, ending with a couple firm pats on his hind quarters.
He’s in casual slacks and a collared shirt. Even dressed down, he exudes the
air of the high-powered executive he is. After the three of us exchange hellos, he glances toward the kitchen and stops. “Who’s turn is it?” he asks, apparently concerned about the lack of dinner-cooking activity going on in there. Usually, if there’s no dinner prep happening, that’s because it’s his turn. Rayce doesn’t cook. His specialty is ordering something from one of the resort’s restaurants or pick up take out.
“Mine,” Corrine answers, tapping an image of a plant shelf decorated with shells and candles. “It’s in the crockpot.”
He circles the island and approaches the crockpot in the corner. “What are we having?”
“Hawaiian haystacks. Don’t lift the lid. You’ll let the heat out.”
Corrine isn’t a big fan of cooking herself, and usually goes with something simple, not that any of us mind. I’m the only one who seems to actually like to cook, like Mom did. I get pretty into it, too. I love coordinating sides and desserts and setting the table so it all ties into a theme. Last time it was my turn it was all things Italian, right down to Mom’s dish set from Tuscany. They tease me about my “themes” but I get it from Mom, so it’s her fault. I know they all love it anyway. They couldn’t stop raving about my homemade Italian granita.
Corrine spies Rayce checking out the pineapple upside down cake, still in the box from the bakery.
“Yum,” Rayce says, stealing a crumb and dropping the lid.
“It’s for our Hawaiian theme,” Corrine says, teasing me.
I make a face at her and tap another image to pin.
Rayce pats Montana on the head as he works his way over to the couch. “What are you doing?”
“Getting design ideas for the Cottages.”
“Oh, good.” He pulls out his phone and sinks onto the cushion next to me. “I wanted to talk to you about your margins.”
I glance over to see what he’s pulling up. As soon as I see it’s a financial report of some sort, I put up my hand. “Uh uh. This is a family get together. No business.”
“You’re doing business,” he says, gesturing toward the screen. “Why do you get to break the rule?” Rayce is the primary reason we have this rule. He’d talk business all day long if we let him.
“This doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is fun,” Corrine answers.
“This is fun, too.” Rayce indicates the financial report on his phone’s screen.
“It’s so not,” I say.
He sighs and puts his phone away. “I sense a double standard here,” he says to Montana, who’s dropped his head onto Rayce’s leg.
The garage door announces the arrival of the rest of our party. Connor and Whitney come through from the garage. They’re hand in hand, of course, and Whitney is laughing at something Connor said. We exchange hellos once more, as they give some attention to Montana, who’s gone to greet them. These two have all the glowing exuberance of a couple in love. It makes me happy just seeing them together. I like Whitney, too. She’s blended in with Corinne and me so easily.
She lives in San Francisco, technically, but for the past couple months she’s been down here for the weekend as much as she’s been home. When she’s not down here, Connor’s up there. Their commuting days are just about over though. This coming Friday is her last day of work, then she’ll be down here for good. Whitney’s going to stay in my old house with Connor until they find their own place. They’ve been house hunting for a while now. As long as it’s taking, I’m starting to think they’ll just be house hunting forever. It makes no difference to me. It’s not like I’m in any hurry to figure out what to do with my old place. I’d be fine if they just stayed there, actually.
Slow as they are in the house-hunting department, it took Connor no time at all to pick out a plane once he finally decided to break down and buy one. A small Learjet. It didn’t surprise me. He’s always had itchy feet, so it makes sense that he needed a plane to give him more reach once he decided to settle down here in Swan Pointe for good. They’re going to put it to good use right away. He’s flying up to San Francisco on Friday to pick Whitney up for the last time, then they’ll jet off to who-knows-where (wherever the wind takes him, I’d guess) for a full two weeks. That’s reason number two why we had to move the monthly dinner.
Now that everyone’s here, Corrine heads into the kitchen to start the rice and I put Montana outside. As we start to gather around the large kitchen island to keep Corrine company while she works, Connor says with an air of triumph, “We think we finally found our house.”
My heart sinks a bit at this news, which surprises me.
They’re both grinning ear to ear, though, and Corrine grins too, measuring out the rice to add to the rice cooker. “Really? That’s great.”
Yeah, it is, I tell myself, wondering why I’m feeling so weird about it. Disappointed, almost.
Connor nods. “It has a pool and a sand volleyball court in the back.”
“Oooh,” Corrine says, elbowing me, and I give what I hope is an appropriately excited smile.
“Once I saw that, I didn’t even care about the rest.”
Whitney’s extracting her phone from her back pocket. “He really didn’t. But lucky for him the rest of the house is great, too.”
“Lucky for us,” Connor corrects her.
Whitney recently confided to both Corrine and me that she’s been a little uncomfortable with the imbalance of their financial situation. From what I can tell, she’s done a great job managing her money and has enough put away that she can afford to take her time looking for a job once she moves here. She’s more than just changing jobs, anyway. She’s been working with orphan refugees for several years and it’s gotten to be too much for her. She’s needed a career change in general and Connor’s encouraged her not to rush into anything so she can figure out what she really wants to do.
She’s on board with all that since she can afford to pay her own way, but house hunting has been a challenge for her. She’s just not in the same financial realm as Connor (or the rest of us). He doesn’t care, of course, but he’s also been looking for houses he can afford. That’s damn near anything in this area, honestly, so the relatively modest homes he’s been looking at instead aren’t going to stretch his budget much. He intends to buy outright. Even though this is really Connor’s purchase, he’s been insistent Whitney be happy with it too, since she’ll be living there. She told us girls that she promised to be honest with him about what she likes, and she’s tried to, but she still feels like her opinion shouldn’t matter as much. “It’s his house,” she keeps saying.
“Okay, lucky for us,” she says, responding to Connors’ correction, and Corrine and I exchange glances. “Here, let me pull up the listing.”
“Did you already put in a bid?” Rayce asks.
“Yeah,” Connor says, “but we haven’t heard back yet. It hasn’t been on the market long but there’s been a lot of interest. We actually put in a little over their asking price.”
Rayce raises his eyebrows and we all lean into Whitney’s phone as she shows us the pictures. It really is a beautiful house, with a great open floor plan. The family room has a gorgeous bay of windows that gives a nice view of the coast, and the kitchen is top notch. It has five bedrooms, so there’s room to grow, if that’s what they’re planning. Photo after photo demonstrates what a find the house is, but as Connor and Rayce talk specs and price—Rayce, of course, acting like this is a financial investment instead of a home—I get more and more uneasy.
It’s strange. I don’t know why I’m feeling this way and I don’t like it.
When Connor and Whitney start talking about furniture, I get up to help Corrine. I need something to do. She’s pulled out the fixings for the haystacks, and there really isn’t that much to prep, but I start working on dicing the tomatoes anyway.
“If we get it, we’ll have to figure out furniture,” Connor says.
I frown a bit. Connor has absolutely no furniture, so he’s a blank s
late. Whitney has her furniture, but, as she’s now telling us, “My stuff isn’t quite fit for a house like that. It’d be like the Beverly Hillbillies moving in.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Connor says, giving her a nudge with his shoulder.
“It totally would.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Connor says shrugging. “We’ll get new so it’s all stuff we picked out together. Then you’ll finally have your own furniture back, Lizzy.”
He winks at me and I give a weak smile.
“I bet it’ll be nice to have your own things in here,” Rayce says.
I frown and scoop the tomatoes up with my hand and the knife, depositing them into a bowl. “You don’t even know if you’re getting it yet,” I say, trying to sound casual and really hating how icky I feel. I grab the chives and start slicing them next. “We should stop talking about it so we don’t curse your luck.”
I’m not exactly the superstitious type, I’m just going for any excuse to change the subject, but Whitney clamps her phone to her chest and looks at Connor. “That’s true.”
He laughs and puts his arm around her. “We’ll get it. It felt like our house didn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she says, softening against him. “It really did.”
“Alright,” Rayce says, slapping his hand on the counter and glancing at the timer for the rice. “We have just enough time for one round,” he says to Connor.
I roll my eyes, but smile. For all the high-powered suit stuff that composes most of Rayce’s life, this is the one thing he’s never outgrown: vintage video games. He keeps it mum from people outside our little family circle, not wanting to tarnish his executive image, I guess. But I think it’s good for him. He and Connor really get into it—of course, Connor’s always been a kid at heart anyway—and it gives Rayce a chance to let loose a bit. Besides, things were more than a little tense between those two when Connor first came back, so it’s nice to see them playing together again.