Holt, Her Ruthless Billionaire_50 Loving States-Connecticut

by Theodora Taylor

  But despite having worked at the Tourmaline Ixtapa for over a year now, I still haven’t become used to being my own woman on Sunday mornings. I wonder if I ever will…

  Why am I sitting here thinking about my mother and the life I left behind in Jamaica? It’s my day off! I sit up and press play on my Jill Scott Spotify playlist—the perfect music for a chill Sunday morning. Unfortunately, the very first song that comes up is “Jahraymecofasola,” the one that never fails to remind me of that summer ten years ago in New Haven…

  Nope. Not today, demons. My boyfriend, Arturo, and I are going off-property for brunch after he puts Wes and his V.I.P father back on a private plane. I hit the skip button until I find the perfect tune. And before you know it…

  …I am in the bungalow’s small bathroom, showering and humming along to a happy Jill Scott song about taking my freedom and living my life like it’s golden. Then I sway to the rhythm of another upbeat tune while I take my hair out of crown braids in front of my bedroom’s vanity mirror.

  When my hair is completely down, I pause and consider the sparse amount of hair products on my dresser. This includes the very last of the Shea Moisture I brought from Jamaica. I bought it in bulk, but my supply is almost down to nothing after a year in Ixtapa. Meanwhile, my hair has continued to grow to where my unbraided curls now reach past my bra strap. The local coconut oil works fine, but there is no way I will be able to wear my hair down anymore if I don’t get my hands on a good leave-in conditioner and hair crème. But since today is my date day with Arturo, I decide to break out the Curl and Style Milk and Curl Enhancing Smoothie and spread it liberally into my hair.

  After getting dressed, I leave Jill playing in my room and dance out to the living room, so truly excited to be off today.

  I truly love my job, I do. But this week has tested me more than any S.A.T. I missed my full day off last week thanks to Wes Hader’s giant meltdown during art time at our center for 7-12 year olds. I ended up spending all day with him, and then much of the following week thanks to Wes forming an unexpectedly strong vacation friendship with my usually other-child-unfriendly son, Barron. As a result, it has been two whole weeks since my last full off day.

  Barron sullenly informed me last night that he plans to spend the morning with the hotel’s local iguana population since, “I will no longer have a friend.” Of course, I am sad for Barron, but his absence means I can start my season two binge of Insecure. I bet I can get at least three episodes in before brunch with Arturo—

  I stop cold and the Jill Scott song I’m humming dies mid-note.

  Barron is at the little table in our front room where we take our meals. This isn’t the first time I have found him up before me, working on some advanced project or other at the table with a look of such concentration on his face, it isn’t a mystery why some of our relatives wonder if he isn’t the reincarnated spirit of my super smart sister, Lydia.

  However, this morning there is no project taking up valuable table space. Instead, a very familiar tow-haired boy sits across from Barron. It’s Wes Hader, the American boy Barron has been hanging out with all week. The very same boy who should be in the lobby with his nanny, Melissa, and his American father after receiving a VIP tour from Arturo. And though I look around the room for the plain clothes bodyguard who was hired to accompany Wes everywhere he goes on resort property, I don’t see him.

  “Don’t be mad, Mama,” Barron says at the same time Wes says, “Wassup, Vee.” Casual, as if I should have been expecting him at my table this Sunday morning.

  “Good morning, Wes,” I answer, looking between him and my son. “May I ask why you are here?”

  “I got into the Connecticut Institute of Technology, Mama!” Barron says as if he is answering my question about Wes’s presence at our table.

  “What is this you say?” I ask, turning my eyes back to Barron.

  “He got into CIT,” Wes repeats as if I did not hear my son inform me he’s been accepted into one of the world’s most prestigious research universities.

  “I heard what he said,” I assure Wes. “But I do not understand how this happened.”

  “I have my GED. That’s all you need to apply to a college,” Barron points out as if I’m the slow one for not reaching the same conclusion.

  “Yes, but…” I blink at the effort of using more of my brain than I am used to before my daily cup of Folgers Tostado Clásico. “You are only ten! How is this possible?”

  “I applied online and sent the head of the Computational Biology department the specs and patent for my bioHelmet,” Barron answers. “I didn’t think I would hear from him so soon. But he wrote back faster than you would believe and said he’d push my application through for this fall. Yeah, mon!”

  Barron stands to high five Wes who, despite being a full two years younger than my son, seems to grasp what is going on much better than I do.

  “Hold on…you have a patent for that helmet of yours?” I ask, struggling to keep up.

  “Yes! I told you about it three months ago, Mama,” Barron answers, throwing me a hurt look.

  Okay, it’s true. I have a bad habit of tuning Barron out when he gets to talking about his bioHelmet project over breakfast, the only time we have for shared conversation since I am usually with the Kinder Club kids for lunches and dinners. But when you consider his helmet project is the only thing he ever talks about aside from video games, maybe you will understand why I am not 100% focused 100% of the time. The truth is, I barely understand the basic design concepts of the wearable helmet other than he hopes it will be able to receive thought commands and allow kids to play videogames against one another using only the device.

  But I can tell from the look on his face that he definitely must have told me all about his plans to take out a patent on his invention. More than once.

  “Sorry, yes of course,” I say, then quickly go to my next question. “But how did you get the money to apply to CIT?”

  “Me,” Wes says with one of his American boy shrugs. “I paid for it with the credit card my dad gave me.”

  “Yeah, mon, applying to CIT was Wes’s idea,” Barron explains.

  “We were trying to think of ways to get Barron and you back to Connecticut,” Wes explains in a tone I might call helpful if this entire conversation didn’t feel like a huge case of overstep.

  “I told him how Grandma and Aunt Judith still live there, and how you used to live there, too,” Barron adds.

  Then Wes jumps in with, “And I was, like, ‘then you should move back to Connecticut!’ So Ender applied to CIT and now you can come back with us!”

  “That’s right! That’s what’s up, mon!” Barron says, and this time the boys exchange fist bumps.

  For a moment, I can only stare. Barron must not have told Wes he has never exchanged a single word with his “grandma” in Connecticut because she distanced herself from him after his birth. And I am also overwhelmed by how much effort Barron’s new friend has put into lobbying for him. Now, I love Barron to the end of the universe and back again. The moment he was born, I gave up my dreams of going to college and instead, dedicated my life to him, no questions asked. This despite the difficult circumstances surrounding his birth. But the truth is, Barron is not an easy kid to befriend. He is too quirky and too smart for most kids his age to easily connect with.

  Which is why this whole friendship thing with Wes so strange. My son has never had a friend who wanted to spend more than an hour or two with him, much less one who would conspire with him to move back to the States.

  As for Wes, it is hard to believe the determined young man standing here in front of me is the very same boy I sacrificed my last day off to help defuse. As director of the Tourmaline’s Kinder Club Program, I have seen my fair share of fast friendships between the kids we supervise while their parents—or, in Wes’s case, his poor nanny— get some much-needed R and R. But I have never seen a friendship take this quickly or firmly.

  I am torn between dis
belief and respect for all the plotting they must have done behind my back. However…

  “We can’t just fly back to Connecticut with you,” I say to Wes.

  “Why not?” Wes asks, his voice taking on a snide tone as if I am an idiot for not going along with his plan. “Ender got into CIT! And he says he already talked to you about college.”

  Barron knows better than to speak to me in such a tone, but he turns pitiful eyes to me as if to punctuate his friend’s point.

  “Yes, but…Wes, my friend. I do not have enough money saved up to send Barron to such a place,” I explain. “On top of paying back the fees you charged to your father’s card on Barron’s behalf.”

  “You don’t have to pay him back,” Wes insists.

  “They are giving me a full scholarship,” Barron points out.

  “Wow, that is impressive!” I say because it is, and I’m so, so proud of him. But, “A full scholarship does not cover everything you will need for school—especially if I am also going to take classes as we discussed. There are textbooks to be purchased, and other necessities as well. I will have to save up more money before we can make this dream of ours happen.”

  Barron shakes his head at me, his expression a gut-wrenching mixture of heartbreak and disappointment. “So, I will never go to college?”

  “No! That is not what I am saying at all. I will do my best to save up for your college dream—for our college dream—by this time next year. And if Arturo gets that transfer to the Tourmaline Florida that he asked for, we can look for a good university for you to attend there.”

  “Arturo?” Wes asks Barron. “Isn’t that the guy who’s always asking me, like, a million times if I need anything else or if I’m having a good time? What does he have to do with this?”

  “He’s the hotel manager and her boyfriend,” Barron explains, not bothering to hide the eye roll in his voice even if it doesn’t show up on his face. His father might not be in the picture, but Barron has made it more than clear he has no desire to replace him with another man.

  “Oh …you can get a new boyfriend in Connecticut,” Wes informs me. As if getting a new boyfriend is as easy as going to the store to pick up milk.

  “And it’s C.I.T., Mama! C.I.T!” Barron points out. “They have TWO clean rooms at their tech facility and animals other than iguanas to experiment on. I will be able to develop my bioHelmet there. And after that, we’ll be rich and will never have to worry about money again!”

  “Barron, come on now…” I say, squatting down to talk to him. “You know money is not a thing we should be worrying about. We have everything we need right here.” I will admit there is some pain in my voice as I try to convince him of this. After Lydia’s death, I worked hard to provide for him and be the best mother I could. The thought that I might be failing him in the same way I failed my sister sits uneasily on my heart.

  And as for what his young American friend is arguing… “Wes,” I say, turning a stern gaze upon him. “Boyfriends are not as replaceable as toilet paper.”

  “Yeah, they are,” he answers with the certainty only an eight-year-old can achieve. “My dad gets a new girlfriend, like, every other month.”

  “Okay, well, I am not here to argue with you about this grown folk business,” I answer, trying not to laugh at Wes’s all-knowing tone. “My point is, we cannot just hop a plane to Connecticut. Barron must stay with me, and right now, my job is here.”

  “But it doesn’t have to be,” Wes says. “We live, like, fifteen minutes from C.I.T. You could live with us. I’ll make Dad fire Melissa and hire you instead!”

  “Hold on, child. You are trying to fire your nanny now?” I ask, shaking my head at the boy.

  “You’re the one who calmed me down last week, not her,” Wes points out. “I haven’t had a meltdown all week because you don’t make me mad when you tell me what to do. You’re a way better nanny than Melissa will ever be.”

  “Wes has that right, Mama,” Barron agrees with a solemn nod. “I mean, you’ve been doing the nanny’s job all week, isn’t that right? Wes and his father will be lucky to have you.”

  “Plus, you can have as much money as you want. My dad will pay for Barron to go to C.I.T., too. I’m serious! He’ll do anything I ask if I promise to behave at public school until he can find another private school willing to take me. All he cares about is me not embarrassing him anymore.”

  And that is how I know I have definitely not turned into my mother, because I can only imagine how she would respond to two boys trying to manipulate the affairs of grown-ups.

  But that doesn’t mean I am not feeling the sharp pricks of impatience. Which is why my ability to continue speaking in a calm, civil tone feels like a small miracle as I respond, “Okay, Wes. I can see you would like very much to see Barron again. I will make sure he Skypes with you after he talks with his Aunt Judith next week. But you will not be talking to me anymore about blackmailing your father. Because you are a child and you are not in charge of me or of your father, do you understand?”

  Wes rolls his eyes.

  “Wes, I am not here for you to be rolling your eyes at. I asked you if you understand?” My voice has taken on a hard, no-nonsense tone I was not even aware I possessed until the first time Barron tried to talk back to me when he was a toddler.

  Wes doesn’t respond. But as I did the day he threatened to kill everyone if he did not get his way, I do not let him off the hook. I stand quietly making eye contact with him until he finally huffs and says, “I understand. But it wouldn’t be blackmail—”

  “Okay, Wes. Now I must text Melissa,” I say, cutting him off. “She is most likely worried out her head about you.”

  I go to my bedroom to fetch my phone. The return trip doesn’t take long. While the two-bedroom “family suite” I share with Barron is generous by onsite employee standards (as Arturo is always quick to point out), it is little more than a small living room with two even smaller box bedrooms attached. Barron’s bedroom is so tiny, I am a little surprised he didn’t decide to nickname himself Harry, after the boy wizard who lived in the cupboard under the stairs, as opposed to Ender, the boy who was smart beyond his years. Though now that he’s gotten into CIT at such a young age, I have to admit the nickname he insists everyone call him makes more sense.

  “Barron belongs at CIT!” Wes shouts from the living room as if he is thinking the same thing. “We’ve got a lot of space at my house. A whole guest house out back. You and Barron can have it.”

  I sigh and pick up the phone. Sure enough, I am greeted by a screen filled with messages from Arturo. The pile starts with a calm “tienes Wes?” at the bottom. Then a few Missed Call notifications on top of that. Followed by several “Llamame!!!!” and finally, in English, a “Please tell me Wes is with you” as if Arturo is afraid I might have forgotten how to read Spanish since his first text.

  “si, he’s conmigo,” I type as I walk back to the living room, using the staff Spanglish that only a bunch of Spanish-as-a-second-language speakers who work with native Spanish speakers in a resort, catering to mostly English-speaking guests could understand.

  “Just name your price,” Wes says when I return to the front room, as if we never paused the conversation. “Whatever it is, Dad will pay it.”

  The phone explodes in my hand and instead of answering Wes, I say, “Morning, baby,” to Arturo. “Wah gwan?”

  “Thank you for your message, Vee,” Arturo replies, his usually warm tone so crisp and professional that I know Wes’s father must be standing right there with him. “Are you at home?”

  “Yes, I am, and I’m bringing Wes to you now…” I reply as I head to the door. ”Come, Wes. You can bring Barron with you if you like, but we are going now,” I tell him over my shoulder.

  And I don’t wait for Wes to agree before I open the door and head out. Over the past week, I have found it is better to give him a choice and leave him to decide how he will respond than trying to have a discussion with him.

>   “I don’t want to go home!” Wes shouts. But as I suspected, he also follows me right out the door while he is making his point. As my mother used to say, “Hard heads be hard the world over.”

  “Are you in the lobby?” I ask Arturo.

  “Actually, I am heading over to your place right now,” Arturo answers.

  “No! Stay in the lobby. We will meet you th—”

  I never finish my sentence because of who I see coming toward me on the narrow back road path that leads to the staff quarters.

  Not just Arturo, but a very tall man. A tremendously handsome man who reminds me of someone I used to know long, long ago. And without warning, the starting melody from “Jahraymecofasola” unfurls inside my head, even though it can’t possibly be…

  But I stop dead in my tracks, because the tall man has the same sharp, preppy good looks I remember from the graduation photo they ran with the story about the ten-year anniversary of Holt’s mother’s death. He also has the same square jaw and “I own everything, including you” aura that even drugs and alcohol couldn’t completely suppress back in the day. But…it cannot be…

  I refuse to believe it. Even as Wes rushes past me yelling, “Dad! Dad! Tell Vee she has to come home with us and be my new nanny!”

  Chapter Twelve

  HOLT

  I freeze, stunned. Not because Wes is demanding I hire some random woman as his nanny. I expected something like this after the resort manager spent nearly the entire walk over extolling the virtues of the Kinder Club director he believed Wes ran off to visit.

  “Her son and your son have formed a very good friendship during his time here, Señor Calson,” Arturo explained.

  And Wes is a Calson, even if for security purposes he travels under his mother’s maiden name. I would have expected nothing less from him than a negotiation. One I am more than willing to take into consideration. The air here in Mexico is humid and lank, and the sun beats down relentlessly with a bright, hot light. I am only here to get the photos Della recommended to prove, despite Wes’s viral meltdown, that we are an otherwise perfect father-son duo. After which I plan to board an air-conditioned plane back to Connecticut as soon as possible.