Space Between (Smart Girl Mafia Series: Book 3)

by Amiee Smith

“I guess I have to... you’ve seen me at my worst and you still want to go down on me.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Not tonight, Dragon. My tummy is so full.”

  “Spoken like a real wife,” he chuckles.

  ***

  “You got me a Christmas tree?”

  The smell of pine greets me as soon as I open the large double doors to my house.

  “Yeah, fresh trees and decorations were 50% off at Home Depot. I remembered you said the only thing you like about Christmas are the trees.”

  I walk through the grand entry way leading to the expansive great room. While my home was well-maintained, it hasn’t been updated since my dad purchased it in the 1970s.

  Five bedrooms. Seven bathrooms. 9,000 square feet. The house came furnished, complete with a baby grand piano. Brown old wood paneling causes it to appear cave-like in some areas. But the great room gets beautiful afternoon sunshine.

  Even on the worst days of my shopping binges, I would spend hours in here playing the piano.

  Alex flips a switch and the large tree glows with multi-colored lights reflecting off blue, red, green, and yellow glass bulbs.

  “I remember that conversation. We were talking about the Nat King Cole Christmas record. It’s your favorite. Thank you, Alex. It’s beautiful. This is my first tree as an adult.”

  “Yeah, it’s the first time I bought a tree and decorated it. My brother inspected the fireplace. He says it is in excellent condition. I got a bundle of wood so you can use it.”

  “Nick was here? What did you tell him?”

  “I just said I was helping a friend. I realized I moved you in here, but I didn’t inspect the house. Nick says it’s in good shape. He’d love to renovate it, but he believes tearing it down and building a new structure is probably more cost efficient.”

  “How does your brother know about...ah, contracting?”

  “Building is probably a better word. Nick has been working on my dad’s construction crews part time for the last couple of years, so he knows more than I do about the technical aspects of building. I know more about the basics of interiors. He spent time with my mom during the summers in between swim team practice and since I didn’t play a sport, I spent more time with my dad. Before my dad expanded his business, he used to be a run-of-the-mill contractor. He renovated homes this size all over Pasadena, San Marino, and Sierra Madre. I’d help him out when I was a kid.”

  “Your dad has the great Nick Willingham working on a construction crew?”

  “Yeah, he’s making him work his way up. Now that Nick can’t play water polo, he’s interested in the building process, so I bet he’ll be promoted soon.”

  “How’s his recovery going?”

  “Longer than he expected. He’s struggling to manage the pain.”

  “Physical pain or emotional pain?”

  “Probably both, but we’re Willinghams. We don’t talk about stuff like that. At least, not yet. I’ll be going to these meetings soon so maybe I’ll break that pattern.”

  I smile at him.

  “Do you want to stay over? I’m not sure about the other bedrooms, but I bought a new king-sized mattress for the Ralph Lauren bedframe that came with the house. It’s really comfortable. You’ll have to ignore all the stuff I bought. Gosh, that’s going to be a project to get that cleaned up and organized.”

  “I already took care of it.”

  “What did you do?”

  I don’t give him time to answer, heading upstairs. Alex follows.

  I arrive at what used to be my bedroom.

  And all I can do is geek out like the weirdo I am.

  “Nick designed the layout, but I did most of the work. There was no way to match the design of the house. Home Depot does not carry 1970s wood paneling. I went modern. I moved all your bedroom furniture and TV to a room down the hall.”

  My Dragon created a wardrobe masterpiece.

  He replaced the shag carpet with charcoal wood floors. All white cabinets, built-in closet racks, and drawers with gunmetal handles and knobs to house all my clothes, coats, kimonos, and accessories. In the center of each wall are floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A chandelier-style light hangs from the ceiling. Rows and rows of shelving affixed to the largest wall showcase my now massive shoe collection.

  “Wow, that’s a lot of shoes,” I say, wishing I didn’t know how they got there.

  “Rough guess, that’s $250,000 in shoes.”

  “Actually, just a little over $300,000. Not including the ten pair I had prior to moving in.”

  “The shoes and coats were expected. What’s up with the kimonos?” Alex asks.

  I run my fingertips over a kimono hanging on a long rod. There are 50, I think. The last few weeks of my rich days are a blur.

  “I’ve always loved them. It’s silly but I’ve had this dream of lounging around a big house like this in a kimono and making music at night.”

  “Well, you’re almost there. House. Kimonos. Talent. I know a guy from Pasadena who majored in Music Recording at USC. He helped me soundproof and rewire your studio. I also fixed the drywall and touched up the paint. I couldn’t get the city to issue you a retroactive permit for the work, but it’s definitely safe and usable.”

  “Alex, please don’t tell me you did all of this because you feel guilty?”

  “No. I did all this because I’m your husband.”

  ***

  “Rise and shine, Dragon,” I sing.

  I enter my bedroom, carrying a tray. He’s usually up before I am, but today I was up with the birds to prepare oatmeal and bacon.

  For the last ten days, since I got out of rehab, Alex and I have been together. Sharing the same space. Studying for his exam. Sleeping in the same bed.

  I place the tray on my side of the bed and open the thick green curtains. He sits up, sliding on his glasses.

  “The white kimono looks good on you, Brittney.”

  “Thank you. It’s New Year’s Eve, and your test day, so it felt right. I made you breakfast.”

  “Why are there two sets of silverware?”

  “So we can share.”

  “So, you really made yourself breakfast,” he laughs, eating a piece of bacon.

  I shrug and smile, getting into bed. “Are you ready for your test?”

  “Fuck, no. My heart started racing the moment I opened my eyes.”

  “Dragon, you know all this stuff. Remember, test makers are not that smart. Eliminate wrong answers first.”

  In truth, I’ve only acted as moral support over the last ten days. Alex truly knows finance. His only struggle is being a hot guy with a learning disability.

  After doing a little research, I found out Alex could request special accommodations: extra time to take the test and someone to read the questions to him.

  I knew he would object. So, I filled out the paperwork and did what any good wife-friend would do, I nagged him for three days until he agreed to accept the assistance.

  “I can’t mess this up. I already have ten people ready to work with me.”

  In between studying, he followed up on every lead from my rehab friends. If he passes the test, he will be managing over 75 million dollars.

  “You’re going to do great. You’re always telling me to think positively. You have to do the same.”

  Alex listens to lots and lots of motivational recordings. If jazz is not playing in the house, it’s an audio of an inspirational speaker. Tony Robbins. Brian Tracy. Wayne Dyer. Bob Proctor. Jim Rohn. Zig Ziglar. Grant Cardone.

  I used to think they were just a bunch of white men expounding their privilege under the guise of personal development, but after rehab, I can understand how subconscious beliefs and limited thinking can derail even the most noble intentions.

  “I don’t know if positive thinking can help the biggest dummy in the room succeed,” he says, dipping his spoon into the oatmeal.

  “I’m proof that being smart is not a recipe for success. All those people have agre
ed to work with you because they believe in your intelligence. Alex, accept that you have the ability to help the ultra-wealthy stay ultra-wealthy. Now stop being a Debbie Downer and go get ’em tiger,” I say, grinning.

  “Is that supposed to be a pep talk?”

  “Um, it depends. Is it working?”

  “Oddly, yes.”

  Alex passes his Series 7 exam. A month later, he passes his Series 63 and Series 65 exams.

  Within less than a year, he signs 50 more clients and rents office space in Downtown L.A.

  He continues to manage the financials for my estate and spends several nights a week at the mansion but maintains his studio apartment.

  While on leave from my doctorate program, I work as his assistant in between gigs and trying to make an album. Other than working on music, attending meetings, and spending Friday nights with the girls, I’m always with him.

  SEVEN YEARS AGO

  ALEX WILLINGHAM

  I arrive at my office just a little after 11:00 a.m. I’ve already had five client meetings this morning.

  Six months ago, I sublet two offices in a small professional building in the Financial District of Downtown Los Angeles.

  “Hi Alex! Here is your mail,” the youthful receptionist says, handing me a thick stack of envelopes.

  Flipping through, I know they are all checks from clients paying their quarterly fees. I’m usually thrilled to receive payments, but today, my attention is elsewhere.

  After spending the weekend together at the mansion, I haven’t seen Brit in two days. And she didn’t return any of my calls. I know she’s been working on music and went to her support group and physical therapy. I’ve had back to back meetings, but I still found the time to check in with her.

  I move down the hallway to my side-by-side offices. I poke my head into the first workspace.

  Brit sits at the desk, typing. Her deep red nails clack against the keys. She cradles the phone in the crook of her neck. Dressed in black trousers, and a tweed black and white Chanel jacket and black Louboutin heels, she appears both professional and chic.

  Is she wearing perfume? Makeup?

  “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Beckman. This is Brit of Willingham Wealth Management. This message is to confirm your appointment tomorrow with Alex Willingham at 1:30 p.m. at the Brentwood Country Club. He will meet you in the Clubhouse. If you have any questions, please give us a call back or respond to the email I just sent you. Thank you.”

  I know it is best for her to return to school, but I love working with her. I love us being a husband and wife team.

  She places the phone on the receiver. I step into the office, sitting in the chair facing her desk.

  “Hi! I spoke to Mrs. Maple this morning. She will be in tomorrow. I’ve got a gig to play piano on a song that may be used for a TV show. She can use my desk to do the bookkeeping. I printed all the statements for your business credit card and the checking account, but if you have any additional receipts leave them in this folder. I confirmed all your appointments for tomorrow. We’ve been invited to dinner with Phillip and Jennifer Akwell next Saturday. That’s Betty’s older son. I rescheduled your annual physical and put it on your calendar this time. Alex, it’s next month. Don’t skip it again. I also ordered supplies, responded to all your emails, and prepared a list of charities for your next round of donations. Just let me know the amount and I’ll write out the checks,” she says, handing me a list.

  I scan the list, before dropping it on the desk.

  “You know I’m not donating to the first one on your list.”

  “Greenpeace is doing so much to protect whales and to stop overfishing to maintain a balanced marine ecosystem. Please?”

  “No. I trust they are doing good work, but their practices are controversial. I don’t want my business name associated with them. We’ve discussed this. I’m still new in this field. I have a very conservative client base.”

  “Fine. I will just donate to them under my own name.”

  “You need to save money for your expenses, Brittney.”

  “I don’t have any bills, Dragon.”

  “Just because I pay them, doesn’t mean you don’t have any bills. Speaking of, I checked your account this morning. Why did you withdraw $500 yesterday?”

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug.

  I hate that answer. I hate that shrug.

  Brit returns to the computer screen, lifting the phone receiver to her ear. “Is that mail in your hand? Leave it and I’ll take care of it.”

  I stand, dropping the envelopes on her desk. This conversation is no longer business related, but instead a discussion between husband and wife.

  Now is not the time.

  She calls to me before I can exit. “You have dinner blocked off on your calendar. Do you want me to make a reservation?”

  Of course, she doesn’t remember what today is. Of course, she didn’t listen to my voicemails.

  “I made a reservation at Sushi Gen. For you and me,” I say before going into my office.

  ***

  “Happy anniversary,” I say, handing Brit a black box with a white ribbon bow.

  “This box is too small for a puppy,” she says, placing it in the chair next to her.

  She swirls her chopsticks in a small bowl of soy sauce with a heap of wasabi. Plates of sushi fill the table: playboy rolls, yellow tail belly, salmon sashimi, bowls of miso soup and edamame, uni, toro, unagi, and three different house special rolls. Brit likes variety.

  Last Sunday while doing her nails, Brit gave me her best pitch for why we need a dog.

  “We’re not getting a puppy. You have to go back to school, and I’ve been working 16-hour days.”

  “I’m not going back to school. I want to finish my album. I already have 5,000 subscribers to my YouTube channel and you’re busier than ever, so you’ll need my help,” she says before finishing the toro.

  “Yes, you are going back to school. You’ve had almost a year and the album is still not done. This afternoon, I made an offer to a candidate to help me out in the business.”

  “The creative process takes time, Alex. I’m still trying to find the space between the notes. Whatever white dude you hired won’t be as good as me.”

  “So, while you’re searching for the space between the notes, you’ll finish your doctorate. And I didn’t hire a white man. Will is African American. Yale graduate. Originally from Inglewood. Worked on Wall Street for a year as a technical analyst. Wants to learn the business so he can support the unique needs of affluent minorities. Also, he’s a Warriors fan.”

  “Alright. He’s perfect. I really think I can make a go at music. I’ll just get a job in retail. I’ll start applying as soon as I save up enough money for a new phone. Oh, and to pay my past due cell bill.”

  “What happened to your phone?! Why didn’t you pay your cellphone bill?”

  “My flip phone finally crapped out a few days ago. Since it isn’t working, I don’t have to pay the bill right now.”

  So, that’s why she didn’t return my calls.

  “You had enough money in your account to pay the bill and get another phone. Did you consider that I... I mean, the girls might be trying to reach you? What did you buy that was more important?”

  “I don’t know,” she says with a shrug.

  I hate that answer. I hate that shrug.

  I sit back in my chair, sipping my beer. An argument with my wife wasn’t what I planned for our first anniversary.

  “Don’t trip, Alex. I’ll deal with my phone once I get paid on my next gig.”

  “Brit, you are one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met. You have all the talent to be a successful musician but having your doctorate will ensure that you will always be able to get a job working as a professor. You still have enough money to cover the cost of the house for another year. I will cover your expenses thereafter, but it’s best for you to build long-term financial security. YouTube subscribers, a job in retail, gigs
when you can get them, and a half-finished album will not cover your cost of living. I just put you on my health care policy so if you have another injury, I won’t be stuck paying medical bills out of pocket.”

  I point to her left tattooed forearm.

  Three months ago, she fell at a party she attended with her friends in the Hollywood Hills.

  Skateboarding. Tipsy. At night. In Louboutins. With no health insurance.

  All the girls had gone missing, so she called me. I dropped $10,000 on an emergency room bill and physical therapy for her fractured arm.

  She sighs. “If I weren’t married to Mr. Moneybags, I would have figured it out,” she says quietly.

  “If you were in school, you would have had health coverage through the university. If you were in school, you may have thought twice about skateboarding with a bunch of X Games dudes that night. If you were in school, you might have been at home, sitting next to me in bed, studying or grading papers.”

  Brit stops popping sushi rolls into her mouth but doesn’t regard me.

  “Well, if you had more... husband privileges, would I have to go back to school?”

  Her question causes my dick to push against my slacks, but I frown and lean forward to keep my frustration contained to our table.

  “Do you hear yourself right now, Brittney?! What would the anti-capitalist feminist that lives in your mind say about what you are proposing?”

  “That’s not what I meant... forget it. I’ll go back to school,” she mumbles, pointing her chopsticks at another roll.

  “Good girl. Open your present.”

  I watch her untie the bow and remove the lid, retrieving a red Chanel wallet from inside.

  “Dragon, I already have something to keep my money in.”

  She tugs a sandwich bag filled with a few dollar bills, a debit card, and loose change from her purse.

  The sight of my wife’s “wallet” causes me to cringe every time I see it. I take a deep breath, trying to dial back my heat.

  “Think of this as your Brittney Willingham wallet. It has your health and car insurance cards. I added you to my State Farm, because I don’t like knowing you chose to donate to Greenpeace instead of paying your car insurance. I opened a joint account for us. The debit card is in there, so you have access to funds to cover the house expenses. Also, I made you an authorized user on my credit card in case of an emergency. Absolutely no shopping, Brittney. I put a hundred dollar bill inside your wallet, but it is not to spend. It is a law of attraction exercise to help you be a magnet to money.”