Gigi got us through the remainder of the lunch and even tea afterward. We sat out on the veranda—who used that word anymore?—surrounded by the birds chirping and sun shining down on an uncharacteristically warm winter’s day.
When I could finally excuse myself without it being too rude, I stood up to go. Gigi gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me how much she loved seeing me. I wondered what she thought of us all, a family of pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But she sailed off upstairs to return to packing for her vacation, buoyant and unperturbed.
That left just my mother and me at the front door. She surveyed me with her cool, grey eyes.
“We’re more alike than you might think, Heathcliff.” She smiled, though still looked a bit sad. “We like to keep to ourselves, don’t we?”
I nodded. I hadn’t thought of it like that before, that she and I were fairly similar in a way.
“But sometimes its good to let people in,” she continued. I couldn’t help it. I tensed up as she spoke. Lectures from her about how I should live my life really rubbed me the wrong way. But then she added with a sigh, “It doesn’t have to be me. Just someone. It’s no good to go through life alone.”
I thanked her for lunch and climbed into my truck. Advice was so easy to give. Knowing what to do with it once it was given to you, now that was the real trick.
§
Staying with Ash and Ana was easier than I ever imagined. They left me to my own devices more often than not. I didn’t know if it was because Ash understood me and explained to Ana that was how I liked to roll, or if they were just really busy. Maybe a combination of both.
As it was, I got some time on my own in the city, something I hadn’t done…well, ever as an adult. I hit up museums and galleries, amazed by the work I saw. You knew the art had to be good when a guy like me struck up conversations. And I did. I chatted up the owners of a few galleries and got to meet a few of the artists, themselves, in some of the smaller venues. There was some cool art being created. I hadn’t participated at all in the art scene, hadn’t done any schmoozing or networking. I’d dismissed it all as corporate crap, the type of thing sellouts did once they were fresh out of ideas and just started chasing the Benjamins.
But some of the work I saw? It inspired me. One guy at a shop in Brooklyn had a whole series of intricately detailed metal sculptures that looked exactly like trees. Another guy had a series he’d done with spirals, mimicking the patterns found in seashells and expanding them into giant folds and curves. That interplay between nature and manmade metal, it fascinated me. There was a lot I could do in that space, and it looked like I may have discovered a few people I could do it with.
I was feeling the best I had since I’d left Vermont two weeks ago when I joined my oldest brother, Colton, for dinner. Good thing, too, because I fully expected him to take the wind out of my sails. He’d invited me to join him at the Harvard Club. Of course.
Just walking into the high-ceilinged, wood-paneled entryway with red and gold accents everywhere I looked set me on edge. What kind of a pretentious jerk would be a member of an exclusive club like this, screaming wealth and privilege from every priceless rug and vase? Stern paintings of old white men stared down at me along the walls. “Didn’t he go to Dartmouth?” one of them seemed to ask, looking jowly and disapproving. “I heard he didn’t even get a degree,” another shook his head.
“There you are!” My brother Colt turned from where he was conversing with some men in suits to greet me. He looked dapper in a perfectly-tailored tuxedo. Strong chin, bright blue eyes, freshly shaven, it appeared as if he’d just stepped out of a Mercedes commercial. As the oldest son, he’d inherited a freaking title when our father died: the Baron of Warwick. Unbelievable.
“I didn’t know this was a black tie event,” I grumbled, shaking his hand.
“No, no,” he reassured me. “I’m off to one later after dinner. Care to join me?”
I arched my eyebrow at him in response.
“Of course not,” he agreed, beginning to lead me across the room. As we walked, he informed me that there were no less than six dining areas in the club from which to choose.
“We have almost that many restaurants in the town where I live,” I replied, reminding him of our differences. As if he could ever forget. I’d cleaned myself up to meet him, which for me meant a shirt with a collar. A flannel workshirt, but still, no stains, no rips or tears.
“We’ll eat up on the rooftop,” he decided, looking over at me. “Unless you’ve got a jacket and tie in your back pocket.”
“Is that where you keep your spare set?”
He didn’t answer, just led me up a wide, sprawling staircase. I was surprised we were expected to use our own legs to walk up it. No servants to carry us up on their backs? The service in this place was deplorable!
But Colt was in his element, stopping to greet people we passed, introducing me, asking just the right questions, giving just the right answers. He knew everyone. Where I’d run as far away from this world as I could, he’d found his way right into the heart of it. He’d taken over the family business from our father when he’d passed, inheriting the CEO throne of Kavanaugh Industries. And he was welcome to it, as far as I was concerned.
We sat and Colt ordered us some grilled prawns and a white wine to start.
“Now Heath,” he started in and I braced myself for yet another lecture. “I didn’t know you were starting your own business up there in the woods.” He made a dismissive gesture to accompany woods, as if I’d chosen to live in a dung heap.
“The town’s called Watson.”
“As I’m now well aware,” he agreed, giving me a significant look. “Seems like Nelson helped us out of a jam. Again.”
“We should get him a cape for Christmas,” I grumbled. Nelson the superhero.
“No, I don’t think he’d wear a cape,” Colt disagreed. Aw, Colt. He needed to lighten up. “But there’s two good things that came out of the ridiculous promo that network aired.” He held up his fingers, one, two.
“First, it dredged you up from the bottom of the lake.”
I took a sip of my wine. It was easier than defending myself against his bullshit.
“And second, it came to my attention that you’re exceptionally talented.”
Wait, what was that he just said?
“I’ve been on the website for your shop. If you could even call it a website,” he scoffed. “But still, I could see a few of your pieces and you’re really doing some excellent work.”
“Um, thanks?” I looked at him, still waiting for the catch.
“So what are you doing to promote it?” He took a nonchalant bite of prawn.
“Nothing.” I ate a few prawns myself. Delicious, with lemony spice. But I’d have to eat about 200 to fill up.
“As I expected.” Colt nodded. “Heath, let me talk to you about something.”
I put down my fork and listened while he told me how I was going about things the wrong way. I wasn’t growing my business. I wasn’t investing in infrastructure, building my client base. Marketing was at least as if not more important than creating.
“You done?” I finally asked. I’d already made it halfway through my entrée by the time he started winding down. Colt had confidence to burn. That combined with the power of CEO meant the man could talk. I could picture him up in front of a boardroom, getting them to agree to whatever he wanted. He was so much like our father.
“I’ve said my piece,” he agreed.
“I’m not you,” I began. No matter how much my father had tried to make me into that same mold, he hadn’t succeeded.
“Pretty clear on that.” Colt nodded as he took a sip of his wine.
“I’m not doing this to see how much money I can make.”
“Heath, Communism is a failed doctrine. It runs contrary to human nature.”
“Who said anything about Communism?” That was so Colt, taking a regular conversation and infusing it with economi
c, political and historical facts and theories. He’d earned his Harvard undergraduate degree and then doubled down, getting an MBA from the same venerable institution.
“There’s nothing wrong with making money.” Colt dumbed it down for me. “Especially if you’re doing something you love. I’ve seen your work. You’re really good.”
“What piece did you like?” I almost wondered if I were calling his bluff. I had a hard time picturing my oldest brother, the corporate raider, taking the time to play around on our most basic of basic websites to admire my artwork and furniture.
“The rocking chair,” he replied instantly.
“That was Violet’s favorite, too.” The words slipped out of my mouth before I could think.
“Violet?” Colt gave me a knowing glance.
“I’ll gift it to you.” I changed the subject. “The rocking chair. It’s yours.”
“Don’t just give it to me, Heath! For Christ’s sake! Charge me money for it! The more the better. You determine your own worth. And if you listen to me you’re going to start charging a lot more.”
“I’m not interested in that,” I protested.
“What about those people you work with? The other hippies in your commune?”
“I’m not in a commune.”
“Sorry, artists’ collective.” Oh, wait, was my straight-laced brother making a joke? Easy to miss them, they were so few and far between.
I could not tell a lie. “They’d like to make more money.”
“That’s what that network should have done a show on, you know. Who wants another celebrity exposé? They could have done something with the local arts and crafts scene up there. And then each week they could feature another town. Local is hot right now.”
“That’s what Violet wanted to do.” Again with the Violet. I took a sip of my wine. Colt watched me do it.
“All right, listen. You’re a man of mystery, Heath, and you want to stay that way. I can see that. All I’m saying is you can sell more without selling out. Let me help you and your hippie friends. Set you up with a real website, do some marketing. You’ll all triple your sales within the first month.”
I thought of Harriet and how excited she’d been about the TV show. And how disappointed she’d been when it had been taken away from her and the others. “I’ll think about it.”
“You don’t have to do everything alone, Heath.”
“Funny, mom just told me the same thing.”
“Our mom?” He looked shocked. I shrugged. We both ate for a few minutes in silence, lost in our thoughts.
“Good to see you, Heath,” he finally offered, looking at me with a surprisingly human quality to his eyes. I might almost say vulnerable, though that word and Colt had never crossed paths. “I know I haven’t…since dad died, we haven’t…”
“We’ve both been busy.” I gave us both the universal pass, the excuse that blanketed over every shortcoming.
“And you’ve always been so self-contained.” He shook his head, a slight smile on his face. “I always remember you with those blasted Legos.”
“You do?” Whenever I thought of our childhood, which I didn’t often, Colt wasn’t in it. He was four years older than me, which wasn’t so much now, I realized, him 29 and me 25. But back then it had meant he was gone, whisked off to boarding school right around the time the shit had hit the fan in our family.
“You’d spend hours making these elaborate constructions,” Colt recalled. “Completely absorbed. You had no idea what was going on around you.” That’s where he was wrong. I had been aware, only too, and that’s why I’d absorbed myself in Legos. But that was a conversation for another day.
“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is I’m proud of you for starting your own business. And for getting so good at what you do.”
“Thanks.” I meant it sincerely. And we had ourselves a brotherly moment. The first one in our twenty-five years of being brothers. Not bad for a dinner at the Harvard Club.
§
It was three days later when I got the call. I’d been thinking it was about time to head back up to Vermont. I knew the exposé wasn’t going to run. No new promos had leaked, and the network hadn’t aired the old one again. Even the most determined of paparazzi had to have gotten bored by now. There had to be much more promising scandals afoot than boring old me.
As for the good townsfolk of Watson? I was ready to go back and face the music. They might be pissed off, might give me some shit, but each day I was feeling more confident. I was the simple man I’d represented to them—and I was Heathcliff Kavanaugh surrounded by a crazy-ass family. Maybe there’d be a few folks who’d be willing to try to understand that I could be both at the same time?
My phone rang with a number from L.A. Violet had the same area code. It wasn’t her number, though. Thinking of Nelson’s directive—talk to no one—I let it go through to voicemail.
Then I listened to the message. It was Sam, Violet’s colleague who’d accompanied her on location. I hadn’t had much to do with him. He’d struck me as wily, always taking in more of whatever scene he was in than giving.
“Call me back,” he urged in his message. “I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.”
On impulse, and against my better judgment, I did.
“I’m the one who sold you out,” Sam blurted out right away. “Violet didn’t know anything about it.” He explained that he was the one who’d sniffed out my background and pitched the idea of the expose. He’d given Violet the paperwork for me to sign off on. She’d had no idea.
“Why should I trust anything you say?” I had to ask.
“You shouldn’t,” Sam agreed. “But I figure, why should the fucking Fame! Network get to make all of us miserable? They fired Violet. They screwed you over. Now that they can’t do the exposé they’ve fired me, too. They don’t get to have all the fun.”
“They fired Violet?”
“Same day as the pitch,” he confirmed. “She moved back with her mom in New Jersey.”
New Jersey, huh? That wasn’t far. Maybe I wasn’t headed back up to Vermont just yet after all.
CHAPTER 21
Violet
The thing about Honeycomb cereal was you had to eat it at just the right moment. It was an art and a science. Too soon and it tasted like little nuggets of cardboard floating in milk. Too long and the whole thing became a bowl of goop. Just right and you had yourself a whole bunch of honey goodness, with the milk soaking up exactly the right amount of sweetness and the cereal softened up just enough.
I sat on the couch in my mom’s apartment watching and waiting for that moment. Just me, a bowl of Honeycomb cereal, and the sweat suit I’d been wearing for days on end.
“OK. Come on.” My mom came into my room—aka her living room—and flicked on the lights. I squinted up at her, blinking. So bright.
“Time to get up and out!” she declared, opening a window next to me to let in a crack of brisk, fresh air.
“What?” Reluctantly, I set down my rapidly-transforming bowl of cereal. Not yet, but close. My spoon still hovered at the ready.
“You’ve had enough time on the couch.” Mom picked up a pillow next to me, plumped it up, then put it back. “Come on with me now.” She extended her hand.
“But wait! The Honeycomb—”
“Nope.” My mother shook her head, grasped my hand in hers and pried me away from my treat. “That’s enough of that. I gave you ten days.”
“But, Mom!” Yes, my voice did sound exactly like a whiney teenager’s. That’s what happened when you moved back in with your mom, crashed on her couch and ate breakfast cereal and Ben & Jerry’s for a week and a half.
Slipping on sneakers and tumbling after her out the door, I looked down and noticed my sweatpants had a few stains. “Shouldn’t I change?”
“Yes,” my mom agreed, not letting me head back inside. “You should.”
She drove me over to her salon, the one I’d practically grown up
in, watching her work her magic. I’d moved away seven years ago when I was only 18 years old, and I felt like I’d changed so much. But back home I recognized almost every house and shop we passed. Everything looked so much the same. My mom was even driving the same car, a beat-up Honda Civic now with close to 200,000 miles on it.
“Still running.” She patted the dashboard, maybe thanking it for getting her to work that day.
“Look who’s here!” the good ladies of The Beauty Mark sang out as I trailed after my mom into the salon.
“My baby’s home!” my mom declared, shining with pride over her hot mess of a daughter. They cooed and clucked, circling around me and admiring my blond tresses, my thin figure.
“Now, what you wearing, Vi?” One of them finally got real, stepping slightly to the side and gesturing to my neon melon-colored sweat suit with a comb.
“It was on sale?” I offered, wincing.
“Course it was on sale!” she declared. “Who’s gonna buy that crap?”
“She did,” another of them sang out, and everyone started laughing, myself included. And maybe when I got home I’d need to burn the melon sweat suit.
“Vi, you come sit here, baby girl.” Bess, a giant of a woman who’d known me since the day I was born—she’d told me this any number of times—put me in her chair. “I’ve known you since the day you were born,” she told me yet again. “So I can look you in the eye and say you need a little sprucing up.”
I saw myself in the mirror and winced again. When was the last time I’d showered? I couldn’t exactly remember. But Bess and the rest started taking care of that, and I surrendered to the hustle and bustle, the gossip and the laughter, joining in among the transformations happening all around me.
“How’s Leo?” one of mom’s weekly elderly customers asked me.
“He’s good,” I answered. She was in her late 80s and the moment I’d moved to L.A. she’d decided that I was dating Leonardo DiCaprio. I usually made it home for the holidays and at first when I’d seen her I’d tried to explain that not only was I not dating Leonardo DiCaprio, I’d never met him. But my mom had finally told me to let it be. “She likes the fantasy,” she explained to me.
Untamed: (Heath & Violet) (Beg For It) Page 22