by J. L. White
It was kind of a disaster, at first, and we relied heavily on our management team. Eventually we started to figure things out, but it took us awhile to sort out a new division of responsibilities. Mom and Dad had overseen various aspects of the resort based on their interests and strengths, which didn’t really line up with what the three of us did best. Rayce still handles the financials, but he and I share the executive relations side of things, which Dad handled. Lizzy and I split up some of the operations, with her focusing more on rooms and events, and me overseeing the restaurants and activities side. Things eventually started to calm as we got a better handle on things and were no longer working ninety-hour weeks.
That’s when the dust started to settle, which was almost as bad. With far less to distract us at that point, the shock let up and the grieving hit hard. Almost eight months later, I wouldn’t say anyone’s over it, but we’re getting on as best we can, I guess.
Though, I’m not so sure about Rayce. Honestly, things have been a little rough with us.
As for the business itself, though, it’s almost routine now. Every so often we’ll hit a snag—we’ll discover something Mom or Dad handled that no one else knew about—but it’s going pretty smoothly overall. Thank god for our incredible managers and staff. Many of our employees have been around for years, a few from the very beginning, and they’re almost like family. When it happened, they gathered around us and did everything they could to help. Not to mention our regular guests and members of the Swan Pointe community, who also expressed their love and support. I’m deeply grateful for it. Truly.
I still wish my parents were here instead.
And I’m rapidly approaching a fork in the road I’m dreading. Really dreading. Because I have no idea what I’m going to do.
Rayce pulls his Bentley Continental into the parking lot of the lawyer’s office building at exactly one o’clock. Most people would consider this close enough to being on time, but not Rayce. Not lately, anyway. Rayce unbuckles his seatbelt, practically oozing irritation. From the front passenger seat, Lizzy gives him a look, clearly wanting to tell him to relax but not wanting to stir the pot.
I don’t care.
I get out of the backseat still in happy shock about Whitney. I can’t believe she’s here. God, if it weren’t for this stupid meeting I would’ve just crashed her lunch party, because I didn’t want to let her out of my sight for even a second. And what a sight she was. Wow. She’s beautiful anyway, but damn did she look stunning in that dress. Not to mention the way she felt in my arms. Her smell. Her smile. Damn.
I’ve thought of her often since we last saw one another. It took a while to get over her. Much longer than I thought it would. Well, okay maybe in some ways I’ve never really gotten “over” it, but what could I do? I’d deliberately left things without a way to contact her, and she didn’t ask for my information either. I told myself that had been the right thing to do, too, because there have been many, many moments of weakness when I would’ve reached out to her.
And now here she is. I’m a little drunk with it. I’m not assuming she’s interested in starting anything again. I couldn’t begin to say. She could have a boyfriend, for all I know. Though the thought of that makes me a little crazy, so maybe not. I hope not. God, I’m a mess. But even if all I get to do is talk to her, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever I can get.
I ignore Rayce’s silent fuming all the way to George Hollister’s office. Normally I’d take the bait, I admit. We’ve been rubbing each other wrong for months. This isn’t how things used to be and I don’t like it, but he’s been acting kind of like a jerk and I’m not going to just put up with it. Today though, I’m energized just thinking about Whitney, which is probably only irritating him more since I’m not at all sorry about making us late.
We walk into George’s office and shake hands while Rayce apologizes for our lateness, looking right at me. I smile in response, just to piss him off, and he scowls at me a bit. When he gets in these moods, I can’t seem to keep from goading him. It’s practically habitual at this point.
We all settle into chairs, opposite George, who sits behind his broad, mahogany desk. He’s a frail-looking man in his sixties, with thinning gray hair and pale, sagging skin. Don’t let his looks deceive you. He’s a lion in disguise, and goes way back with our family. He knew my father in Dad’s real estate days, before the resort, and the two had remained tight over the years. He specializes in estates, and our parents chose him to be the trustee of the Grant and Sharon Rivers Trust.
Let me establish one thing right now. Assets coming your way because your parents drowned at sea feels pretty fucking ugly, no matter what it is you’re receiving. As for me, since you’re probably wondering, this is what I got: a portion of their investment real estate properties and portfolios, several items from their art collection (most of which are on display at the resort), sizable cash assets, and my one-third share of the resort itself.
Rayce and Lizzy’s inheritances came to them right away, but because I’m not yet twenty-five, my inheritance is still technically part of the trust. I get cash allowances of a sort every two months—not that I need it or want it—the size of which is determined by the man sitting across the table from us. There’s been no conflict about it. He’s been fair and, as far as we can tell, following our parents’ wishes. I’m just sticking it in the fucking bank and ignoring it anyway.
When it came to money, our parents took a strong hand with us from the time we were old enough to balance a checkbook (ten, in case you were wondering). In addition to our business training, which took the form of working just about every kind of job imaginable at the resort—from busboy to maintenance crew to front desk—and one-on-one management training with our parents, we were expected to fully understand money. We were allowed to spend a small portion of what we earned on the stupid stuff kids like to buy, candy and games and whatnot, but then the rest of our money we had to manage under our parents guidance. We were expected to save, invest, and donate.
Our father taught us how to evaluate stock portfolios, real estate markets, and even soft investments like artwork, though those purchases are as much about the heart as they are about anything. All my dad’s training paid off, though not in the way he’d hoped. My freshman year of college, I made friends with some upperclassmen who were knee-deep in plans to launch a start-up. I gave them some free advice, since they knew more about tech than they did about business, and even made a small investment in their company. Which came back to me ten-fold.
This led to me gaining a reputation of sorts, and now the largest portion of my investment portfolio is in start-ups. Some have been successful, a few have crashed and burned, and two have made me a small mint. One woman I invested in has grown her fledgling tech business into a multi-million dollar company that’s getting ready to go public. I could travel the world on income from that investment alone. While I’ve shared my business skills with the companies I’ve invested in, for the most part I always kept my hands-on role to a minimum. Too much of that would’ve interfered with my wandering ways, and I made enough to keep it all afloat anyway. If I had aspirations to be a billionaire I suppose I could work night and day for it, but what’s the point of having money like that if I’m too busy to enjoy it?
In addition to the life-long training we’ve had in business and money management, our mother taught us how to investigate charitable organizations, whether they be large, international groups like the one Whitney works for (which has been the recipient of several Rivers family donations, in fact) or small, local groups who tend to really work in the trenches. We were expected to be in the trenches sometimes too. As kids we did everything from help prepare meals at the local Ronald McDonald house to help sort cans at the food bank.
I’d love to say I was never a bratty kid who complained about such things, but it’d be a lie. My mom knocked that attitude out of my head pretty thoroughly though, and by the time I was in high school I learned to appreciat
e what she was trying to teach us. Thanks to her, I realized people are just people, and if we’re in a position to help someone who needs and wants it, we should just get off our asses and do it. As a bonus, it feels good to help, but we were expected to do it whether it felt good or not.
Before I left for college, when I was old enough to understand, she said something she only ever said once. “You might want to consider the value of anonymous donations,” she’d said. “It’s a good way to take yourself out of the equation.”
Maybe I’m wrong, but I got a feeling Mom took herself out of the equation more than she put herself in it. Looking back, the only time she went public with support was when it was to leverage the pull of the Rivers name to help more. As an example, the resort holds a fundraising dinner for the battered women’s shelter every year. The resort donates the venue, labor, food, and supplies. We also donate cash from our personal funds because my mother insisted business donations do not negate the responsibility for private donations. People pay $500 a plate to attend, plus spend thousands more in a high-end silent auction of items donated by area businesses.
A good portion of the attendees are the kind of people who come partially because they care about a good cause, and partially because they want to be seen caring about it. Mom knew that, and knew putting the Rivers name on the event was a way to draw them to it in droves. You know, for the prestige. But, being the person she was, she never seemed to judge them for it. The way I sometimes do, to be honest. Rather, she figured their money did just as much good as anyone else’s and we should be grateful they’re willing to give it, regardless of the reasons.
God, I miss her.
After some preliminary niceties, George opens a file on his desk and launches into an update on the disbursements of the trust. While from a strictly legal standpoint, he doesn’t really need to tell us about the things that don’t affect us directly, it was our parents’ desire that their children be kept in the loop on everything.
When they first passed away, we were each given a copy of the trust, a densely-written legal document some fifty-two pages long. I was in too much of a brain fog to pay attention to most of it. I still can’t bring myself to comb through it. All I know is that while they made sure the bulk of their estate passed to their kids, there’s not a family member, close family friend, or favorite charitable organization that went overlooked. Distant relatives I’d never even heard of received a modest chunk of change. Some people went so far back in our parents’ memories that George is still trying to track everyone down.
In addition to important people we never knew about, we had no idea the extent of our parents’ wealth. There were real estate properties Dad owned we didn’t even know about. I now own two of them, or will when I’m twenty-five.
Corrine inherited a property herself, along with an investment portfolio the three of us are trying to teach her how to manage. It, too, is still technically under the umbrella of the trust, but George has been good about letting her make decisions about things.
He finishes telling us about the current state of affairs—he’s tracked down a couple more of Dad’s old friends—and lets me know how much I’ll be receiving in the upcoming disbursement. I sigh. Maybe I’ll just make a donation to the Mayo Clinic. I don’t know. I’d rather just have Mom and Dad back, thanks anyway.
As the meeting goes on, I know we’re getting closer to a topic I’d rather avoid. Even the high I’ve been feeling from seeing Whitney is not enough to keep me from feeling anxious about it.
“So, Connor,” George says, turning to me more fully and resting his hands in his lap, “have you given any thought to what we discussed last time?”
Lizzy and Rayce both look at me, but I keep my eyes on George.
“Yes,” I tell him, “but I’m still thinking about it.”
He nods and puts his hands up in reassurance. “That’s all right. You have plenty of time.” An answer that’s technically true. He looks ready to move to the next item of business. I’m sure he’d love to, but we all know that’s not the end of it.
“Do you know which direction you’re leaning?” Rayce asks, managing not to sound too exasperated. I’ve known him my whole life, though, and hear a trace of it anyway, deep under the surface.
“No.” I don’t want to talk about this. I’m not trying to be difficult, but I really don’t know what to do. I wish I did.
Lizzy sighs. “It’d be helpful for us to know what you’re thinking,” she says gently. She even puts her hand on my knee.
“I don’t know yet,” I say again.
“This isn’t the kind of thing you can decide one day and be gone the next,” Rayce says, his effort to remain calm fading.
“Who says I’d be going?” I retort, looking at him sharply.
He rolls his eyes, which gets my goat, but before I can say any more Lizzy says, “We would just need time to prepare.”
“I’m aware of that. I don’t know yet.”
“Okay,” she says. “It’s okay. No one’s trying to pressure you.”
But Rayce and I have been looking at each other hard. “You don’t know,” he asks, “or you don’t want to say?”
I narrow my eyes. “No pressure, huh?” I say to Lizzy, then look back to George, who’s been watching us carefully, probably waiting to see if he’ll have to step in, which he’s unfortunately had to do before. “My answer is I don’t know,” I say firmly.
“Fair enough,” he says, glancing at Rayce and moving us along to the next topic. Rayce lets it go, but I can see he’s still steaming, and so am I.
Eventually the meeting ends and we make it clear back to Rayce’s car before he starts in. “You know, Connor,” he says hotly, as we’re all buckling up, “you could at least try to give us something.”
I clench my jaw, take a deep breath, and keep my eyes out the side window. I’m just going to let it go. I don’t want to get into it with him again.
“Let him be,” Lizzy says as Rayce starts the car.
“Stop taking his side.”
“I didn’t know we were on different sides,” she says calmly, not taking his bait. Just like Mom would have.
We pull out of the parking lot and onto Alameda Boulevard. “Fine,” Rayce says. “We’re not on different sides. But we both know what’s going to happen.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask, taking his bait just fine.
“That means I’m not keen on being blindsided by you and wish you would just man up with an answer already.”
Oh, fuck you, I think, as we come to a stop at a red light. I hastily unlatch my seatbelt.
“Rayce, knock it off— Connor, where are you going?”
“I’ll meet you back at work,” I say, opening the door and climbing out. “Don’t follow me, Lizzy.” I should get props for merely closing the door, instead of slamming it like I want to, but maybe not, because if it were just Rayce in the car, I totally would’ve done it.
Actually, if it were just Rayce in the car I’m not sure I wouldn’t be taking a swing at him. We’re not kids anymore and I’m almost as tall as he is. Maybe I could take him these days. Who knows? As it is, I take a right and head down Melwood Avenue.
I’m not walking in the direction of the resort, and honestly it’s far enough away I’ll probably just call a fucking cab, but I’m too steamed to care about any of that at the moment. I’m well aware of the fact that I’m not only angry, but hurt as well. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m just going to keep ignoring the hurt part as best as I can.
I realize I’m close to Gilligan’s and decide a cold beer is in order. Whitney’s on my mind, of course, but I don’t want to try to talk to her when I’m like this. I need to cool down first.
Gilligan’s is a small, old, relatively clean bar with a good selection of local craft beer and a couple of pool tables in the back. Being an early Friday afternoon, it’s pretty quiet. As I’m saddling up to the bar, I get a text.
Rayce: Where are you?
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You’d be surprised how often they still ask me this question, as if they’re half expecting me to just take off one day. As if they can’t believe I’m still fucking here. I’m tempted to answer “Puerto Rico” just to be ornery, but honestly, given the circumstances, it’s a fair question.
Me: Gilligan’s. Be back later.
He doesn’t reply and I order a local brew I’ve never tried before. It’s not half bad. I concentrate on trying to breathe and calm down. Once I get myself together, I’ll call Whitney. That reward turns out to be good motivation, and I’m just about ready when someone settles into the seat next to me.
I glance at Rayce, who’s holding up a finger to get the attention of the bartender. I look straight ahead and finish my beer.
The bartender comes over and Rayce orders a Jack and Coke. “Can I get you something?” He doesn’t sound pissed anymore, so I guess that’s progress.
I hesitate. I could just walk out. But I raise my bottle to the bartender, indicating I want another.
“I haven’t tried that one yet,” Rayce says. “Any good?”
If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be ordering another one, I want to say, just to be a jerk. I’m clearly still feeling ornery, but he’s trying. I can try too.
I nod and gesture to the new bottle, which the bartender just set down. Taking my invitation, Rayce takes a sip and puts it back.
“Hmm,” he says nodding. “Not bad.”
“Yeah.” We each take a sip of our drinks.
“Come on,” he says, sliding off the seat. “Let’s play.”
I watch him head for the pool tables and sigh. I take another swig, then follow him back. He removes his jacket and drapes it over a nearby chair. As I come up, set down my beer, and do the same with my jacket, he says, “Wanna rack ’em up?”