Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife

by Julia Kent

  “I wish.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She—ah, Jesus, honey, I still can’t believe it, more than thirty years later.” He lets out a long sigh, scoops out a spoonful of ice cream, and eats it, his mouth moving over the confection, his mind mulling over his next words. “She went all over town with Marie, lavishing her with attention. Marie ate it up. Like a dry sponge that needed water, she just absorbed it. Celeste paraded all over the place, booking this impressive old estate on the North Shore, right on the water. She was dating this guy named Kirby—that was his nickname. His real name was some old Boston family name. Wentworth something. I don’t remember. I think I blocked it.”

  He eats more ice cream.

  “She talked it up to all the volunteer organizations she was part of. Whipped herself into a frenzy, and took your poor, puppy-dog mother along for the ride. By the day before the wedding, she’d convinced Marie to let old Kirby walk her down the aisle as her father.”

  “And then?” I’m dreading what’s next.

  “Celeste assured us she’d pay for everything. Put down bare-bones deposits on the estate, the caterers, the cake, the dress, the rings—everything. She wanted fancy. Keep in mind, I was a vet tech. Your mom had been an artist’s assistant, stripping canvas. She quit that job and started working at some health food store when we married, making a few bucks an hour. We were poor. Scratch poor. I had about five buddies from the neighborhood and my mom who were planning to come to the wedding. We didn’t need all this pomp and circumstance, but Celeste made it sound like she was going to create the Wedding of the Year.”

  My ice cream sticks in my throat.

  “Sound familiar?” His brown eyes, so much like mine, are filled with fury and sadness.

  I nod.

  “She bailed on us. The night before the wedding, she had a ‘heart event.” Finger quotes again. “Told all her friends and everyone in her circle—called them all from her hospital bed.”

  Dad goes quiet, looking at me straight on, holding the gaze until that tingling over my body turns to ice.

  “Oh, no.”

  “She didn’t call Marie.”

  “Oh, Dad.”

  “All the wedding guests she’d invited showed up to her hospital room, including this guy she’d been dating on and off. In front of all of them, he proposed.”

  “Huh?”

  “Right? So now she’s engaged.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He holds up a palm. “You will.”

  “The next morning, we showed up at the fancy estate knowing none of this. Me, Marie, my buddies, and my mom.”

  “How awful Grandma had a heart attack the night before the wedding! Mom must have been so distraught!”

  Dad just stares at me.

  Layers of awareness wash over me, until all that’s left is abject horror. “She didn’t really have a heart attack?”

  “A ‘heart event.’”

  “Whatever—it didn’t happen?” I gasp.

  “The weird part,” he says, ignoring my question, “is that when Marie went to pick up her dress that morning, it wasn’t there. They said her mother had come and gotten it for her.”

  “Huh?”

  “We didn’t have cell phones then, so we just figured Celeste was being nice. Remember—we didn’t know about the heart event, or that Kirby had proposed to her. We thought we were getting married that day.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” My heart hurts.

  “We get to the estate, and there’s Celeste and Kirby, at the altar with the minister she’d hand-selected. Surrounded by all these people Marie barely knew from Celeste’s volunteer work, a few union buddies of Marie’s father’s from back in the day—and she’s wearing—”

  “Mom’s wedding dress,” I choke out.

  He nods.

  “Celeste comes over, happy as can be, a blushing bride if ever there was one. In front of all those people, she tells Marie how happy she is that Kirby stood by her through her ‘heart event’ the night before, and that he’s her one true love, and the only person she can depend on.”

  Dad closes his eyes. “Marie’s trying to understand what’s going on, and she can’t stop looking at her own mother in what was supposed to be Marie’s dress. By the time I put it all together and realized Celeste made it seem like Marie was a cold, callous daughter who hadn’t even bothered to go to the hospital the night before, Celeste was screaming at your mother. Kirby was bellowing, and all the guests looked at poor Marie like she was an ungrateful little witch.”

  I can’t keep my mouth from dropping open.

  “That’s so evil.”

  “Funny you use that word. Evil.” His gaze is penetrating, transforming my dad into someone foreign. “Because that’s the word that comes into my mind whenever I think of her.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I stepped in between Celeste and Kirby and defended Marie, of course. I started with logic and reason. That didn’t work. Tried to calm them down. That didn’t work. Then I resorted to sheer volume.”

  “You? Dad, you don’t really have a ‘sheer volume’ setting.”

  “I do when it comes to watching someone I love get mindfucked by evil.”

  In that moment I understand exactly what Mom meant by calling Dad a “beta-alpha.”

  “So,” he adds. “I yelled, Kirby nearly punched me, and I carried a sobbing, hysterical Marie away from that damned estate, my mom and buddies in tow, all the guys shouting colorful words you kids find in rap songs today.” He gives me a twisted smile. “I think we invented a new vocabulary that day.”

  My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to get out, teleport back thirty years, and beat the hell out of my own grandma.

  “You eloped?”

  “We did. Had the license and waited until that Monday.”

  I let out a low whistle. “That’s insane.”

  “Oh, that’s not the insane part. The truly insane part is that we were stuck with all the wedding debts. Celeste had paid only bare-bones deposits. Put everything in Marie’s name.”

  “WHAT? You paid for that fiasco?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  I sit in stunned silence for a while. We scrape the bottoms of our respective ice cream cups eventually, in thoughtful quiet.

  “That’s all connected to the way Mom acted throughout this wedding?”

  “She wanted the Wedding of the Year her mom promised her.”

  “That’s...weird.”

  “Yeah. I think it’s not so simple, though. Your mom has this need for status, but it comes from wanting to be accepted. Her mother made it damn near impossible for Marie to let me love her.”

  My face is tipped down and I look up through a frown.

  “She couldn’t believe she was worthy of everything I wanted to give her.”

  “Love is so hard, even when it’s easy.”

  “Like parenting.” Dad gives me a knowing smile. “Go light on her.”

  “She expects an apology from me.”

  He waves that away. “All she really wants is a hug and to know she didn’t ruin your relationship.”

  I jolt.

  “Why did you keep in touch with Grandma Celeste? We saw her every few years, so....”

  “Your mother. Like I said, she couldn’t let go. Always needing that mother’s love she never had.”

  “Ouch. Did she ever get it?”

  “No. Celeste died and left everything—including all her personal effects—to a local charity.”

  “Double ouch.”

  “And left us with the funeral bill. Only this time, I knew how legally to get out from being responsible for that one.”

  “Jesus!”

  “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the person who greeted Celeste after she died, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mom always talks about missing her mother.”

  He shrugs, standing. “She does. She misses what she never had.”

&nb
sp; I know this story is supposed to make me magically forgive my mom’s actions regarding my own wedding, but it doesn’t. Do I feel compassion? Yes. Heartbroken on her behalf? Sure.

  “Vegas,” he adds slowly, “reminds me of Celeste. This whole damned city. Nothing but fake luxury designed to impress people who end up footing a bill they can’t afford. Except Celeste took it one step further.” He shudders. “Maybe that’s why I can’t stand this place.”

  “But Mom invited Jessica Coffin to my wedding!” I wail. Shallow. I know. I do have a touch of my grandma in me, after all.

  “I understand, honey. She crossed a big line inviting Jessica Coffin. I had no idea she’d done that, or I would have intervened.” He shakes his head. “You know what’s ‘funny’?” Dad uses finger quotes for the word again.

  “What?”

  “Jessica Coffin. She looks a lot like the old pictures of your grandma. And you can’t beat her for a perfect personality match for Celeste.”

  And with that mic drop, Dad kisses my cheek gently and walks away into the crowd, carefully avoiding the painted ladies reaching out for a kiss.

  Especially the Minions.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time I get back to the room, shower, and change, it’s after six, and Declan walks in the door early, looking tired and harried.

  “God, I’m starving,” he complains, loosening his tie and looking at the clock next to the bed. “Damn.” His stomach growls. “At least we’re eating fairly soon.”

  I smile, and he does a double take, feet pointed toward the couch, doing some kind of cha-cha to turn back around and stare at me, full-faced.

  “You look amazing.”

  His eyes take me in, head to toe. He lets out a wolf whistle. “I knew a day at the spa would be worth it. Whatever you tipped them isn’t enough.”

  “They serve breast milk lattes in the spa. And offer something called a vajacial.” I shudder.

  He doesn’t even blink. “If that’s what it takes to make you look so stunning, I’m fine with it.”

  I giggle self-consciously. His eyes catch the yellow paint on my dress. His hands circle my waist and pull me to him. “Is the yellow a new fashion feature?” He kisses me on both cheeks, so gentle and soft that his lips feel like rose petals.

  Which makes me think of vajacials.

  And I go cold.

  Dec runs one finger along the yellow stripe on my dress and frowns when he sees it’s paint. Questioning eyes meet mine.

  “Minion. I was assaulted by a topless Minion outside.”

  He laughs, lets me go, and walks to the clothing dresser and grabs a box of cashews off the dry minibar.

  I’ve learned something new on this trip. There are wet/cold minibars, and dry minibars. The dry minibars are innocuous-looking set-ups on the bureaus. They look like an array of treats, from chocolate-covered gummy bears to cashews and macadamia nuts to earbuds. Even iPhone chargers.

  And for eighty bucks, you, too, can have your own convenient pair of headphones you can get at any Wal-Mart for $4.61.

  Declan pops back a handful of cashews that costs more than a latte and looks at me with beleaguered eyes. “Aren’t you hungry? Have some.”

  “I’m fine. I ate with Dad earlier.”

  “Jason? Nice. Where’d you go?”

  “Across the street.”

  “You went outside? On the Strip? Did you actually walk?”

  “Yes. I have feet, you know. Sorry to crush the myth that I’m a mermaid.” I wiggle one foot for emphasis.

  “What did you eat?”

  “Hot dogs.”

  “Why on earth would you go across the street for a hot dog when you could order in room service or go to one of the restaurants and have filet and lobster? Or caviar? Or—”

  “Because I like hot dogs.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not justifying what I like to you, Declan. I don’t have to validate my choices.”

  “And neither do I.” His voice feels like an icicle tracing my spine.

  “Besides, they’re gourmet hot dogs.”

  Declan rolls his eyes and does that thing with his breathing where he pretends he’s being polite and civil but he’s really filling the room with the hot cloud of contempt that he spawns by rubbing two sides of his big, fat ego together to generate a spark.

  “No one is making you eat a hot dog,” I declare, trying to match his understated condescension. I just sound like a whiny twelve year old. Close enough.

  “What’s going on?” He’s asking me, but this isn’t a normal interrogation. Some big stakes are on my answer, and I’m deeply uncomfortable with the path this conversation is taking.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t be coy.”

  “Then be direct!”

  “I am.”

  “Vegas is so fake,” I blurt out.

  We’ve gone from “You look amazing” to “Don’t be coy” in under a minute.

  “It’s aspirational. Quit being so cynical,” he scoffs.

  “What do you mean, ‘aspirational’?” I know what the industry term means, but I want to hear Declan define this from his own mouth while I stand over here and do a slow burn.

  “People come here because they want to think they can achieve this kind of luxury someday. The resorts convey an air of opulence, a potential that you, and you, and yes, you! can have this some day. As they walk through resort after resort, past rooms labeled “High Limit Only” and Armani displays with dresses that cost more than they make in a month, they start to feel surrounded by it. Embraced by it.”

  “Like they’re back in the womb, only about to be born rich.”

  “Yes!” His face relaxes, like he’s pleased I finally “get” it.

  “That is deceptive.” I think about my grandma and Dad’s story.

  “What?”

  “The vast majority of people who come here will never, ever be able to afford a five thousand dollar dress, or a Maserati, or buy a table at the private club behind those guarded doors, because throwing away ten grand on a table and drinks isn’t reality, Declan.”

  “It’s the customer’s choice, Shannon. We’re not making them do anything they don’t want to do. We’re helping them to aspire.”

  I snort. “You’re manipulating them.”

  “Welcome to the entire field of marketing, Shannon,” he says slowly. “As our Director of Marketing for Anterdec, I should think you of all people would understand that.”

  “Not my kind of marketing!” I’m appalled that he actually thinks this way. A dark snake of fear comes to life in my gut. “My kind of marketing informs. It appeals. When I do campaigns and customer service evaluations and social media pushes, I’m helping people to discover new products and experiences.”

  “And so is Anterdec’s resort. And most of Vegas. The good resorts, at least.” I don’t ask him to define ‘good.’ I know how he defines it. More money = better.

  “It’s not the same!”

  “Marketing is about choices, Shannon. When done well, the customer walks away informed, happy, and energized.”

  How in the hell did we go from I’m starving to this argument? Damn.

  “They walk out of Vegas broke and hungover!”

  “Because they got to choose!” he roars. “Why are you so judgmental?”

  “Me!” I’m aghast. “I’m not judgmental!”

  “You’re saying that the entire design of the Strip and luxury resorts like mine are nothing more than manipulative attempts to remove consumers from their money.”

  I relax. He gets it. Thank goodness. We can put this conflict behind us. He sees reason.

  “Yes.”

  “And in your mind, those consumers are too stupid to realize they’re being manipulated.”

  Huh?

  “You think that this shouldn’t be there for them. That they are easily led and don’t know what’s good for them, and so the businesses that created these entertainment consortiums h
ave done them wrong.”

  “That’s not quite how I would say it, but—”

  “Your world, Shannon, involves a mindset that worries me.”

  Mic drop. Boom. He and Dad should start a tag team.

  “What?”

  “You want to remove free will from people.”

  “WHAT?”

  “As consumers. You don’t want to give customers the choice.”

  “The choice to get drunk and gamble away all their money and spend it on crap they can’t afford?”

  “That’s up to them! Do they look like they’re suffering?”

  I falter.

  “I’ll answer that for you—no. They don’t. You’re surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people who have come to Vegas to have a fun time and who enjoy themselves because they made an open, free decision to be here and to spend their time and money this way.”

  I’m speechless.

  He tips his head and studies me. “I think I understand you better now.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You won’t accept my professional shopper. You don’t want jewelry or a nice, new car or any of the other gifts I try to give you.” He shakes his head slightly, mouth tight with pensiveness, his hand running through his hair twice, settling at the base of his neck. “I shouldn’t really call them gifts. They’re just part of life. My life.”

  “How does that pertain to talking about business and resort design?”

  “Because you’re judging me. These are aspects of my life. You’re rejecting my life.”

  He’s cold. Closed off. I know what he’s doing. For a second, I panic, the feeling exploding in my chest, making me feel like a rat has given birth and all the babies are wriggling around, gnawing their way out.

  Then a calmer version of myself kicks in. The part that can actually speak.

  “You really think that?”

  He holds my gaze, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other leaning against the small table next to the suite’s sofa. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re wrong!” I interject, the words fast and true. “I don’t reject your gifts.” Or your life.

  “You certainly do.”

  Fair enough. “Not because I’m rejecting you,” I start, trying to explain.