Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife

by Julia Kent

  “Does he have any medical conditions?” Jed asks Mom.

  “Nothing life-threatening,” she says with a head shake. “Just some acid reflux and an intolerance for red peppers. Don’t go anywhere near the man after he’s eaten them.”

  Jed puts up his hand. “Got it.”

  “Jason could use his ass as a bioterrorism weapon if a government provided him with enough red peppers.”

  “GOT IT.”

  James strolls in, commanding and authoritative, his grey hair conferring immediate power. “What’s wrong?”

  “Jason’s missing,” Mom sobs. “He’s not answering his phone and he never came back this morning from going out for coffee.”

  “But I saw him downstairs earlier. Near the fountain, outside. A group of us were talking about the resort and investments. He started ranting about how fake Vegas is. I agreed heartily—and told him the fakery paid for Shannon and Declan’s wedding.”

  “Oh, no,” I groan.

  “I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t take it well. Turned red, muttered something and stormed off.” James shrugs with one shoulder.

  “When was this?” Mom asks.

  “Around ten this morning.”

  “Oh, Jason,” she says with a long sigh. “Where are you?”

  “Does he have any haunts?” Jed asks.

  “A hot dog place and ice cream store across the street?” I offer.

  “What about Louie’s Stiff One?”

  “Is Louie a friend of yours with a penis problem?” Mom asks.

  “That’s the name of a casino we own,” Declan explains. His phone buzzes in his pocket. His eyes cut to me, then to the phone, as he answers.

  “Is it Dad?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, covers the phone, and dips out of the small video security equipment room.

  Jed, James and Mom huddle around, speculating where Dad might be. I hear Declan saying a string of numbers and talking about capital, leverage, private ownership, and a bunch of other business blah blah blah.

  A tiny flutter begins in my chest, like a butterfly drowning in a rain puddle.

  Where is Dad?

  Jed’s suddenly on his phone, his voice tight. He’s all military, his voice flat like a Midwesterner, the tone of the general in a techno-thriller who takes command and fixes all the crap the wild cowboys mess up.

  Mom gives me a helpless look.

  Jed says, “Security confirmed he’s at Stiffy’s.”

  Me, James and Mom give him a round of looks.

  Jed reddens, but doesn’t flinch. “Louie’s Stiff One. He’s there.”

  “I knew it,” James crows.

  Declan finishes on the phone and comes back in, extremely pleased with himself.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, glad there’s good news somewhere.

  “Oh, you know. Business,” he says breezily, eyes raking over my mom, James and Jed. “You find him?”

  “As I predicted,” James explains. “Louie’s Stiff One.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would he go there?”

  “Dad is more of a hot-dogs-and-ice-cream kind of guy. Louie’s sounds like it’s more hot dog than filet mignon.”

  “More like Spam in a can,” Declan says in a voice tinged with disgust.

  “That would be my Jason,” Mom says with a relieved smile. “Let’s go find him.”

  “Why?” James asks.

  “Why? Because I’m worried about him,” Mom explains.

  “He’s a grown man. If he wants some privacy, give it to him.” James makes a sound of disgust.

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “What, exactly, is this Stiffy’s? A strip joint?”

  Declan, Jed and James all start laughing.

  “It’s about as far from a strip joint as any place in Vegas can be,” James says with a chortle, his condescension clear. Is he...protecting my dad? Siding with him on some issue I don’t understand?

  “Then why are you trying to stop me from seeing him?” Mom protests.

  “I’m not stopping you.” James gives Mom a gimlet eye. “I just find your way of treating him like he’s on a leash to be a bit much.”

  “Since when did my relationship with Jason become any of your business?”

  James points to me. “Since she sprayed me like a dog while your husband attacked me for allegedly having an affair with you.”

  “Which you would have been lucky to have,” Mom counters.

  James is nonplussed.

  Mom turns to Declan and says, “Can we please go to Stiffy’s?”

  We walk down into the cavernous private garage, James driven in a separate car, while Dec, Mom and I climb into an SUV limo. The first two minutes of the ride are full of tense silence, which ends with Mom opening her mouth.

  “When are you two actually getting married?”

  She had to bring it up again, didn’t she?

  Dec gives me a micro-look so swift I almost don’t see it, eyes darting to Mom, face going slack. “When we’re ready.”

  “You’re already more than ready.”

  “When we decide, Mom. Not you. Besides,” I add with a little too much glee, “we’re trying to find the right Liberace impersonator.”

  Mom’s face goes sour. Carol was right. Hah! Mom doesn’t take the bait, though.

  “Are you eloping?” Her voice is soft, turned up at the end, the question a cold squall on the surface of my heart.

  “Maybe,” Dec and I say at the same time, then share closed-mouth smiles.

  “Will you let me and Jason be there?” She blinks hard, holding her hands in her lap and twisting them, worry about Dad etched on her face.

  “We don’t know.” Declan answers for me. It’s the same response I would have given.

  Because it’s true.

  “I would understand if you just ran off,” she says as she inhales, the words so airy I almost can’t hear them. “I would.”

  Dec starts to answer, looks at me, stops, and crosses his legs, face impassive.

  “Good,” I reply.

  And the rest of the drive to Stiffy’s is quiet, but not calm.

  * * *

  You ever wonder what sour beer would look like if it took human form?

  I don’t have to wonder any longer.

  If Corrine and Agnes, from Mom’s yoga classes, came to Vegas, Louie’s Stiff One would be their place. As Declan and I walk in, I do a double take. At his other resort, we’re about the same age as most of the guests.

  Here, we could be everyone’s grandchild.

  “Don’t you dare steal my slot machine, Helen!” an old woman croaks, standing by, holding on to a tennis-ball-covered walker. As she moves one lurch at a time away from her spot, she calls back, “I’m going to start wearing diapers just so I won’t have to deal with this shit.”

  This is so not Litraeon.

  “How did Anterdec acquire this place?” I ask James, who looks around the casino like he’s starring in the corporate version of the Hoarders television show.

  “Bankruptcy and buyouts and, hell, I don’t even remember.” He scrubs his chin with his palm. “We can’t sell the damn thing. No one wants it.”

  I spot Dad easily, because he’s the only man in the room with red hair.

  Hair, period.

  He’s at a baccarat table, a pile of chips in front of him, and two empty drink glasses. He’s slumped in his chair, a small crowd around him, one man wearing an oxygen tank and—

  “Is that man smoking?” I gasp.

  “Sure. It’s allowed. We’ve been over this,” Declan says with a weary sigh.

  “While wearing a nasal cannula and having oxygen pumped in him?”

  Dec grimaces, then gives the room a calculated look. “I wonder how well-insured we are on this place.”

  I hip check him and he shuts up.

  “We have baccarat here?” James sniffs.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask.

  “It’s gen
erally associated with finer establishments,” Declan explains.

  “Even the games have a condescending hierarchy?” I say with a snort. James and Dec stay silent.

  “Seven hundred dollars! I’m up seven hundred,” Dad says, looking up at me. “Oh, my honey. My little Shannon found me. C’mon, Shannon. Pull up a chair. Have a beer. This is the real Las Vegas. No one’s fake here!”

  “Except for my teeth,” some old dude says with a rheumy laugh.

  I see why Dad is here. It’s more his speed.

  Dad does a double take when he sees James. Curiously enough, Mom hides. I can tell she’s doing it on purpose, watching Dad from behind a row of slot machines.

  “James!” Dad booms. “It’s James McCormick, the self-made billionaire from Southie. Hey, guys—this is your owner!”

  “I ain’t no pet. No one owns me,” Rheumy says.

  Dad cackles.

  How many beers has he had?

  “James! I’m up seven hundred bucks. A thousand more winning streaks like this and I can pay my debt to you.”

  Genuine bewilderment fills James’ face. “Debt?”

  “Pay for my daughter’s wedding.”

  The two give each other the most uncomfortable looks I’ve ever seen on grown men’s faces. Some part of my heart starts shrieking, and if pain were a scent, it would smell like burning ego. Like missed opportunities.

  Like regret.

  “No.” James’ single word is like a thick, brittle stick being cracked over someone’s knee. “That’s not how this works, Jason.”

  “Oh,” Dad says, dragging out the word with bluster, his arms stretching over the backs of the chairs of the men on either side of him, men who give Dad arched eyebrows with expressions that say, You gonna let him talk to you like that?

  “Well, Mr. James McCormick, why don’t you tell me how this all works.” His words are slurred, and I wonder not only how much he’s been drinking, but for how long.

  James’ mouth goes tight. Declan just watches my dad with a neutral expression.

  “Really. How does Vegas work? How does wealth work? Because I sure as hell don’t know anything about that,” Dad continues, giving the men around him a collegial smile, all of them with bitter, twisted lips in various states of scorn, remembrance, or wrapped around a beer-bottle neck.

  “Daddy,” I say softly. All of the men jerk slightly, looking at me with hardened expressions.

  Be quiet, little girl.

  I can hear them, even if all I do is imagine them.

  “You’re changing, Shannon.” Dad’s voice goes loud, then soft, like he’s talking around a curve. “You’re entering a world that is as familiar to me as Mars. About as safe to breathe in, too. For the past few days I’ve marinated in all this money—fake money—and I’m crawling out of my skin.”

  James and Declan share a look.

  And then Declan’s attention turns exclusively to me.

  “I can’t spend five grand on tartan ribbon,” Dad chokes out, his voice low and sad. “I just sat in your casino, James, and watched some guy lose fifty grand, his entire life savings. Saw another guy win fifteen grand and blow it all in one of those mall stores. He shot his wad on a dress, some purses, and shoes for his wife. Said it was his one and only chance.”

  A tiny, pained sigh comes out of Mom. I’m the only one close enough to her to hear it.

  “I gave my girls the best I could, but I’ll be damned if it was even one iota of this.” He spreads his arms around the room, his face crumpling slightly. “Not, uh—not this. Not Louie’s. But you know.”

  I try to think of something to say and glance back at Mom. She’s dumbfounded, staring at Dad, her lips slightly parted.

  “I look around this town, this destination city where people from all over the world come to vacation and play, to gamble and be entertained, to get shit-faced and revel and unwind and become part of something bigger than themselves while they’re here, and all I see is my own failure,” Dad says, that last word spat out like a growl.

  Tears choke me, Declan’s hand on my hip as I let a small sob escape. Declan was right, earlier, about blending our inner lives, and how our outer lives have to be woven together, too. It never—not once—occurred to me that marrying Declan meant asking my mom and dad to adjust to a new reality that would force them to confront deep questions about themselves, too.

  I don’t want to adult anymore. Adulting is too hard.

  A small, high gasp behind me makes me turn. Daddy can’t see her, but Mom is behind a small curtain that covers the booth parallel to us. She’s moved closer.

  “Failure?” I finally ask, putting my hand on Dad’s forearm, completely confused. “Why would you ever feel like a failure, Dad?”

  He looks down at the neck of his beer, avoiding my eyes. Something tells me to keep touching him, to maintain the connection, though. His bravado is fading, and as it drains out of him I see his authenticity coming back in.

  “I’ve worked hard my whole life, kiddo. Was born in New York. Moved to Boston as a little kid. Lived with him in Southie.” He juts his chin toward James, who nods slightly in acknowledgment. “We didn’t know each other back then, but he gets it. He knows. When you’re born into poverty there’s a kind of grinding feeling that’s always a part of you. It never goes away.”

  James closes his eyes and swallows, once. Declan’s eyes are riveted on his father.

  “I finished high school. That’s better than either of my parents. Did a few years of community college and met Marie that way, at the veterinary clinic where I worked. That’s it. My greatest financial success came the day we scraped together a down payment and managed to buy our house. Five more years of payments and it’s really ours,” he says, chest puffed with pride.

  He deflates, his arm sweeping out in a gesture that makes it clear he’s not pointing to Louie’s Stiff One.

  “But this? I can’t give you this. I can’t give anyone this. When you kids were little we wanted Marie home with you. A vacation? Hell, no. That meant I wouldn’t get paid for the time I took off. Stay in a hotel? I think the first time any of you girls got that was when you went on a school trip. We could finally manage weekends camping if I stacked my days off just right.” He looks at me. “About when you hit high school. Carol was out of the house by then.”

  “Daddy, none of that makes you a failure,” I choke out.

  I hear a sound of agony behind me, a sob being smothered. Mom’s wet eyes meet mine and I am helpless, caught between two parents filled with an aching pain I can’t fix.

  “I know that,” Dad says, clearing his throat with a rumbling sound like rocks in a clothes dryer. “And when I’m back home, puttering in the garage, mowing the lawn, going to work, or babysitting Jeffrey and Tyler, none of this—he gestures again—“is real. Coming here makes it real. Your wedding made it real. Seeing all these people with more money than me, giving all these luxuries I could never provide for my woman and my girls, well, Shannon, it eats a man up.”

  Mom catches my eye and puts a long, manicured finger to her lips. Mascara lines, wet with tears, run down her lower lids. She looks like a sad clown.

  “Daddy—”

  He drinks the rest of his beer and looks around the table. His new friends are looking at their own beers with sad-sack faces. James is holding a plastic cup with ice cubes and a thin drizzle of amber-colored liquid in the bottom, staring off into space. Declan is a stone wall, his face showing nothing about the tornado of emotions that I know is whirling inside him.

  Meanwhile, my mother is falling apart behind me, little pieces of her littering the dirty carpet like heart confetti.

  “No.” James’ voice cuts through the melancholy. His soft eyes fall on my father, who rears back slightly at the baritone timbre of his nemesis’s voice. “No, Jason. You are anything but a failure.”

  Mom pinches off a sound of shock, her chest rising and falling rapidly, hand over her mouth now, as if she’s physically holding back h
er impulse to speak. Dad’s face lifts, like the sun rising over the ocean, slow and deliberate until he’s looking straight at James.

  “Says the billionaire,” he replies, an unrecognizably bitter tone in his voice, making me recoil. That’s not my dad.

  His words ring out in the now-somber cluster of tables around us, people watching with a bemused curiosity, a cocktail waitress delivering a fresh round of American beer to a group of slot machine players behind us. A gust of wind from people coming in through the main doors blows a billowing cloud of cigarette smoke our way, the taste in my mouth making me cringe.

  The cacophony of hope is the soundtrack to this face-off, the electronic dings a kind of reinforcement as players feed money into a slot, push a hope button and watch a disappointment display, convinced that they can beat those random odds if they just get luck on their side.

  A decidedly pissed-off female voice declares, “Says a man who is lucky, ambitious, a financial success—and a failure in his own way, too, Jason.”

  James’s eyes narrow as he searches for my mother.

  At that, Mom steps out of the shadows, Daddy’s sad eyes widening slightly then rolling down with a humiliated tightness. He clearly wishes she hadn’t heard what he just said, and the defeated sigh that comes from his dropping shoulders makes me convert my touch on his arm into a desperate hug.

  As I pull away, Mom steps forward, a few feet from Daddy, looking down. Tears openly pour down her face. She doesn’t make the effort to wipe them away. Shaking, she opens her mouth, her voice tremoring like buckling asphalt.

  “If I didn’t love you so much, Jason, I would slap you right now.” Her fingers twitch, and her right hand curls into a ball. “Might even punch you.”

  Her voice is trembling from fury.

  “How dare you,” she says. “How dare you call yourself a failure?”

  “I—”

  She shakes her head slowly, not even bothering to make him talk to the hand. “I won’t hear it. You are shredding me, Jason, with this failure nonsense. I’ve been your wife for more than thirty years. I have borne you three wonderful children. We’ve suffered through two miscarriages together. I’ve searched for change in the couch to buy another jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread to stretch through to the next paycheck, and I sat next to you at a conference table at the credit union when we signed the paperwork to buy our house, with eleven dollars left to make it through half the month.”