by Natasha Boyd
I cast my gaze around for the black SUV with my driver just as it pulls up from a few feet away. The driver hops out and opens the back door so I can throw myself into the dark cool interior of the back seat.
"Trystan." Beau's voice stops me.
I turn to him. "Did you know?"
The minuscule flick of his eyes to the side and back to me tells me all I need to know, even as he says, "No."
"Bullshit."
"Truly. I had an idea. Something he said to me once. But no, I didn't know." He puts air quotes around the last word.
I stare at him a few minutes, his friendly eyes set in his tanned skin. "You get what you wanted?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
Beau nods, grimacing slightly. "Grandmother might contest it. She thought she was getting everything. Or at least that she and my father were."
"It's good to see you," I tell him. "But I don't want anything to do with this family. I hope she leaves you alone, but she won't need to contest my portion, I have no intention of keeping it."
"That's what she's hoping." Beau shakes his head. "I hope you reconsider. I'd hate for her to have the last word after all she's done to you."
"Removing myself as quickly and completely from this family is my only concern."
A fleeting look of hurt passes through Beau's expression as I say this.
"I—" He starts then clears his throat. "Never mind. See you tomorrow, I guess. Where are you staying?"
"I don't know. I told my assistant to cancel my room at The Planter's Inn earlier, but now I'll have to have her remake the reservation."
Beau frowns. "Good luck. The Spoleto Festival’s starting in a couple of days, there won't be a free bed in town."
"Hopefully, I'll be gone by then."
Beau's mouth straightens and then he nods. "See you, Trystan."
I watch him turn and walk away. No one else has come out of the offices yet. Isabel is probably already objecting.
My driver must have gotten back into the car while Beau and I talked. She climbs out again and reopens the back door.
Inside I'm enveloped in the cool blast of air conditioning, and I breathe deeply for what feels like the first time in several hours.
The driver climbs in the front seat. "Everything all right?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Where to?"
"Just stay here for now." I pull out Emmy's phone and call Dorothy.
"Mr. Montgomery, I've cancelled your hotel reservations and booked you on an eight o'clock flight to La Guardia." Her tone is as confident and reassuring as ever.
"Change of plans. Again. It looks like I may have to stay here a few days after all."
* * *
Dorothy manages to work her magic and books me two nights at the hotel. I get checked in and plug in my laptop, jumping onto the hotel Wi-Fi. I have a deluge of emails about the deal. I quickly take care of all the ones waiting for responses, mostly from the bankers doing their last-minute double checks and due diligence and a couple from Mac. Then I see one unread one from myself with the subject line a reply to my forwarded Airbnb email.
If no one ever hears from me again, this was my last known location.
I stare at it a few seconds then reread it. I try to think back to the text I got from Emmy earlier. I thought she was being dramatic. She could just as easily have been legitimately nervous.
I search the address. It's out toward Long Island. I shake my head and stop myself shy of checking crime statistics for the area. Why do I care? She is not my concern. I have enough going on, and now that I'm done dealing with work emails, the will and all the ramifications of it start ricocheting around in my head.
With that thought, I change into my workout gear and find the hotel gym. I spend the next ninety minutes overworking myself to sheer exhaustion in an attempt to quiet my mind. It doesn't work, and when I'm done I'm soaking with sweat, my lungs and heart are working overtime, and I'm filled with rage at Isabel Montgomery. Beau will be happy that I have, indeed, reconsidered. I won't be turning down my inheritance. Isabel can contest it if she wants to. What I will do, I think with cold resolve, is sell off the entire operation piece by piece and then walk away with the money.
I head back across the hotel courtyard, legs like jelly, and my body temperature finally matching the warm mugginess of downtown Charleston. The sun has set, but the heat remains. Lights have flickered on in the topical landscaping and the calming sound of trickling water comes from a fountain. The city has charm, I'll give it that.
I'm also filled with a bizarre sense of guilt that I've somehow misstepped. I think at first, it's to do with Beau. But then I realize it has nothing to do with my family and everything to do with Emmy. We'd been bantering earlier, had been . . . friendly. And then I all but yelled at her. I'll check in with her before I go to bed and make sure she's all right. I tell myself it's in my best interests to know where my phone is. My stomach chooses that moment to remind me I haven't eaten dinner, and I decide I'll call her under the guise of needing a restaurant recommendation.
As I take a hot shower, change and contemplate dinner, I find the silence of my evening disturbing, though not altogether unwelcome. If I had my phone it would be buzzing with texts and calls as it always does early evening in Manhattan with people looking to meet for drinks, dinner, or more. I’m rarely alone. And if I am, I usually rustle up a date from Tinder. Emmy's phone is silent. Even the calls from David have stopped. I wonder what she must be making of the incessant texts I receive in the evenings.
I scratch the back of my neck.
A quick glance tells me she has one dating app on her phone. I open it up and read the profile she put up there. The picture takes me by surprise. I remember her from this morning at the airport, or thought I did. I remember porcelain skin, wide eyes, gorgeous, wavy auburn hair. Girl next door maybe. Plain, but pretty too. What greets me is sooo not plain. Heavy eye makeup on eyes that look like they'd strike you dead, glossy red lips, hair straightened, a glass of champagne in her hand, and a black top or dress, I don't know. The picture is cut off around the waist. I see the photo is cropped from some kind of party. It's not that she's not beautiful, she is. Christ, she's stunning, it's like a punch in the gut. But the picture doesn't gel with the scattered girl in my mind's eye. The playful girl with the neurotic tendencies and the quick wit. Her comment earlier of seeming like a hooker looking for a commitment made me laugh out loud. Which was saying something considering I'd just left the meeting at the Ravenel Law Office. I tear my eyes away from the picture and scan her profile entries.
* * *
Name: Emmaline
Age: 28
Location: Charleston, SC
Looking for: Men
Things to know: Be real, I don't like bullshit.
* * *
My eyes widen. I can only imagine the type of guys she attracted with this profile. Even I feel a little intimidated by this version of Emmy. Weirdly turned on, but intimidated nonetheless. Maybe she's into being the boss in the bedroom. I shrug. I gave up trying to understand human nature a long time ago. The message folder is full, but she hasn't responded to any in over a year. For some reason that makes me feel good. She must have notifications turned off. I open one of the messages, and after three words, I shudder and close it. Gross. I open another. Jesus. Who are these guys? After several more my stomach feels sour, and I wonder how women survive out in the dating world. If this is my competition, no wonder I do so well getting dates.
I need to give her some pointers. At the very least she has to use a fake name. If even one of those perverts has stalkerish tendencies, she wouldn't be hard to find. I remember how readily she gave me her name and social earlier and shake my head. That open, sweet, funny girl I texted with on my way to the funeral would get a date no problem. Of course she'd probably be screwed over too.
That thought brings me back to her predicament today.
I can't put off calling anymore, so I dial my number. I mu
st still not be recovered from my intense work out because my palms feel sweaty.
12
Trystan
Emmy answers right away like she was holding the phone. "He-hello?"
"Emmy, it's Trystan." I wince at the obviousness of my greeting and clear my throat. "Did you find the place you're staying?"
"Oh, yes. I did. Thank you," she adds after a pause as if it pained her to thank me.
"That's why I called." I clear my throat again. "Well, a few reasons actually."
"Oh?" she replies then stays silent. It's a technique I know well. I've perfected it in boardrooms—staying quiet while others fill the silence and hang themselves with their ill-timed words.
Maybe it's the picture on her dating profile, or maybe I'm emotionally drained from the day, but I'm suddenly nervous.
I take a breath. "Yeah. I wanted to apologize for how I was on the phone earlier. It was, uh, a bad time, not that it's any excuse. Clearly it was a bad time for you too."
"It was."
"Well, like I said. No excuse."
"And second? You said two reasons." I thought of her profile. Be real, I hate bullshit.
"Oh, right. Well firstly, do you accept my apology?"
"Did you apologize?"
"Didn't I?"
"You said you wanted to apologize."
I grin then purse my lips. "Precision of language. Okay, I apologize about the way I snapped at you on the phone when you called to ask for help."
"I accept your apology," she says. I don't know her, but I think I detect a smile in her tone.
"Great. Thank you, so what's the place like? You didn't sound too sure about it when you called."
"I wasn't. It looks like a derelict housing project from the outside, but surprisingly, though small, it's clean and modern inside. Cozy, almost. It's only for two nights."
"Right. So we need to figure out how to switch our phones back. I was supposed to fly back tonight or tomorrow at the latest. Now, I'm not so sure. I might still be here when you get back."
"Where are you staying?"
"The Planter's Inn? Do you know it?"
She whistles. "Nice."
"I need a recommendation for dinner. Just me," I tack on for no reason. "Close. I'm starving."
"The hotel has a restaurant, The Peninsula Grill, which is one of the top-rated restaurants in the city. I'd kill for their duck right now. You probably won't get a table, and the bar is small, but maybe they'll do room service."
"Awesome." I stand and head to my laptop so I can pull up their menu. "When will you be back?"
"I wish I could come back early, but I don't think I can change my flight."
"Why early?" I ask absently as I scan the menu
"Oh, uh, there's some things I need to take care of, and I can't do them without my phone and a computer, you know?"
"Yeah. I have my laptop, but I must say this whole phone swap thing has thrown me for a loop. Crazy how much we depend on them. Or how much I do. I'm in one of the biggest business deals of my life, and people can't get hold of me except by email."
"Is that why you get so many phone calls and texts?" she asks with a laugh in her tone. "From women?"
"You noticed that," I say sheepishly.
"Kind of hard not to. I'll be setting the Do Not Disturb later so I can get some sleep."
The duck on the menu does look amazing.
"Hey, can you hold on?" I ask. "Or," I scratch my chin, working my fingers over the end of a day’s beard growth, "can I call you back in a few minutes."
"Uh, sure."
"Be right back," I say and hang up. I dial the hotel restaurant and order the duck and a bottle of red wine.
Then I lean back in the desk chair, prop my feet on the work surface, and call Emmy back.
"Hey," she says breathlessly.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, I just went to see if it was still raining. Spoiler, it is."
"I just ordered the duck on your recommendation, it better be good."
"Oh, it is. You lucky beast. But best enjoyed with a glass of red wine."
"Ordered that too. What are you having?" I may not be able to distract myself with a date, so Emmy was going to have to play stand-in.
"Oh. Well, there's nothing nearby, and it's pouring rain. I went across the street earlier and got a banana and some nuts."
"Oh God. Now I feel bad." I laugh. "At least buy yourself a sandwich or pastry, surely they had something more substantial?"
"I can't eat gluten, so sandwiches are out I'm afraid."
I make a dramatic shocked sound. "No sandwiches? Bloody hell. What about a hamburger? You can't eat a hamburger? Stop. What is this horror?"
She laughs, a trickle of honey over the phone. "Well, some places do very good gluten-free buns, so I still get to enjoy them. And I eat my weight in fries." She groans. "Oh man. Now I'm starving. I'd kill for a burger."
"I'm guessing that's your favorite meal?"
"Hmm," she hums. "I don't have a favorite. That just happens to be what I'm craving."
"Everyone has a favorite."
"Not me. So tell me how a Suit Monkey living in New York with family slash not-friends in Charleston has some vague British accent going on?"
Her question stops me mid type in my search for burger places with gluten-free options that deliver in Far Rockaway, New York. "That's a little personal, don't you think?"
She snorts. "I told you about my gluten-free buns, that's pretty personal."
I laugh, and I hear her inhale lightly.
Pursing my lips, I continue my search, zeroing in on a place that looks perfect.
"True." I stall as I pick the toppings I think she'll like but request them on the side just in case. "So my mother fell in love with an Englishman who was in Charleston on business. He was in shipping or something. She got knocked up, and in true uptight Southern tradition was cast out. Followed him home."
"Wait, your family kicked her out?" Her voice lowers. "How old was she?"
I type in Emmy's address and pay for the burger plus gratuity. I tell myself it's simply an act of charity for someone who won't eat otherwise. I have the means, so why not? What's she asking? Oh, my mother. "She was nineteen, I think."
"Wow, I'm so sorry."
"Old enough to know better."
"Young enough to be taken advantage of by some British guy who should have kept his raincoat on, you mean?" She volleys the question back to me, and it occurs to me I might have been harboring some anger at my mother all this time, when it was my father who should have known better.
"I guess." I frown. "Kept his raincoat on?"
"Suited up? Used a pro . . . phyl . . . actic?" she enunciates. "A condom."
My mouth twists in amusement. "Yes, he should have. Must keep the general in combat uniform at all times."
"You call him the general?"
"God, stop it. It's fine for you to joke, but not me?"
"So you don't call him the general? That's a shame."
"What is it about you? We've discussed my mother and my penis, topics I don't believe there is a person alive with whom I would have this discussion."
There's a pause where I imagine her shrugging. "Maybe because we're strangers forced together under strange circumstances which gives us a level of intimacy but who have no judgments or preconceived notions about each other?"
"Ding, ding, ding, I beg to differ on the judgments. I believe you called me a . . . wait, let me find the exact wording, you put it in writing, ahh, here it is: a spoiled, suit-wearing monkey."
"Ah yes, I guess that's true. Well, you called me a mess. And a hippie chick. Why was that by the way?"
"The hot mess part?”
“You didn’t say hot mess, you just said mess. Totally different connotation.”
“I meant to say hot mess,” I admit. Why not? “Case in point, thousands of unread emails, picking up the wrong phone etc. etc."
"You—"
"I know, I kn
ow. Apparently that was my fault. The hippie part? The long hair and long flowy skirt, I guess. I don't really know."
"I always like to be comfortable when I travel."
"So you don't normally wear long flowy clothes?" I ask and then think of the fitted black top that could have been the top of a cocktail dress in her dating profile.
"Depends on my mood. I have to wear skirt suits at work, so I like to be in anything but when I get off."
My mind immediately goes where it shouldn't, and I press my lips tight to keep from reacting.
"Work, I mean," she adds, only confirming she went there too. "When I get off work. God."
"Of course," I deadpan, though it almost kills me. "I normally like to get out of my suit when I get off too."
"Stop it," she growls, and my smile spreads wider.
I cough. "So, what do you do that puts you in suits every day?"
"I work for an agency that does restaurant marketing. I could probably work from home, and work in jeans, but my boss is a sexist pig who likes the women at the office to show their legs and thinks sending us out to restaurants with our legs and figures on display will win us all the business."
She sounds sincere, and resigned. "Does it?" I ask because I'm curious, and she makes a sound of disgust like I should have sympathized with her and called her boss an asshole. He is, but I'm curious about her tone.
"Honestly, while there are some real assholes, most of my clients are female, gay, happily married, or all three. I could walk into a pitch in a bustier and high heels and we wouldn't win more work. I win because I'm really good at what I do."
The visual hits me in the gut, and blood rushes south. I'm not sure if I effectively cover up the breath I take, but there's a knock at the door right at the moment. "Room service," a voice calls.
"My duck is here, be right back." I don't wait for her to answer.
The waiter wheels a cart, dressed in a white linen tablecloth past me, across the wide plank walnut floors to the other side of the room by the windows.