Finding Holly

by B. E. Baker

  “All Mom wanted for her birthday was for me to convince you to come home.”

  I miss those tiny pangs of guilt. Now they’re like waves of guilt, crashing over my head. “Fine. Fine, I’ll come home.”

  Cole beams at me, his perfectly white teeth practically blinding me.

  “But I can’t come right now. My boss is mired in the middle of an avalanche of work, and her wedding is in a few weeks. Plus, did I mention she’s one of my closest friends?”

  “Wait, are you offering to come home for a visit? Or did you mean you’d come back permanently?”

  I grit my teeth. “For a visit. We can’t keep arguing about this. I’m not fifteen years old. I’m an adult, and Mom and Dad can’t make me do anything.”

  “When Dad dies, you’ll have to come back,” Cole says simply. “And it would be a shame if you missed being with him for what little time he has left.”

  “I’m sorry he’s sick,” I say. “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with all of it alone. I’m really, really sorry, okay?”

  Cole nods.

  “I’ll come for a few weeks, alright? After tax season, and after the wedding, I’ll come for a really long trip.”

  “We need more than one visit. With Dad being sick.” He shakes his head. “Business is bad. Dad’s bringing some investors in to check things out.”

  “Investors?” I ask. “Or consultants?”

  Cole shrugs. “Investors, I think. Dad says we need someone to buy in, and if they have ideas on how to run it, even better.”

  “Berg Telecom has made telephones for a hundred years,” I say. “Our clients are loyal.”

  “No one buys phones anymore,” Cole says.

  I lift my phone. “Really?”

  “We make landlines,” he says. “We haven’t ever been able to secure a manufacturing contract for cellular phones, and our plants don’t have the technology—”

  “What do you think I’m going to do about it?” I stand up and walk across the room to my window. “I’m a secretary, Cole.”

  “You’re not,” he says. “You’re pretending to be a secretary.”

  “I went to college here in the United States,” I say, “and graduated with a degree in microbiology. I never used it. I needed a job immediately, because, well, you know why—so they wouldn’t deport me. I’ve been working as Mary’s executive assistant for years and years. It’s who I really am. It’s what I really do. I actually love my job.”

  Cole stands up and crosses the room until he’s standing right next to me. “You can move away. You can insist that everyone call you by your middle name. You can sit on used plaid couches and heinous orange chairs. You can even live in an apartment with threadbare carpet. You can work as an assistant to some woman you respect and admire, while doing a job that you could do half asleep. None of those things changes who you really are, and it’s not a secretary.”

  I set my jaw.

  “Since I’m only a half-brother, you’re Dad’s only heir. At some point you’re going to have to move home and take over for him, Holly Paisley von und zu Liechtenstein. You’re the Hereditary Princess of Liechtenstein, whether you like it or not.”

  2

  James

  Enormous oak trees line the graceful circular drive that leads up to my grandfather’s house. The elegant red brick mansion with stately white columns stands out, even among this posh neighborhood, as the most ostentatious residence in at least a half-mile.

  I hate every single thing about it.

  I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for Gigi. But I’d do anything for her, and she asked me to do this impossible task. I slam my Alfa Romeo Giulia into park and kill the engine. I close my eyes and think about Gigi’s letter, the task she wants me to complete in the second year after her death.

  It will be hard, and it may require a conversation with him. Or four. But forgive your grandfather, James.

  Impossible. Even now, my strongest impulse is to punch him in his long, slightly crooked, age-spot covered nose, and I haven’t even clapped eyes on him yet. But for Gigi, I stuff my anger down as deeply as possible. I have one day left until I can open her third letter. . . but only if I’ve completed this task. This needs to happen today, if at all possible.

  I stalk up the front porch stairs toward the massive, solid wooden front doors. I bang with the knocker three times before Grandfather’s butler answers.

  “Hey Jeeves,” I say.

  To his credit, Winston Howard does not roll his eyes. He does not crack a smile. He wouldn’t dare. He knows his job, just like I know mine. I doubt he likes his any more than I do, but it’s a paycheck. At least, for him it is. “Welcome to Fulton Manor,” he says with a frown.

  I hand him my jacket. “It’s cold.”

  “It’s Boston, sir,” Winston says. “Boston is always cold in March.”

  I shrug. “A guy can hope for a warm front now and again.”

  “I’ll notify your grandfather you’ve arrived,” he says.

  I bob my head. “Thanks. I’ll head for his study.”

  Winston disappears down the massive hallway to the right, and I hang a left. Grandfather always prefers to see me in his office. I have no idea why, but it has been this way as long as I can recall. It looks like the carpet has been redone in this hallway again. It’s even thicker than last time, and it’s shaved into intricately swirling patterns.

  But, of course, it’s still white.

  “James,” my step-grandmother coos.

  I try my hardest not to grit my teeth, but I don’t succeed. She’s almost as horrid as my grandfather. They really deserve each other. “Diane.” I lie and say, “I hope you’re doing well.”

  When she smiles at me, dimples appear on both sides of her mouth. His last wife was so Botoxed that nothing on her face moved. Maybe that’s why he went with a younger model this time. Diane doesn’t worry about Botox, since she’s only thirty-four. I don’t shudder with disgust, but I’m not about to pretend I think it’s fine that she and I could have been in college together if she was smart enough or motivated enough to go. “James will be so delighted to hear you’ve come for a visit.”

  I came so I could figure out how to forgive him. How am I supposed to do that when all evidence before me only increases my disdain? Oh, Gigi, why didn’t you provide an explanation of why or how I should go about this? “Sure, we’ll have a wonderful time. Like always.”

  “Well, I’ll try not to bother you. But if you’re bored later, I’d be happy to take you to lunch.” She beams. “After all, a celebration is in order.”

  I can’t think of anything on earth I’d like to do less than go to lunch with my grandfather’s inappropriately young wife. “What are you celebrating?” I ask, because otherwise she’ll keep pressing.

  She crosses her arms and arches one eyebrow. “Your grandfather didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head stiffly. It’s not like I talk to James Fulton the second with any regularity, and surely she knows that.

  Her hands caress her still-flat belly, and I know. I should have guessed. “I’m pregnant.”

  Oh joy. Another aunt or uncle. “I can barely contain my delight.”

  “James,” my grandfather says. “Welcome!” He jogs down the hall, strong and hale for seventy-five years old. The second he reaches our side, Diane excuses herself. Grandfather ought to spring for a paternity test on that one. Luckily, that’s none of my business.

  “Grandfather.” I walk through the door to his study and breathe in the cigar smoke with barely concealed disgust. There are probably ten million dollars worth of first editions in this room, and even with top of the line exhaust technology installed, all of them smell like a barbecue.

  Not that grandfather cares.

  He pulls me in for a hug, and I don’t stiffen. Score one for me, Gigi. I didn’t shove him away. When he releases me, he only steps back a few inches.

  “What brings you up to Boston?” He smiles. “Not that I’m complai
ning. I’ve been asking you to come for months, now.”

  He may as well know. “Gigi asked me to come.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Didn’t she die? How can she ask for anything? Don’t tell me you commune with ghosts.”

  I bristle, but I don’t explode. “She passed away two years ago tomorrow, but she left five letters with her will,” I say. “Each one assigns me a task for that year. Last year she tasked me to establish a charity. That one was easy compared to this year’s assignment.”

  Grandfather closes his eyes and sighs. “I should never have given Greta up. She was quite a woman.”

  “She left you,” I say. “And never looked back.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Grandfather says. “And I spent the rest of my life searching for someone who could compare.”

  “You certainly put a lot of effort into looking.” I glance at the door where Diane was standing a few moments ago.

  “Oh, her.” Grandfather rolls his eyes. “Wait until you’re old. You’ll want someone to keep you company.”

  “She says she’s pregnant,” I say. “Congratulations?”

  Grandfather swivels toward me, his tall wingback chair flanking him like a guard at attention. “It’s mine.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply any different.”

  He laughs. “Of course you did.”

  “I don’t actually care,” I say. “That’s not my concern, thankfully.”

  “Isn’t it?” Grandfather narrows his eyes. “Your grandmother was a perceptive woman, son. I’m seventy-five years old. It was smart of her to send you to pay a little more attention to me.”

  “That’s not what she tasked me to do,” I say. “In fact, I didn’t have to see you at all. She told me to forgive you. The visit is because I’m struggling to accomplish that task.”

  His smile is so broad that I can actually see the tops of his dentures. “Well, she doesn’t shy away from asking the impossible. I know I was a horrible parent to your father and an abysmal grandfather to you. I don’t expect you to forgive me, son.”

  “I don’t care about anything you did to Dad or me,” I say. “And even if I did, you loaned me the seed money I needed after Harvard kicked me out—when Dad wouldn’t even speak to me. I forgave you long ago for any slight I may have felt for myself.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Gigi knew how much I despised you for what you did to her.”

  He leans back in his chair. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Really? She never remarried. She never even dated. You broke her.”

  “She was happy,” he says. “I checked on her.”

  “She was lonely and it made her miserable.”

  “I gave her plenty of money and saw that she was taken care of—”

  “Not everything is about money,” I say. “In fact, most things aren’t.”

  “That may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” he says. “And you’ve always had a mouth on you.”

  “I think it’s sad that you’re seventy-five years old and you still believe money is the only thing that matters.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that your grandmother was unhappy for all those years.”

  He actually sounds sincere, which I didn’t expect.

  “Do you know how many children I have?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “I lost count.”

  “This baby will be number fourteen,” he says. “And they have eight different mothers.”

  “And how many grandchildren?”

  “Another twelve. My children and grandchildren are as different as can be, but they have one thing in common. They’re all dedicated to spending my money as quickly as they can.”

  “I never spent a dime of your money, other than the loan, and I repaid that years ago.”

  Grandfather beams. “True. You and your father are the only two of my twenty-six descendants who don’t receive a monthly stipend. Did you know that?”

  I shake my head.

  “Which means I’m prouder of you than every other child and grandchild I have. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my oldest son and my oldest grandson, Greta’s child and grandchild, are the only self-sufficient ones, the only impressive ones.”

  “Not that I don’t enjoy praise,” I say. “But I came here for a very specific purpose, and I feel like we’ve gotten sidetracked.”

  “Why did you come?” he asks. “What do you want?”

  “What made Gigi leave you?” I clench my hands into fists. “I want to hear your side, because Gigi wouldn’t ever say a bad thing about you. She was a saint, so I can’t forgive you for blowing things with her without knowing what happened. I think she knew that. I think she wanted me to come and talk to you, although she didn’t require it.”

  “It’s still hard for me to talk about.” Grandfather smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re focused on something that isn’t physically present in the room. “Your grandmother was the smartest person I ever met. She was kind, too, but she was also proud. Terribly, beautifully proud, and I didn’t understand that then, or not as well as I should have.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Your great grandfather left me a very nice fortune, you know. I was his only son, but he had six daughters. Seven children and he left every dime he had amassed to me.”

  “That’s monstrously unfair,” I say.

  He shrugs. “It was the way, back then.”

  “I hope you took care of them.”

  “Of course I did, but I should have split it equally when he didn’t. I’m embarrassed to say that it didn’t even occur to me. By the time I met Greta, I was already quite wealthy. I had begun several enterprises that were quite successful, but she had her own business too. She had a lot of dreams for a woman at that time, and she was determined to do whatever it took to achieve them. She wasn’t young, not by the barometer of the era, and when she realized she was unlikely to marry, she opened a shop on the outskirts of downtown Boston. When I met her, she was designing dresses for some of the wealthiest socialites in town with the help of three or four employees. That’s actually the reason we met. Someone recommended her to me as an excellent designer, and she made me the nicest suit I’d ever had. The second the job was finished, I asked her on a date.”

  I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to think about him as a normal guy, as someone who was looking for a fantastic woman to marry. Clearly he didn’t love her. He’s proven himself to be incapable of true feeling over and over.

  “You’re sick of story time already?” he asks. “I thought that’s why you came here.”

  “Just get to the point where you did whatever you did.”

  “I’m almost there,” he says. “But you need to understand what I didn’t at the time: your grandmother was a talented woman in her own right when we met. I fell head over heels in love with her, and she became pregnant with your father right away. She tried to supervise the shop for a while, but it strained our marriage, and it left James in the care of strangers.”

  “So she quit.”

  He nods. “She did.”

  “Did she blame you for that?”

  “Of course not. Your grandmother was a reasonable, rational woman. A rare find.”

  I don’t even bother pointing out how sexist his comment is. It would be like shooting someone with a water gun when they’re already knee deep in a pond. Pointless.

  “But she was without something that mattered to her,” he says. “And she mourned it, I think.”

  “And that’s why she left you?”

  “Stop rushing this story,” he snaps. “Just listen for a moment. Your grandmother was an excellent wife and a stellar mother. She raised James properly, teaching him, reading to him, walking with him, and playing with him, even when no one was watching. That wasn’t encouraged at the time, you know. She taught him to build things and to improve the world around him.”

  I could argue over how well her at
tempts took, but I stay silent.

  “When he started school, she was bored. I thought we might have more children, but it never happened.”

  “Well, we all know it wasn’t your fault,” I say.

  “Be respectful,” he practically shouts.

  Oh, the irony.

  “Your grandmother re-started her business. She didn’t need money, so she had the luxury of pursuing only commissions she chose. She made the most exquisite gowns I’d ever seen. She charged exorbitant prices, but the margins were not high because she used the best materials. Honestly, what had previously been a profitable enterprise became more of a hobby than anything else.”

  I had no idea she even sewed. “Do you have photos?”

  He beams at me. “I do. I’ll find some for you.”

  “I would like that.”

  “At first, I thought it was making her happy. But when people began copying her, the joy evaporated. She would labor for hours over novel ideas and designs, only to see cheap versions of them sold at the department stores a few weeks later, in bulk.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “One time she made a burgundy ball gown of the richest, pigeon’s blood velvet. A few weeks later, Abraham & Straus had the same dress in their front window. They sold hundreds of the same exact design, but with shoddy materials. Your grandmother was incensed.”

  “And?”

  “I told her if she wanted to market her designs, she needed to make them available to more than one person. It was time to think bigger. Instead of making only the highest quality dresses for the wealthy, she should design lines for the ‘every woman,’ designs that could be marketed in department stores.”

  “She hated the idea?”

  He shakes his head. “She loved it. We sunk a bundle of time and funds into the plan, but she wouldn’t compromise. She still insisted on the nicest fabric, the best quality. We were barely breaking even.”

  “You’re not saying she left you because you shut down her business, right? Surely she understood how profit worked.”

  “I didn’t shut down her business, but we began to fight about it,” he says. “It wasn’t a hobby, and we were putting substantial sums at risk without a large enough margin to justify it. We began to argue, and it escalated quickly. She insisted that developing a brand took time. She wanted to focus on quality, and felt that as we did, sales would improve. We’d discount less and profit more with each launch, but she refused to compromise on quality. Abraham & Straus continued to undercut us, because the ‘every-woman’ she was targeting cared more about saving fourteen dollars than about the double stitching in the hem.”