Forbidden Love (Venture Capitalist Book 1)

by Ainsley St Claire

  Other people in the bar are laughing and sharing their opinion. A few can be heard asking if they can join us the next time we have a tournament.

  Sara pipes up, “Okay, what award is next?”

  Cameron takes his cue. “So, we had a few good trick shots. The nominees are Emerson’s shot on the sixth hole, where she hit a ball on the fringe of the water backward and it landed a foot from the cup. The second is Sara’s one-handed forty-foot putt from across the green. And the final nomination goes to Dillon’s vicious shot from the pine on the thirteenth hole, which shot the ball deep in the sand in the bunker.”

  “Hey, at least the tree kept the ball from going out of bounds,” I reply.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol, or perhaps we’re all being silly, but we vote the award goes to me.

  Cameron hands me a homemade trophy with a golf ball that has been ripped open from too much stress, hand-painted gold, and placed prominently on a piece of wood. Taking a black Sharpie marker, he customizes a front placard with my name, the date, and the hole before handing it to me.

  Mason prods Cameron to continue. “We have a special award for Sara.”

  Everyone turns to look at Sara, who’s turning bright pink from her embarrassment.

  “Sara, we never knew you played. You’re welcome to join us anytime. Here is an award for being gracious when we were jerks.”

  Emerson chants, “Hear! Hear!”

  Cameron hands Sara a real trophy of a gold woman in a long dress with a sash and crown. Probably for a beauty queen winner, but it works perfectly for Sara.

  She looks at it and exclaims, “It’s a real trophy with my name even engraved on the front. Thank you, guys. Really. This means a lot to me.” She walks around and gives each of the partners a warm embrace. When she gets to CeCe, she says, “I can’t leave you out,” and they hug.

  CeCe asks, “Did anyone hit a hole-in-one?”

  Cameron shakes his head. “Thank goodness, too, because usually you win a car for a hole-in-one. I only have my car, and frankly, I’d have no way to get Sara, Mason, and me back into The City.”

  CeCe speaks up, “Don’t worry, Cameron. We would have called you a Lyft.”

  As everyone laughs, Cameron taps a spoon to the side of a glass to regain our attention. “We have another round of prizes in the pair competition.” He takes three bottles of liquor out of the box. “We all knew Emerson would kill all of us, so for her we have a 2007 Dom Perignon White Gold Champagne for beating Dillon.”

  There is a lot of “Hear! Hear!” and laughing. I can only shake my head.

  Cameron continues, “And in Cart 2, the winner between CeCe and Mason is CeCe! For your win, we have a bottle of Grape Boones Farm Wine—vintage last week. Enjoy!”

  CeCe is laughing harder than anyone. “Believe it or not, I like this. It tastes like grape cold medicine but it’s not that bad!”

  Cameron, trying to take control of the group once more, taps his glass with his spoon, and says, “For Cart 1, the lowest score by over 23 strokes is Sara!” He is holding a bottle of peach schnapps.

  Sara laughs as she stands to take her prize. “I’d like to thank the Academy and Cameron for making my win so easy.”

  Cameron gives her a big hug and says, “I have orange juice should anyone wish to share!”

  We spend another hour enjoying ourselves before heading back. It was a perfect event for us and well needed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Dillon

  My landline is ringing at home, my parents' number on the caller ID. It’s after midnight. Why is anyone calling me at this hour?

  Answering half-asleep and not thinking it’s anything more than a late-night check-in, I mumble, “Hello?”

  “Dillon, your dad had a heart attack tonight and is at the hospital. It isn’t good.” My mom is crying into the phone as she speaks. “Can you come home?”

  I’m fully awake and immediately alert. “Of course. I’ll get a flight as soon as I can.” Mom continues weeping into the phone, and I ask, “Have you talked to Siobhan?”

  “She’s loading the car and will drive up. She’ll be here tomorrow with Steven.”

  “Mom, Dad is healthy. He’s going to be okay. I’ll get with the airlines and get to you as soon as I can. As soon as I have the details, I’ll call you.” I sit up in bed and begin looking for a pair of pants.

  “Dillon, I’m scared.”

  “I know, Mom. Me, too. We need to have faith. He’s strong and is going to be fine.” I listen to her cry as I bring up my computer and go to the Delta website. “Mom there is a 7:00 a.m. flight out of SFO direct into Detroit. I land at three thirty, and I’ll have a car service bring me up to the hospital in Birmingham. I’ll be with you before dinner tonight. Hang on, and be sure to tell Dad and Siobhan I’ll be there soon.” I go through the motions to book the flight, knowing I have only a short time before I have to be at the airport if I’m going to make this flight.

  “Dillon, thank you.” She continues to cry but hangs up.

  I’m out of bed and now scrambling. Grabbing a bag, I quickly pack it with more than what I’ll need, though I make the decision to not bring a suit. I want to think positive. I stuff a massive stack of underwear, socks, and shirts in my bag, plus two pairs of jeans. Hopping in and out the shower, I put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece cover. Grabbing my Gucci loafers and my Dopp kit, I zip up my bag as the car service rings they’ve arrived. I think I have everything; what I forgot I can buy while there.

  On the drive to the airport, I leave a message for each of the partners on their office phones repeating what’s going on and asking different tasks from each.

  As I sit in the airport lounge awaiting my flight, I call Emerson. She answers groggily and I know I woke her.

  “Hey. My mom called last night. My dad had a heart attack,” I choke out.

  “Oh no! Is he okay?” she asks, sounding a little more awake.

  I’m barely holding back tears. “He’s in the hospital. I’m at the airport. My flight takes off in less than two hours. I land before three thirty. I have a car service picking me up and taking me directly to the hospital.”

  “What can I do for you while you’re gone?” She’s alert and thinking despite the early hour.

  “I left messages for everyone with directions. You know what’s going on with my portfolio of clients.” I start to lose it, and I don’t want the people sitting around me to see me cry. Looking out the window, watching the horizon begin to lighten and all the activity on the tarmac, I run my hand through my hair and choke out, “I can’t believe this. My dad is active and healthy. How can this be happening to him?”

  Her throat catches as she says, “Oh, Dillon. My heart is breaking for you. I’m sure he’s going to be fine. Do you want me to meet you there?”

  I would love to have her join me, but I can’t do that right now. “No. I need my dad to get better.”

  “Stay strong for your mom and keep me posted,” she insists.

  How is it that just talking to her makes me feel better? I want to have a conversation with Mason and Cameron about the fraternization clause. It would be nice if it would go away. But at the same time, I’m not good at relationships. What would I do if I screwed up with Emerson, causing it all to go sideways?

  The flight seems longer than usual. I’m flying first-class and nervous about not getting to my dad fast enough. I must have looked at my watch every three minutes. Of course, I’m on the only plane where the Wi-Fi is down, which only increases my anxiety. I’m out of touch for a four-hour flight. I forgot my tablet, and I didn’t download any entertainment, so I’m left to wait impatiently. The flight attendant offers me drinks, but I want to be fully cognizant when I arrive.

  As we land, my cell phone finally has service and goes crazy with emails and voice mails. I work my way through to the arrivals area and see a livery driver holding a placard with my name. I’m surprised for a half second that it’s a woman, and she tells me her na
me is Heidi. She takes my bag and we head out to the curb. When I made the reservation this morning, I had to give them the address, so she already knows where we’re going. Luckily we’re ahead of the crazy Detroit afternoon traffic as we head northeast to Royal Oak and the hospital. During the forty-five-minute drive, I listen to my voice mails.

  Mason, Sara, and Cameron have updates and assurances that what I need from them will be taken care of, and they wish my dad a speedy recovery.

  I’m surprised to have a message from CeCe. “Dillon, Emerson told me your news. I’m thinking about you and want you to know that you and your family are in my thoughts.”

  Emerson’s voice mail means the most to me. “Hey. Everything here is going well. Molly and I both already miss you. I know your dad is proud of you. We have work covered, so don’t give us a second thought. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, and I’ll check in with you later. Be strong.”

  I arrive at the hospital and walk immediately up to my dad’s room. My mom looks frail and tiny as she sits in the sterile hospital room, holding my sleeping dad’s hand. In jeans with a white shirt under a blue button-up sweater, she looks very put together despite the ordeal. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed and puffy from crying.

  I bring her in for a big hug, and she weeps. “He’s the love of my life. I can’t live without him. You’ve got to make him understand that I’m not ready to face this world without him. Make him understand.”

  I hold her and look at my dad. He’s sleeping with a thousand tubes and wires attached to his arms and chest. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I assure her. “I’ll talk to him. I need him, too, and I’m not ready either.”

  I encourage my mom to go for a walk, get some air or coffee, and I sit down next to dad, holding his hand. “Please, Dad. Not yet,” I choke out just above a whisper. “Please don’t leave me yet. I need you so much.”

  I don’t know if I imagine it, but I feel him grip my hand, and then the tears fall relentlessly like a dam has been released. A few of my parents’ friends stop by and kindly take my mom to eat some dinner. She insists she’ll be in the downstairs cafeteria with her cell phone “at the ready” if she’s needed, and I nod in acknowledgment.

  Shortly after eight, my sister, Siobhan, arrives with her husband, Steven, trailing behind her. Her eyes are swollen from crying. She sits in the chair on the other side of our father and puts her head down on his shoulder. She also begs him not to die.

  My dad wakes for a few minutes, though he’s weak and sounds frail. Turning to my sister, he rasps, “I couldn’t have asked for a better daughter. You’ve always been the light of my world. I love you. Continue making a difference with those kids you teach. They are the future. Please tell the kids how much I love them, and that I’ll be in heaven looking out for them.”

  She hugs him and is crying nonstop. Arguing with him to not give up, she tells him she’s newly pregnant and he needs to be there to meet his new grandchild.

  He squeezes both of our hands, then looks at me and tells me, “Dillon, I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished. You’ll be a success at whatever you put your mind to. I want you to remember that money isn’t everything. Find a nice girl and start a family. You’ll be an amazing father. Take care of your mother and sister. Your mom and Siobhan are going to need you to be strong. I love you, too.”

  Not ready to let him go, I decide to tell him all about Emerson. “Dad, she’s smart and funny. You’d like her. And she’s an amazing golfer. You need to play with her. We could fool so many of your golf buddies.”

  He smiles and lightly squeezes my hand once more.

  My mom has been standing in the back of the room, and there isn’t a dry eye anywhere. Even a tear escapes my dad’s right eye. His breathing becomes shallow and the grip on my hand loses its strength. We hear the heart monitor go to a flatline, and nurses come running in an attempt to revive him without success.

  We all stand here stunned, our hearts broken.

  “How can this be?” my mother cries as she sobs into her hands. The three of us cry together. We aren’t ready to say goodbye.

  Please, Dad, come back. I need you. Who am I going to talk to? Who’s going to support me? Who’s going to take care of all of us?

  Our family priest arrived during the confusion. He gives my dad last rites, and we’re all numb. He counsels us a bit about my father’s death, but I’m on autopilot.

  Looking at my watch, I’m stunned to see it’s shortly after midnight. I don’t know what to do with myself. Siobhan has Steven, and though my mom is a walking zombie, she’s with family friends who are comforting her between talking to the hospital administrators about next steps. I need comfort, and the only thing I can think of is speaking with Emerson.

  Nothing makes sense anymore, not even trees. My dad’s life had direction and meaning. All his work has been for my mom and their life together. Now he’s gone, there’s no reason for the world to exist anymore, so why is it all still here?

  I’m sitting alone with my dad and I can’t move. My dad was talking to me. I was telling him about Emerson. My Emerson.

  Without warning, I feel my insides become wooden and cold. I’m tapped on the shoulder and look up at a gentleman in hospital scrubs. "Mr. Healy, we need to take the body down to the morgue. You’re welcome to stay, or you can go now."

  I only want to talk to one person. I walk into an empty room and call Emerson. With the time difference, it isn’t as late for her.

  In a soft and calming voice, she says, “Hi. How are you doing?”

  “Not good. I got to see my dad, and we talked for a few minutes, but he….” My voice cracks and I choke up.

  “Oh, Dillon. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “No. I’m not prepared for this. My dad is my best friend. He’s been my biggest cheerleader my whole life. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, and then we cry together over the phone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Emerson

  My heart is breaking for Dillon. I haven’t lost a parent, and I can’t even imagine how he’s feeling. Despite the late hour, I call Sara, Mason, and Cameron and give them the news. We’re all stunned, agreeing we want to attend any services to support Dillon and his family. Cameron and Mason have met Dillon’s dad on several occasions, and they’re heartbroken.

  I have a difficult night of sleep, knowing Dillon is hurting but now how I can help to make it better. I hit a bucket of golf balls in the morning, arriving just as the golden glow of the sun hits the horizon. It does help to relieve the tension in my shoulders, but not much else.

  I figure I need to find out when the services will be held and see what we can do as a firm. When I get to work, we all grieve as a group. Mason sends an email out to the company with the announcement while I make a few calls and carefully find out what details I can get about the wake and funeral.

  In all the craziness, Dillon tells me where I can find a key to his apartment, then asks me to grab one of his suits. He is very specific in his directions: the black summer wool Armani suit, the white shirt with French cuffs bearing his initials in light blue, his silver cuff links that his dad wore on his wedding day, his light blue tie, a pair of black socks, and his Ferragamo black loafers.

  Walking into his apartment seems like trespassing. I’ve been here many times but always with him. It’s a penthouse apartment in a building built in the early nineteen hundreds overlooking Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge and the northern portion of the bay. It’s been completely refurbished with sixteen-foot ceilings, ornate crown molding, and beautiful hardwood floors. The kitchen is modern with dark granite counter tops and sleek white cabinets, the furniture black leather and contemporary. While Dillon’s tall, he always seems to take up the entire room, so his apartment feels big when he isn’t here.

  His closet is larger than my bedroom and is lined with more clothes than even I have. I’m a bit surprised when I see he has probably a dozen suits, consider
ing I’ve never seen him in one. It takes a few minutes of my combing through his things to find what he needs, especially since I take the time to photograph each garment and text him the pictures to make sure I have exactly what he’s looking for. His reply to each text is a brief Yes, nothing more.

  Finding his mailbox key next to his door, I decide to grab his mail and bring it with me, unsure how long he plans on staying in Michigan. I quickly water his three plants before I walk out.

  I text him one more time. The partners and I are flying in on a NetJet tomorrow. Can I bring you anything else?

  I look for a few things to keep me busy when my phone rings.

  “You guys don’t need to come,” Dillon states. “Business is much more important. You’re all needed there, not here with my dad’s crazy friends and my family.”

  I can hear the hurt in his voice and softly tell him, “You’re important to all of us. Please don’t feel the need to entertain us or spend time with us. We’re coming to support you and your family. We have a reservation in Birmingham at a cute spot. We’ll entertain ourselves. We’ll arrive tomorrow afternoon.” I’m almost positive he’s crying. “Please let me know what I can do, or if you would like anything else from your apartment. I miss you.”

  The entire company is somber. Annabel, at reception, sends an email out that she’s going to collect money for a donation in Dillon’s dad’s name to be given to the American Heart Association. She stresses it isn’t mandatory, and even loose change is appreciated.

  Mason follows up with an email stating he will match whatever anyone donates. Cameron piles on and impresses giving isn’t required, but because his good friend Mason wants to match, he’s giving five thousand dollars. The exchange helps everyone’s spirits rise on such a somber occasion. In the end, we have a check for almost twenty thousand dollars. Cameron is clearly moved by the gesture of so many, writing a gracious thank-you email to Annabel for thinking about Dillon and his family, and to everyone who donated.