Spring, The Twosies

by Josie Brown

  Sam laughed so hard that she jerked her leg—and screamed in pain again.

  Jade frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Reggie knows, silly!” Sam exclaimed.

  “What?” Jade was so shocked that she sat down on the bed.

  Sam howled with pain. “Dammit, Jade! Watch it!”

  Jade jumped up. “I’m—I’m sorry! Truly, I am!”

  “Yes, so you’ve said—about everything,” Sam grumbled.

  “When? How?”

  “Babe, seriously? Even if we didn’t work in Berkeley—the cradle of liberalism—we do live in the twenty-first century!” She sighed. “And all this time I thought I wore my lipstick lesbianism loudly and proudly. You know, not all of us wear our hair in a buzz cut, or are partial to army boots.”

  “Somehow, I missed the memo,” Jade murmured. “I guess Reggie got it.”

  “Yes, you could say that. It certainly didn’t matter to him”—she winced—“until he saw me mooning over the photo of you he keeps at his desk.”

  Jade blushed. She’d walked in on Sam while she was on the phone in Reggie’s office—and yes, she was staring at a photo of Reggie and Jade.

  At that moment, Jade presumed Sam was in love with Reggie.

  What a comedy of errors, she thought wryly.

  “Finally, Reggie sat me down and said I was ruining your lives—because you were jealous of me!” Sam rolled her eyes. “I laughed so hard that I think he got offended that you weren’t right after all. Go figure!”

  “I don’t get it. Why didn’t he say anything to me about it?” Jade asked.

  Sam shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him. If I were to take a guess, it would be that he didn’t want to embarrass you. Or he felt it was, you know, much ado about nothing.”

  They both laughed at that.

  Jade pecked Sam on the cheek. “Thank you. For caring about the both of us enough to put this misunderstanding behind us.”

  “Does this mean I’ll be invited to the wedding after all?” Sam asked playfully.

  Jade pinked up. “I guess Reggie told you that I’d prefer you didn’t come. Now that all of this out in the open, no harm, no foul. And feel free to bring a guest.”

  “Will do,” Sam promised. “However, now I have a bigger dilemma.”

  Sam frowned. “What’s that?”

  Sam giggled. “Should I sit on the bride’s side, or the groom’s?”

  Chapter Seven

  The same day

  12:30 p.m.

  In truth, Garrett Mitchell Hartley’s home was an Italianate villa nestled high on a hill. It overlooked the small but affluent town of Saratoga, California along with the rest of Silicon Valley.

  Once admitted by the guard at the security gate, Ally’s mile-long drive to the villa on the top of the hill gave her a view of its amenities: basketball and tennis courts; an Olympic-size pool with two cabana houses; a three-hole putting green; a vineyard climbing up the hillside.

  And yes, there was a helicopter pad.

  Where had he made his money? Ally chided herself for not having taken the time this morning to research him.

  Maybe it’s best that I don’t know, she told herself. It may only make me despise him all the more.

  By the time she parked her car in the cul-de-sac in front of the home’s vast triple doors, her heart was palpitating wildly. After even allowing herself an extra half-hour to maneuver the clogged expressway between her place and his, Ally was dismayed to get there with only a minute to spare. To calm herself, she nudged the mirror embedded in her visor to check for makeup smudges. Thank goodness she saw none—quite an accomplishment, considering the number of times she felt close to tears at the thought of what was about to happen. She wore her dark curly hair in a demure chignon. Looking at it now, she wondered, is it too formal?

  Why the hell do I want his approval so badly?

  No—I don’t want his approval. I want him to regret missing out on my life.

  She smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

  Then she sauntered to the front door.

  The butler’s route to her final destination seemed circuitous at best, and ostentatious to a fault. The gold-toned walls of the ballroom-sized rooms were covered in modern art. The furnishings were mostly antiques, but with a few eclectic contemporary pieces thrown in. Despite such opulence, one felt as though they had entered a private sanctuary.

  It’s too contrived, Ally decided.

  Finally, she was led into a paneled study.

  From what she could tell, no one sat in a high-backed chair behind a desk. In fact, there was so much light flowing through the double-atrium window behind the massive mahogany desk that at first she didn’t see the man sitting on a settee, set back in an alcove that enjoyed a dazzling view of the valley below them.

  When her eyes finally alighted on him, he rose to greet her. He was a very tall man: tanned, square-jawed, with a shock of silvery white hair. He was dressed casually: jeans and a long-sleeved charcoal T-shirt.

  She felt overdressed.

  She waited for him to extend his hand in greeting. When she took it, he hesitated a moment before leaning forward in order to kiss her cheek.

  She shivered.

  He frowned. “My people have set up a buffet on the sideboard, there.” He pointed to a large credenza laden with a large salad bowl, cut fruit, and sandwiches. “But first, let’s talk. Please, have a seat.”

  She lowered herself onto the settee.

  He took the straight-backed chair beside it. “You have questions.”

  “Many. Let’s start with the obvious one: are you my biological father?”

  “Yes.” The word seemed to be heaved out of him, as if it were a boulder he had to spit out.

  “Were you married to my mother?”

  He shook his head. “No, never.”

  “Did you want to be married to her?” Did you want me?

  “It was never an option.”

  “For you, or for her?”

  He sighed. “By mutual consent.”

  I don’t believe you.

  “But you were there, at our house. I remember you,” she insisted.

  Garrett shrugged. “Yes, I visited occasionally.”

  Ally took a deep breath. “Was it consensual sex?”

  His eyes darkened with anger. “If you’re asking me if I raped your mother, the answer is no.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase. What was your relationship with my mother?”

  He winced. “It was…complicated.”

  Ally stood up. “I didn’t come here for a game of Twenty Questions. You know what I’m asking.”

  “And if I tell you, you’ll…” He hesitated. “You’ll jump to the wrong conclusion.”

  Ally’s laugh was mirthless. “Trust me, Mr. Hartley! Nothing you can say can make me think any less of you than I do right now.”

  He leaned back as if she’d slapped him. “I get that.” He frowned. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Why would you?” she stalked the room. “You created me. You abandoned me. You invited me here to tell me—” Ally stopped cold. “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “That...” He looked away. “That I’m glad you reached out. That I know you did well for yourself—without me.”

  “You’re lying,” she whispered.

  “No, I’m not,” he insisted.

  “Yes, you are! As of this morning, you haven’t thought about me in years, if you’ve thought about me at all.”

  He glanced away.

  “Yeah, right, that’s what I thought.” Ally picked up her purse and headed for the door.

  “Ally, wait!” he pleaded. “Okay, you’re right. In my mind, I’d…I had put you on the backburner. Out of sight, out of mind, right?”

  She stopped. Turning around, she growled, “Fuck you, Daddy Dearest.”

  “Yeah, I know I sound cruel. I’m an asshole. Ask anyone who knows me.” Garrett shrugged. “I usually don’t give a damn. But ou
r situation—it goes without saying, it’s different.”

  “Nah. Not buying it,” Ally muttered.

  “I mean it! Ally, honestly, I respect what you’ve done—more so because you’ve done it on your own.”

  “How do you know what I’ve done?” she asked warily.

  “Get real! You don’t think I’ve kept my eye on you all these years?”

  “And yet, you never reached out to me.” She shook her head at this revelation.

  What a son of a bitch you are.

  “You want an apology, don’t you? And maybe I owe you one.” He shrugged. “But here’s the reality check: not every man makes a good father. Just like not every woman will be a great mother. People may have similar experiences, but everyone responds differently. It’s what makes the world go ’round.”

  “You don’t say!” She clicked her tongue in mock shock. “And to think that all this time, I thought it was love.”

  “You have your mother’s sense of humor.”

  Her scowl softened at that.

  Noting this, he added, “But you have my head for business. It’s quite impressive, what you did with Foot Fetish. And now, with Life of Pie…” He whistled softly. “It’s going to be even bigger.”

  She shrugged. “Am I supposed to perk up with pride because Daddy paid me a compliment?”

  “Save the preening for what I have to say next.” He leaned in. “I want in.”

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “I want to invest in Life of Pie—to help you take it national.”

  “It already has an investor: Collins, Acworth, and Markham.”

  “They’re notorious for underfunding, and getting skittish if they think one of their unicorns has lost its horn.” He shrugged. “How much are they funding you for?”

  “For the details, you’ll have to speak to my broker, Brady Pierce.”

  Garrett smirked. “You mean your boyfriend, don’t you?”

  “Before he was that, he built one of the hottest start-ups in Silicon Valley history,” she declared. “If you want to make an offer, you can start by calling him.”

  “I’d rather work with you,” Garrett insisted.

  “Why? Because you think you can soften me up by pulling the daddy card?”

  He shook his head. “Just the opposite. The best thing I can do to make amends is help you build on your success.”

  “I wish I could believe you, but as you just pointed out, as recently as this morning I was a not so pleasant reminder of your past.”

  “Ally, if you let me, I can help you secure your future.”

  “I get it. You’ve got money to burn. But I’m not a charity case.”

  “Good, because I don’t give to charities. And I don’t buy companies that are losers. Don’t take my word for it. Ask Brady if I mean what I say.”

  Ally frowned. “How would he know?”

  “Because I gave him the seed money for BuyNowOrNever.”

  Ally felt her jaw drop open. Brady had never mentioned Garrett to her.

  Then again, he hadn’t known the name inside the envelope provided by Francesca Upton.

  “Sure, I’ll ask him.” She started for the door. “It’s getting late. I have to pick up my daughter—”

  “Zoe.” He nodded. “I’d like to meet her sometime.”

  Ally smiled. “She’s not for sale, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Garrett shrugged. “You know firsthand that my track record with kids is lousy. On the other hand, every company I ever bought has tripled in value.”

  “At least you’re good at something,” she replied.

  He grinned at that. But whatever he had to say next was halted by a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he declared.

  A young woman—twenty years old, if that—entered the room. She wore her long blond hair in a high ponytail that accentuated her razor-sharp cheekbones. She was slim, toned, and tanned. No doubt, her tight pink tennis dress wasn’t just for show.

  So, I have a half-sister, Ally realized.

  Obviously, the woman was just as curious of Ally as Ally was of her because her limpid blue eyes never left Ally’s face, even when Garrett exclaimed, “Darling, is your match over so soon? Well, at least you got here in time to meet Ally before she takes off.”

  Pouting, the woman cocked her head to one side. “Had I known she wasn’t staying, I would have canceled my match altogether.” She held out her hand. “Zelda.”

  Ally knew she should take it, but the shock caused her to pause. When finally she did reach out, she murmured, “Garrett hadn’t mentioned you’d be joining us.”

  Zelda clicked her tongue at him in mock dismay. “Typical!” she exclaimed. Still, she wrapped her arms lovingly around his neck.

  Garrett showed his annoyance with a grimace. Yet, when he disentangled himself from her, he made up for it by kissing her cheek. “You can start nibbling. I want to walk Ally out.”

  Zelda nodded and then sauntered to the sideboard.

  Neither Ally nor Garrett spoke on the long march to the foyer. As he opened the front door, Ally finally found her voice. “When were you going to tell me that I have a half-sister?”

  He stared at her. Laughing uproariously, he replied, “Zelda? My God, no! She’s my wife.” He shook his head gleefully. “Tell Brady to call me tomorrow.”

  Before she could respond, he shut the door.

  No! No way am I doing business with that man! No way—

  Unless he pays through the nose for the privilege.

  But, in her heart, she knew that no amount of money would ever even the score.

  * * *

  1:42 p.m.

  “Why haven’t they called?” Bettina’s question was legitimate despite her childish pout.

  Brady and she had stopped for lunch at Belga on Union Street. Because it was the first Monday of the New Year, like the rest of the street, the restaurant was practically deserted.

  That was fine with Bettina. She hoped no one she knew saw her with the boyfriend of her frenemy, Ally Thornton. Otherwise, they’d wonder if she (a) was asking him for money to tide her over until Art’s debacle was forgotten, or (b) had set her sights on one of the most eligible bachelors in town, despite his recent disentanglement with the PHM&T member he was supposedly married to, and his current involvement with another of the club members.

  Brady sighed. “There’s nothing to worry about, Bettina. This is par for the course.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You see, no one calls when they promise. They want us to gnaw our fingers to the bone right before we walk into the Beidecker meeting, and then kiss the hems of their skirts for giving us half of what we asked for.”

  Bettina frowned. “We’re not going to do that…are we?”

  “Hell, no!” Brady chuckled as he grabbed the last French fry off Bettina’s plate. “We’re going to tell them that we’re just about to walk into Beidecker’s conference room, so it’s put up or shut up time. Full amount, deposited in the bank account within twenty-four hours.”

  “Oh.” Bettina let that sink in. “But…what if they call our bluff?”

  Brady looked at his watch. “We call Beidecker and lie; something about a jumper on the bridge tying up traffic.” He grinned. “Then we hope he looks at Google traffic, realizes we’re lying, and presumes we’re leaving another meeting that went well.”

  “I see now why they call you a budding wunderkind at this folderol,” she murmured.

  For the first time since her pregnancy, she wished she could drink.

  Brady patted her hand “I meant it when I told you I thought you were wonderful in the meeting.”

  “If you’re insinuating I should give up the club—”

  “If the app gets funded, that is exactly what you should do”—he hesitated, then added—“unless you can play nice-nice with the other mommies and spread the blood, sweat, and tears of running it.”

  Bettina scowled. “You’ve been talking to Lorna—or
Matt, which is exactly the same thing.”

  “Believe it or not, your brother gives sound counsel.”

  Bettina shrugged. “Sure—when it is beneficial to his wife.”

  Brady snorted. “In what way would your success benefit Lorna?”

  Bettina’s eyes narrowed. “If I were too busy to run the club, she’d finally have it within her grasp. I’d be out, and she’d be in. Case closed.”

  He leaned in. “Tell me the truth. Which would you rather run: a successful tech business and the money that comes with it? Or that mommy-and-tot club, and all the hassles that come with herding a bunch of anxious women and their children?”

  “Those ‘anxious women,’ as you so callously put it, are the mothers of our country’s next generation of leaders. What they get out of PHM&T is the assurance that they are the best and the brightest, that their children will make lifetime friendships, and will be collectively nurtured so that they have no doubts about their abilities—”

  His slow claps stopped her mid-sentence. “Brava,” he murmured.

  “Why are you being so obnoxious?”

  “Because it’s obvious to me that you don’t just make the Kool-Aid, you drink it as well.”

  Bettina stood up. “How dare you!“

  Brady yanked her back into her seat. “I ‘dare’ because I believe in you. I’m your business partner, for God’s sake! You got me excited about the Bum Free Zone app. Hell, you had Abe, Olivia, and Zeb salivating over it! Bettina, for once in your life, don’t sell yourself short!”

  She sat still for a moment. Finally, she muttered, “I never have.”

  “Sure you have. When you settled for Art, you thought you could do no more than play the role of socialite and arm charm. Then you started a club so that you could feel superior to other women in your predicament—”

  “Not all women want to enter the business world, or for that matter, be mistresses of the universe,” she countered. “Some of us just want to raise our children in a happy, nurturing environment.”

  “Art made you happy, did he?” Brady argued. “Sure, ‘happy homemaker’ is writ large on some women—Lorna, for example.”