by Raquel Belle
This coming Sunday I’ll fly to Boston and then have two relaxed weeks there—my first holiday in years—before I celebrate my little sister Laura’s wedding.
Still…I look at Grace’s shining face as the other girls chatter around me…she’s never looked so happy. It feels like everyone around me is moving on. Am I in danger of being left behind?
Chapter Two
Jason
I’ve been on this date for less than thirty minutes and I can already tell that I’m going to have to end it early. I scan the room of Edgar’s, the cocktail bar and steakhouse I’ve made the mistake of bringing my date, Clarissa, to. It’s just too much of a scene on a Friday night. It’s like everybody’s trying too hard—Clarissa included, unfortunately. As soon as I picked her up, she started trying to impress me with talk of private jets, fancy restaurants in Paris, and shopping sprees on Fifth Avenue. All of which, I have no doubt, her dad paid for. She’s just trying to prove that she can “fit” into my world, or what she thinks my world is like. But I’ve dated plenty of girls like this—coming from money and looking to marry into money—and I’m ready for something more…real.
Edgar's is usually chilled out during the week and is one of the few bars I go to regularly. Normally I prefer to stay home. But it’s a Friday night and the place is packed with every person in Manhattan who thinks they’re important. The bar itself looks great, which is part of the reason I keep coming back. Hardwood floors, high-hung chandeliers, and sleek, black marble-topped tables. From an architectural standpoint, it’s a beauty. The crown jewel is the bar at the far end of the room, extending the full length of the wall, a mirrored panel behind it reflecting the rows of glittering bottles. They pretend like they only serve the top-shelf stuff but I know for a fact they keep some other basic booze stocked under the bar, out of sight. I know because I’m the one that asked them to keep it there.
Whiskey is my drink of choice. Neat, no ice. I’ve sampled every whiskey there is to sample in the world. I’ve tried the fancy stuff coming out of Japan and the traditional goods from Scotland. You can find a whiskey distillery in every corner of the world these days and I’ve visited most of them—New Zealand, South Africa, France, India… Of course, right here in the USA. I have a soft spot in my heart for Maker’s Mark myself.
Not the stuff you find in the stores though. I was thinking of investing in the brand a few years back—just a fun side project—and spent a fair amount of time touring their production facilities. They hooked me up with a few cases of a special, one-time batch they were working on at the time. Amazing… Full of these rich notes of cherry and vanilla. I bought out every bottle they had. And I’m damned glad I did because they never took the production mainstream. They decided it was too big of a risk bringing such a flavorful whiskey onto the market—there was no way it would net a return on investment. The cost of production was too high they said, but I disagreed. There’s always a fatter wallet out there who’ll pay a premium price for premium goods.
I take a sip now, inhaling the round, full flavor, letting it bounce around my mouth. The world has no idea what it’s missing out on. Luckily, I don’t have to miss out. That’s one of the benefits of having money. I didn’t invest in Maker’s Mark in the end but I did make off with three cases of this once-in-a-lifetime whiskey. And one of those cases is sitting under the bar at Edgar’s—just for me. When the guys here see me walking in, they know to get my glass ready.
When I showed up today, I walked from the front door straight to the bar at the far end of the room. Clarissa strutted alongside me with her hand resting in the crook of my elbow. By the time we made it to the bar, my glass of whiskey was already waiting for me, alongside a sparkling water with lemon, and a cocktail menu had been put out for my date. The service here really is the best. I guess that’s another reason I keep coming back.
“Good evening, Mr. Levine.” Tony, the head bartender greets me with a small nod and smile. “Your drink is waiting. Would you prefer to stay here or sit in the back?”
“We’ll stay here, thanks, Tony.”
“And what will the lady have?” Tony turns to Clarissa, who is literally standing there with her mouth hanging open as she observes my exchange with him. She’s a pretty girl but…
“I’ll have a glass of white wine. Do you have a Riesling?” She arches her brow at Tony, recovering her self-assurance as she asks for a common German white—clearly hoping I’ll be impressed that she’s gone beyond the most basic options of a French Chardonnay or Pinot Grigio.
Tony doesn’t miss a beat. “I see you know your wines, miss. We have a lovely Riesling from the Baden-Württemberg region of southern Germany right here.”
“Perfect.” He pours her a glass, carefully avoiding eye contact with me, and leaves us at the far end of the bar—a semi-secluded spot tucked away from the bustling crowd of young professionals around us. Tony is a consummate professional and he’s a big part of the reason I keep coming back here—especially for first dates. He’s even helped me get out of a few rather gracefully. I hate to cut off a date early but my time is valuable and when I need a date to end, I need it to end.
And as it happens…I just might need this one to end early too.
“So, you have a private room here? At Edgar’s? In the VIP? I didn’t even know they had a VIP.” My date, Clarissa, stares at me, her blue eyes wide and sparkling.
“I wouldn’t call it VIP,” I tell her. “It’s just a small room at the back in case I need some privacy. Usually for a business chat, that kind of thing,” I hurriedly add, worried she’s going to ask to see it. Then she’ll be all over me!
I already had a bad feeling when I picked her up. I usually drive with a chauffeured black car—it means I can work on the road. I should have just picked her up on foot or gotten one of my cars out of the garage to pick her up. As soon as she saw the chauffeured car, I could see the wheels in her head turning. I mean she already knew my name before our date. James—an associate of mine, I guess you could say he’s a friend—set us up so there was no getting around that. No doubt she had already hunted me down on Google and determined my net worth. She already knew I had money.
But once she saw firsthand what that money could buy, she just… changed. I could see the dollar signs in her pupils—like a Looney Tunes cartoon—as my chauffeur held the car door open for her and helped her into the car. And now that she’s learned about my “VIP” spot at Edgar’s, she’s just trying too hard.
“You must have a house in the Hamptons too?”
“I do,” I nod. “You?”
“My father has a house so I spend a fair amount of time there with the family in the summers.”
Great, so she’s living off of daddy’s money. But aloud, I say, “That’s nice. Family is important.”
“Definitely,” she nods vigorously and smiles hugely into my face. Shit, she’s already dreaming of having my babies, isn’t she? Little billionaire babies. Oh boy. What did James get me into with this setup?
She clearly has some money herself. She’s working in the gallery scene, which can’t pay much, so I assume her family must still be helping her out for her to afford the Gucci she’s dressed in from head to toe. She’s very pretty, I’ll say that. Slim, blonde hair, blue eyes. Exactly my type. Very well put together. Still, I can see my 40th birthday on the horizon and I’m looking for more than pretty.
I allow Clarissa to continue with her aimless conversation, talking about the newest bars and restaurants opening in New York, the show at her gallery…the gorgeous summer we’re having. I’m bored and able to keep up my side of the discussion with little effort. I’ll just end this date at a drink and then bring her home. Tomorrow I’m driving to Boston. I can use that as an easy—and legitimate—excuse to end the night early.
Suddenly a burst of laughter interrupts my thoughts. In a room full of people who take themselves too seriously, this spark of hilarity stands out. Carefully keeping my eyes on Clarissa, I shift my body sli
ghtly so that I’m facing the room and can glance briefly over her shoulder as we talk. I try to pinpoint that sparkling female laughter I just heard.
There. At a high-top table right smack dab in the center of the bar. Four girls are sitting there. One has a huge diamond sparkling on her finger. They’re all drinking champagne. Tattinger. A nice choice. Someone among them is clearly aware that Moët is just overpriced French swill. All four girls are practically doubled over in laughter, clutching each other in mirth. They’re obviously very good friends.
They’re all pretty—to be fair, everybody in Edgar’s looks good—but one stands out. There’s nothing special about the way she’s dressed… Just a pencil skirt and a button-down blouse. An expensive pair of kitten heels. She must be a lawyer if she’s forcing herself into that kind of office garb in this summer heat. That or an investment banker.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a low chignon at the nape of her neck but pieces of it are coming loose and flying breezily around her face as she runs her hands through it, laughing. And that laugh. She really laughs, showing off a flash of pearly white teeth and then throwing her head back. It’s like a straight-up belly laugh, certainly not the timid giggles I’m used to hearing. I grin to myself and then turn back to Clarissa.
“I agree, the Hamptons is getting overcrowded lately,” I tell her, seamlessly picking up my side of the conversation again.
I buy her one more drink before telling her that I’ll have to get home early because I have a long drive tomorrow. Boston isn’t actually that much of a drive, just four hours, but I explain to her that I have some urgent business to take care of as soon as I get there,
“On a Saturday?” She arches an eyebrow at me, suggesting a hint of annoyance that I’m cutting the night short. It also seeps through in her tone.
“Money never sleeps,” I say apologetically, spreading my hands wide in defense. But it’s true.
“Of course,” she plasters a sweet smile back on her face, apparently realizing that if she’s going to be the wife of a billionaire—this is clearly the narrative she’s constructed in her head throughout our date—she’d better get used to him working on weekends.
After dropping her off at home, I have the chauffeur drop me off at my penthouse on the Upper West Side. I tell him I won’t need his services again before I leave town and to enjoy his weekend. Then I take the private elevator up to my apartment where I can finally, after a long day of work and meetings and Clarissa at the end of it all, be alone.
Upstairs, I slip out of my slacks, unbutton my shirt, and tear off my tie. I’ve never gotten used to wearing business clothes and they still feel constricting after all of these years. I cross the marble floors silently and head for the master bathroom, which is finished in white onyx. I pass the freestanding polished nickel bathtub, a William Holland model imported straight from London, and head to the rain shower to rinse the day off of me.
Clean, I slip a white towel around my waist, grab a sparkling water out of my practically empty fridge—I’m not home a lot and when I am, I usually eat out so the fridge is pretty bare—and head to the balcony upstairs. The 7,130 square-foot penthouse is a duplex and the upper balcony overlooks the entirety of Central Park to the north. The south-facing balcony on the other side provides a river-to-river view of the city skyline—a skyline that I’ve helped to build.
That’s part of the reason I had to have this penthouse. My engineering firm, Levine & Associates, put up this entire building, including the carefully crafted penthouse on the top floor. The idea was to unload it for a big ticket, probably to a wealthy foreign investor—Chinese, Russian, Saudi… Not a lot of Americans can afford this kind of place. But when the place was all finished, I have to say…I fell in love with it. Especially this view. So I bought it. Fifty-seven million down. And worth every penny.
I take a sip of the perfectly chilled water and breathe in the night air. It would be nice to have a woman by my side to take in this view though. It’s not like I’m not trying. I date. But the New York scene is just killing me. You’d think being a billionaire would be helpful but it’s more of a hindrance than anything.
Basically what happens is that I meet a girl who I like but then she realizes who I am—Jason Levine of Levine & Associates—and how much cash I happen to have, and then her eyes glaze over, like Clarissa’s did tonight. One girl I was dating in the past turned into a legitimate wannabe Stepford wife. It was like she was determined to secure a ring from me so she did everything that she thought I would want from a perfect wife. I could see right through the scheme and it was a hell of a turnoff. A man doesn’t want to be cherished for what’s in his wallet. Not a real man.
Well, tomorrow I’ll be off to Boston. It’s a bit easier there. People don’t recognize me like they do in Manhattan. I go out of my way to make sure of that. That’s part of the reason I’m ditching the chauffeur. I’ll just grab a car from the garage and drive myself. Which car should I take? I wonder briefly, mentally going through the Rolodex of vehicles I have parked in the building’s garage downstairs. The Ferrari? Lambo? Too flashy. Keep it simple and take the Porsche, a quality car without the glitz.
Every time I park the Ferrari on the street, I inevitably return to find some kid posing next to it for their Instagram pictures. I really don’t get that. If it isn’t theirs, why would they pose with it? Do they pretend like it is theirs? I definitely don’t understand all of that money-crazy social media culture. I guess I’m too old for it to be honest. And I certainly don’t have time for it because I’m too busy working. It’s a good thing I like my job.
I head back inside, straight to the master bedroom. I’m exhausted. I cross the plush white carpet and throw myself into the giant four-poster bed. The East-facing windows are floor-to-ceiling and in the morning, the first rays of the sun will wake me up if I don’t close the blinds. I reach for the remote control next to the bed and click the button to automatically lower them, watching as the sparkling city lights disappear.
I scroll through my phone, checking the agenda for tomorrow. Once I get into Boston, I’ll have to hit a few meetings to discuss the construction projects currently going on in the city. Levine & Associates has builds ongoing all across the country, including Boston. I guess those meetings will turn into business dinners. Since I’m the big boss, they’ll want to show me a good time…and it’s good for business to play the game and go along with it. Also, I need to know I can trust these people. At least Boston is more low-key than New York. The folks are more down-to-earth and less pretentious.
By Sunday I’ll be pretty much freed up time-wise. One of the construction sites should still be running on Sunday—we secured a rush permit that lets us build seven days a week. It’s for a new hotel in the city’s old town district and the city council is eager to get it up and running. More hotels mean more tourism, which means more money for the city. I make a note in my agenda—Sunday I can visit the construction site and take a look around. Maybe I can even get my hands dirty and meet some of the workers. Then I can go grab a beer or two in full anonymity…in some dive bar where nobody will recognize me or even know my name. I smile in anticipation.
Chapter Three
Cara
Thank God I decided not to fly out to Boston until Sunday. At first I was planning to head out on Saturday, but then when Grace got engaged and we made plans for a girls' night this past Friday...well…I thought it would be smart to leave a bit of leeway just in case I had a hangover. We don't see much of each other anymore so when we do—and especially if there's reason to celebrate—it’s going to turn into a bit of a party. Saturday left me with a bit of time to recover and pack my bags. Today I made the short jump from NYC to Boston, squeezing in a bit of work on the plane. I won’t have much time for work in the weeks to come while I help my sister prepare for her wedding day.
My flight felt slightly luxurious thanks to the business class upgrade my assistant, Amy, had booked for me—an uncharacteristic splur
ge. Usually I just fly economy—if I fly at all. But the trip from New York to Boston isn’t long, barely lasting over an hour, so I was determined to take advantage of every minute for work. That’s why I sprung for the upgrade. You can’t work in economy. It’s also part of the reason I blew off the guy who tried to chat me up on the plane. It’s not that he wasn’t cute. He was good looking, even by New York standards where it’s pretty much a rule that the men are hot and the women even hotter. With his dark, perfectly coiffed hair, blue eyes, and immaculately pressed suit, he looked perfectly put together. Even the light blue pocket square in his jacket pocket matched his eyes. Come to think of it, that’s the problem: He was a little bit too perfect. And that’s exactly what I’ve had enough of. New York guys can be just as vain as the girls. Before the plane landed, I even saw him take out a small comb and run it through his hair. I breathed a sigh of relief internally, happy to have dodged that bullet.
By the time I get off the plane, I can already tell the air is fresher here. Even though it’s a hot summer’s day in late July, the breezy air feels crisp. I’m out of the grit and smog and dirt of the Big Apple. Boston is waiting for me and it’s like stepping into a totally different world here. I grab a taxi and take in the town as I ride to my hotel. The suburban sprawl surrounding the airport soon gives way to the city’s telltale red brick buildings, a nod to its colonial past. Quaint townhouses line the streets. Not far off, tall office buildings and condos can be seen. The city is a weird mix of modern and historic, with cutting-edge developments shaping a skyline that looms over the old colonial architecture.
This mix of old and new is one of the things I miss most about Boston. Oh…that and the seafood. Located on the coast, the city has a bustling harbor that welcomes fishermen daily. Oyster, lobsters, swordfish—you can get it all in the many seafood restaurants dotting the harbor promenade, caught fresh that day. I literally start salivating at the thought of it. As soon as I’m settled at the hotel, I’m heading back out for some white wine and oysters.
