by R.S. Grey
At first, it made no sense. My father inherited gobs of money from my grandfather, more than one person could possibly spend in a lifetime, and yet poof, now it was gone.
“What about his shares in Diomedica?” I asked her, assuming there was still one last option for them.
“What shares?” my mom spat back with so much venom it almost scared me. “Everything your father had was sold almost a decade ago in his attempt to save his fucking print company. Millions, Elizabeth. He drained millions into a dying industry. Why? Because he believes in print media. He can’t stand the thought of people not reading newspapers anymore. Jesus Christ.
“And you know what else? It’s not just that either. He’s funneled money into dying businesses left and right. Absolutely ridiculous ventures.”
I wanted to point out that she’s at fault too, that she spends and spends and spends as if money grows on trees.
Judge Mathers’ phone dings on the stand, distracting her from the ceremony and me from my thoughts.
She checks the notification and scrunches her face. “Shoot. I’m running late.”
“It’s fine,” Walt says, waving to the man in the glasses. “Why don’t we just sign the marriage certificate. Mason?”
The man steps up to the judge’s stand with a crisp piece of paper in his hand.
“Thank you,” Walt says to Mason, who I now assume is his assistant.
Judge Mathers takes the certificate and signs her name swiftly at the bottom of it. “I feel bad for rushing through this, but I don’t think either one of you minds. You can do all that ‘kiss the bride’ stuff in private,” she says with a wink.
Walt clears his throat, and I turn a nice shade of pink as my eyes fall to the floor. If he’s watching me blush, I don’t want to know.
I think even by civil ceremony standards, ours is rather swift.
Judge Mathers walks with us out of the courtroom, hurrying us along so she can get back to work. No one else seems to mind, so I tell myself I don’t either.
She departs down the hall, and Mason tells Walt he’ll be waiting for him outside. Then he takes off ahead of us, opting to go down the stairwell rather than take the elevator. I wonder if Walt’s instructed him to do that or if he instinctively knew I’d appreciate a moment alone with my new husband.
There are a million things I want to ask him, but I settle on the question that’s at the top of my list.
“I’m just curious…why marry me? What’s in it for you?”
I probably should have asked him that before we entered the courtroom together, but I’d still like to know.
“It helps both of our families retain majority hold of Diomedica,” he replies as he walks back to the elevator with purpose. He seems to be incapable of slowing down, even when it’s obvious I’m having a hard time keeping up.
“Majority hold? You mean with shares?” Oof. Bad luck for him. Doesn’t he know we’re destitute? “I hope there’s more to it than that, because you’re wrong—my dad sold all his shares years ago. I won’t inherit them.”
As we reach the elevator, he sighs as if he’s annoyed to be getting me up to speed. When he speaks, it’s with sharp impatience. “Yes, he sold his personal shares. He had an inconsequential amount, which I don’t care much about. The majority of your family’s shares have been retained in a trust. Didn’t your parents explain this to you?”
My mom did mention a trust on our phone call, briefly. On top of everything else she said, I’m not surprised to realize it’s all become muddled in my mind.
“I was kept in the dark about all of this until last night,” I reply, trying to mimic his harsh tone so he knows this is no picnic for me either. “It was a lot of information to absorb. Especially for someone with absolutely no business acumen.”
His gaze falls on my dress for a moment and then his brows arch as if, for him, the proof is in the pudding. I know he’s making assumptions about who I am. I know he’s not the least bit surprised to hear I’m not business savvy. I cross my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes at him, just in time for him to sweep his gaze up to mine.
The elevator dings upon arrival, the doors sweep open, and we stand there for a moment, still staring at each other before Walt chuckles in disdain, shakes his head, and turns to lead the way. We step onto the elevator together, and I have half a mind to press the emergency stop button so we can keep talking. The descent is too quick, and I want answers.
We’re side by side, staring straight ahead. I get the impression he doesn’t really care for me, though I’m not sure why. I haven’t done anything to him.
“So how does it work?” I ask tentatively.
His eyes slice over to me. “How does what work?”
I try not to gulp. “The trust.”
“I don’t have time to explain to you what a trust fund is—”
“No. How does it work for our situation?”
God, is he always this infuriating?
“The long and short of it is, our grandfathers created a trust just after Diomedica went public. They saw what happened to traditional family dynasties of the era: the fathers toil and get rich, their sons become spoiled and sloppy, and their legions of grandchildren squabble and squander what few pennies survive the sinkhole of generational wealth. They wanted to do something different by sealing off the bulk of our families’ wealth and earning potential from the immediate generation below, hoping our fathers would establish themselves as enduring torches instead of short-lived infernos. And well…they were smart to do it.”
“Why?”
“No offense, but your father is an idiot when it comes to money, and mine is an alcoholic with a proclivity for gambling, so here we are—the future of our households.”
The elevator jolts to a stop. Already we’re on the ground floor of the courthouse and already Walt is taking off again, walking like he has a million places to be.
“As the eldest grandson, I’m the trustee put in charge of overseeing the trust’s assets. That job just became much more difficult as of five minutes ago.”
“Because of our marriage,” I assume.
“Yes. Our marriage was the trigger for releasing the assets to all of the beneficiaries. Well…any marriage between a Jennings and a Brighton would have sufficed. I could have married any one of your sisters and you could have married my brother, but well…here we are, wed.”
How ridiculously outdated.
“That makes no sense though. What would have happened to all that money if none of us had married?”
He sighs again and checks his watch. There’s another shake of his head. “Your parents did you a disservice by keeping this information from you.”
I couldn’t agree more.
“In a week, if we’d failed to marry, Diomedica would have become an institutional trustee and the company would have then overseen the administration of the trust. In other words, the rules would have changed.”
“And our families would have lost all that money,” I reply, connecting the dots.
“Exactly. The shares would have been reabsorbed by Diomedica. Our grandfathers might have wanted to help set us up, but ultimately, their true loyalty was always to the company.”
“Right.”
He offers a curt nod before turning back toward the main set of doors.
I hurry to catch up to him.
“You never answered my question though. What’s in it for you? On a personal level, I mean.”
He smiles, but it’s not the least bit sincere. “There is no personal level, Elizabeth. This is all business. I happen to believe in the future of Diomedica too. I’m the CEO, and I’d like to remain in power to carry on our grandfathers’ legacies.”
Nothing personal. Right. There’s that pang of disappointment again. I know where it stems from: the utterly ridiculous part of my psyche shaped by my childhood. My Achilles heel. I suspect, deep down, it’s the true reason I’m here today.
He pushes the door open, and outside, the
wind is a slap across my face, a wake-up call I appreciate.
Less than half an hour has passed since I was last out here, and yet now, I’m a newlywed. A laugh bursts out of me like champagne fizz. This is insane. Truly.
“So what now?” I ask in disbelief.
“Tell your parents they’ll receive a wire transfer by the end of the day. They should be able to pay off the bulk of their debts as we discussed.”
Jesus. Does he have to be so frank about all of this? It’s like the weirdness of marrying a stranger doesn’t even register with him.
He heads straight toward a black Escalade parked near the curb. Mason is standing beside the door. When he spots Walt, he quickly opens it for him and moves back to allow him to step inside. Before Walt does, he looks back at me.
“My assistant will be in contact with you soon.”
I want to demand details, but it occurs to me that I’ve been the one chasing after him for answers all morning and I’m tired of acting like a lost puppy. I’d rather be left in the dark than continue to look like a fool in front of him.
I nod. “Sounds good. Have a nice…” I falter on the unit of time to end the parting sentiment with. Day? Week? Month?
Walt recognizes my confusion and tips his head in response, answering for me with “Have a nice life” before stepping into the Escalade and shutting the door hard behind him.
I don’t realize I’m scowling until his SUV turns the corner and leaves me standing alone on the sidewalk.
Three
I walk back to my hotel from the courthouse expecting people to look at me weird for what I’ve just done. In my head, they all know. I bet that man in the bowler hat walking his dog is just being kind by averting his eyes. That woman in the bright red parka is dying to tell me what an idiot I am for going through with this marriage. But not a single pedestrian stops me on my walk. No fireworks explode in the sky. There’s not even wedding cake waiting for me back at my hotel room. Everything is normal, and somehow that’s worse.
I should call down to reception and ask if they can swap me over to a honeymoon suite just for the hell of it, but I don’t think this budget-friendly Radisson with its peeling maroon wallpaper caters to the newlywed crowd.
I plop down on the bed in a heap of useless muscles and bones. I stare up at the ceiling for .2 seconds before giving in to the urge to check my bank account balance on my phone. I already did it once this morning before leaving for the courthouse, but I do it again, just to confirm nothing has changed. I’m relieved to see there’s still enough money in there to keep me afloat for a month or two if I play my cards right. It’s a point of pride for me considering how much my mom loves to threaten to cut off my funds. She thinks that would be the end of the world, but little does she know that for the last few years, I’ve hoarded cash like the U.S. Treasury was going to stop printing it. My emergency fund isn’t much, which makes sense considering I’ve been finishing my degree at Rhode Island School of Design, but it’s probably more money than my parents currently have. I smile at the thought and then immediately feel bad for it.
I wish I could stop wavering back and forth, swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. I envy the truly evil sociopaths of the world. The sort of coldhearted animals that would leave their family destitute without batting an eye. The villains in the movies that walk away from an explosion without looking back.
I’m too weak, too susceptible to the plight of human suffering. How boring.
After closing out of my banking app, I call my older sister to check in. We aren’t exactly pen pals, but we talk every now and then. After the revelations of last night, I’m dying to know what she’s up to.
Charlotte answers after an endless drone of rings, and she sounds out of breath. “Lizzie?!”
Ah yes, the nickname she’s used my entire life even though it grates on my nerves.
“Hey, Charlotte. Do you have a second to talk, or are you busy?”
I cringe at how I sound, as if I never want to put her out for even a second even though I’m the one who’s just stepped up to the plate for our family. I’m the one with a new last name.
“Oh, I think I have a few minutes. I just finished up a ski run and I’m waiting for the others to catch up to me before we go for breakfast.”
“Are you in Aspen?”
“God no. Vail. Aspen can be so…pedestrian this time of year. Every celebrity worth two cents shows up with a snowboard and expects to fit in.”
I offer what I hope is an empathetic groan as she continues to enlighten me about the differences between the two mountain towns.
“Not to mention it’s so easy to fly private here versus Aspen. The airport there gets so backed up with these Instagrammers posing on the tarmac in front of their rented planes. It’s sad, truly.”
I think she’ll continue on forever if I don’t cut her off, so I do, quickly and in a high-pitched nervous voice.
“And what about your driver? Jack, right? Is he there with you as well?”
“Who?”
“Jack,” I say again, louder this time. “Your driver. Aren’t you two…”
I give her the chance to fill in the rest for me, but she doesn’t reply right away, and in fact, I think the call has dropped altogether. I shift the phone away from my ear, look down at it, then press it back in place just in time to catch her raucous laughter that cuts straight through me.
“Oh god, is that the story I gave Mom? That I ran away with my driver or something? Hilarious. No, Jesus, Lizzie, surely you didn’t buy that. Don’t you know me at all?”
I feel like the floor of the hotel room is falling out from underneath me. My vision narrows as my heart beats a rhythm so fast it’s like a hummingbird is about to take flight out of my chest.
“Charlotte, what do you mean?”
My words are careful and measured, but she doesn’t catch on.
She’s still laughing, so amused she can barely contain herself.
“Mom has been on my case for years about my supposed betrothal to Walt Jennings. Did you know about that? Good grief. There was no way I was going to go through with it. I mean, I have eyes so I can see that he’s good-looking and he comes from a good family and all, but he’s such a bore. All he does is work. Take now, for instance—everyone who’s anyone is here in Vail—no offense—and where is he? Probably in some stuffy boardroom. No thank you. That is not what I want for my life. There are plenty of cute wealthy men who know how to let loose.”
“So you didn’t run away with your driver because you were madly in love?” I ask one more time, just to clarify.
“No, Lizzie. Absolutely not.”
I let the phone drop from my hand, and it thumps softly against the bed.
I can faintly hear her calling my name, mildly annoyed, and then the call cuts off and there’s silence in that hotel room like I’ve never heard before. I feel absolutely hollow.
I’m not sure how to process this news, the last piece of straw liable to break the camel’s back. Up until this moment, I was proud of myself for what I did. My family was between a rock and a hard place, and I was their last hope. I thought I was playing the hero, but in fact, I was playing the fool. My sister would have never done what I did today. She would never have sacrificed herself. Maybe that makes her selfish, or maybe it just makes her smart. Either way, I feel sick.
I roll off the bed and go into the hotel’s small bathroom to splash water on my face. I glance up at myself in the mirror, taking in the dark circles under my eyes. I didn’t sleep much last night, and it shows in my appearance. I brush back my dark brown hair and then, still annoyed with it, I twist it around my hand and loop it up into a ballerina bun. Better, but only marginally. From my green eyes to my achingly high cheekbones, I look just like my mom, a person I can’t stand to think about right now.
I turn away from the mirror and spot my suitcases on the floor. The one with my art supplies is what I’m after. I tear into it, yanking on the zipper
until I can flip it open and spill the contents out around me.
I pilfer through the mess, gathering what supplies I need so I can set up shop on the table in the corner. All the while, I try to convince myself that what I did today isn’t that big of a deal. My day-to-day life will not change. My hopes and dreams for myself don’t have to disappear. Sure, legally I’m married, but who cares?
I open my box of pastels, blowing off some of the residual dust and surveying the short stubs, trying to determine how much more use I can get out of them before I need to purchase a new set. I like to order them straight from a boutique company called La Maison du Pastel in Paris, and it’s incredibly expensive to ship them over to the States. I could find cheaper pastels at any art supply store in New York City, but I prefer working with natural handmade pastels from a company that’s been around since the 1700s. Every great impressionist from Degas to Renoir used pastels from La Maison du Pastel, so I do too.
I reach for the newspaper I picked up on my way home from the courthouse and then dump it out onto the bed. I toss aside sections that bore me until I land on business and smile, knowing the story about booming stock markets will be the perfect backdrop to the ethereal dancers I plan to overlay on top of it. My pastels are extremely pigmented, so I’m careful as I press them down onto the newspaper. I don’t want the drawing completely opaque. I want to see the newsprint through the color so the two worlds collide. My hands move fast. Over the years, I’ve trained them well. One hand draws with the pastels, and the other turns the paper, smudges the pigments, brushes away the dust.
I draw on sheets of newspaper for the rest of the morning and through the early part of the afternoon until I have to leave for an appointment with my realtor. I hired Lisa to help me find an apartment in the city. It was always my plan to finish up my combined degree at RISD a semester early and then move to New York City to begin my career, and I arrived here a week ago after selling off most of my possessions in Rhode Island. It wasn’t much. Most of my furniture was secondhand and worn down, not worth the cost to ship it all across state lines.
