“We’re renting a house in Tahoe,” Mom announces while passing the bread to Abby.
“You don’t have to do that,” Abby hands me the basket and gives me a please help me glance.
Sorry, Abbs, this time I support this idea.
“Mom, Abby can’t eat wheat products,” I remind her.
“Sorry, dear,” she apologizes, handing her the bowl of salad instead.
Last year, after coming back from Costa Rica she was sick for almost a month. She could barely eat solid food. The doctor diagnosed her with gluten intolerance. Mom tries her best to pay attention to Abby’s new diet, but sometimes she forgets about it.
“You could use that money on something else,” Abby suggests.
“We spend summers together—always,” Mom insists.
It’s only been four summers, but I’m not going to argue with her. She’s set on keeping this as a tradition. Of course, Sterling isn’t part of it. Not if my father keeps criticizing his career. My little brother isn’t doing that bad for himself. He lived in France for a couple of years while doing an internship and just moved to London to work for a gallery. Dad thinks he’s just wasting his time and money traveling.
“I’ll be working,” Abby prompts.
“Yes, at a very nice lodge,” Dad who researched the place as soon as Abby announced her summer plans continues, “but if you want, you can work for me, dear.”
“Maybe next time?” she looks down at her food while she pushes it around her plate.
Abby isn’t ready to head back to Denver. Last December she came back to Colorado—to Aspen—for a couple of weeks. Every night, she woke me up in the middle of the night screaming for help. She told me that it was the first time in years that she’d had a nightmare. She made me swear I wouldn’t push her to come back home for the summer.
For a change of scenery, last February I invited her to Tahoe. It’s close enough to Berkeley and Denver. Since then, we’ve been meeting there at least twice a month. We spent weekends skiing until mid-April when the season ended. Later, we’d go hiking or kayaking on the lake. During one of our visits, she saw that they were looking for seasonal employees for the summer. Abby found a new excuse to stay away from Denver.
“Next year you’ll come back and work for me,” Dad decrees.
Abby’s eyes open wide; I’m almost sure that she’s not breathing.
“Dad, Abbs will come to work for us when she’s ready,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.
But if she doesn’t, I have a plan. By next year, I’m going to quit working for him, and I’m opening my own company here, in California. Abby will work for me, and she won’t have to go back to Denver.
“Darling,” Dad says, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. “You’ll come to work for me whenever you’re ready. In the meantime, here’s your birthday present.”
Abby frowns, then looks at me. She adores my parents but would rather not receive all the expensive presents they like to gift her.
“This … you can’t,” Abby gasps as she reads the letter inside the envelope. “You’re too generous with me.”
“We love you like our own,” Dad says.
“Like the daughter, we never had,” Mom reiterates.
“Yes, but … these are too many zeros, and I don’t deserve your generosity.”
“We know that you’ll use this money wisely.”
Mom and Dad decided to open a trust fund. Unlike Sterling’s and mine, she can do pretty much whatever she wants with it. There’s no age requirement to withdraw the money, nor a limit of how much she can use during the year. According to Dad, Abby has a good head. He trusts her judgment and common sense.
“You shouldn’t have, but thank you so much for this gift. I promise to make good use of it,” she says, folding the paper and putting it back into the envelope. “I love you both, not because you shower me with gifts, but because you care so much for me. Because you love me too.”
Abby’s eyes fill with tears. I rise from my seat and take her into my arms. “Don’t cry, sweet girl,” I whisper hugging her tight against me. Abby sniffs, I clear the tears rolling down her cheeks with my thumb.
“I’m not sure where I’d be if it weren’t for your generosity and love.”
“Everything we give you is with love,” Mom insists, crying just like Abby.
I pull out the small velvet bag I’ve been carrying around. Carefully, I untie the knot and take out the rose quartz bracelet I bought for her in Boulder. It’s supposed to reduce anxiety and stress. The moment I saw it, I thought of her. She loves pink and she’s always counting objects to soothe herself.
“Happy birthday, Abby girl.
“It’s perfect, just like you.” She looks at the bracelet and then at me. Her warms eyes radiate happiness and love.
“I love it, Wes. Thank you.”
Those words hit me right in the middle of the chest. I want her to change the pronoun and say “you.” I love you, Wes. If I could, I’d kiss her senseless.
Instead, I take a step backward confused with myself, my thoughts.
What’s happening to me?
— — —
“I love your parents,” Abby says, opening the refrigerator, bending slightly to peer inside.
My heart thumps fast as my eyes land on her ass. That skimpy skirt she wears rides up showing me part of her butt-cheek. Fuck, those long, tanned legs make my dick twitch.
Down boy. She’s a friend. My best friend, who happens to be fucking beautiful.
“Wait, I adore them,” she squeals straightening, a big smile on her face and a bottle of white Zinfandel.
She throws a mischievous smile. “Would you like to share?”
“I’m pretty sure Mom brought that for herself—not for the underage kid,” I tease her.
Abby’s tiny and could barely pass as an eighteen-year-old. She’s almost a foot shorter than me, her long brown hair is usually set into loose braids. She holds a certain innocence that many have lost at her age. Yet, I know about the darkness she harbors inside her soul.
Her brows furrow. “I’m twenty-one, thank you very much,” she says snidely.
She looks at the wine bottle, then at me. Her brow rises. “Well then, what are you drinking, old man?”
She taps her chin with her index finger pretending to think. “I have some warm milk, Grandpa.”
“Brat,” I say shaking my head and taking the bottle from her to uncork it. “We’ll have to drive to the liquor store to restock Mom’s wine.”
“It was really nice of them to rent a house for the summer,” she suddenly changes the subject.
She scrunches her nose, scanning the kitchen.
“But?” I invite her to share her thoughts.
“You know there are plenty of buts.” She shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip.
Abby doesn’t like when my parents spend money on her. She’s been part of our family for four years and hasn’t grasped the idea that my parents see her as their own. If they could, they’d adopt her.
“This is too much,” she waves her hand in the general area.
“You gave them no choice,” I say, opening the wine. “You decided to take a job in Tahoe for the summer.”
I pour the wine and give her a stern look. “To avoid going back home.”
“It’s not an excuse, Ahern. I need to learn how to be independent.” She grabs her glass taking a few sips.
“When I saw the bulletin with this job, I had to apply.” Abby walks around the kitchen grabbing a couple of bowls. She fills one with strawberries and the other with the gummy bears I brought her. She loves all candy, but those are her favorite.
“Kids Activities Coordinator at a lodge,” her voice carries a lot of excitement. “It sounded like so much fun.”
You could be independent at home. I study her closely.
“Why in the world would they rent a house because of me?”
“That’s the way they are,” I say sweeping away the conversation.
The truth is that renting a house out in Tahoe was my idea. A seed that I planted during dinner a weekend after Abby announced that she had found a summer job.
“Where is she staying?” I asked Mom, even when I knew the answer.
“The lodge?” She frowned, looking at Dad.
“What if we decided to visit her and there aren’t any vacancies?” I instigated.
“He’s right, Will. We have to find her a place where we can visit whenever we want,” she decreed.
Mom warned Abby on her birthday. Later that week she found a house, came to set it up, and mailed Sterling and Abbs a set of keys.
“This is a little too much, don’t you think?” she sighs walking toward the door to the backyard, carrying the snacks.
The Ahern wealth makes Abby uncomfortable. I wasn’t born with it, but I was too young when I arrived at my parents’ doorstep to remember living without. After twenty-one years, I’m used to it. It became natural to live with luxuries that not many get to enjoy, like living in a big house with a swimming pool and an ice rink. Abby on the other hand describes everything as too much—and unnecessary.
“I love it, but it’s too much. We could feed a small town with the money they spent on my car,” she confided when my parents gave her the keys to her Land Rover.
Thankfully, she accepts their generosity with a wide smile. She might be uncomfortable when they gift her something, but she’s always grateful and polite.
I grab the bottle of Zinfandel, my glass of wine, and follow right behind her.
“At least admit that you love the house.” I say, sitting in the lounge chair, next to her.
She turns slightly toward me and smiles. “What’s not to love? I have the best view in the world.”
I’d have paid for this house with my own money just to see that face. It’s been four years since she came to us distraught and broken. I’ll never forget the first months at my house. She barely spoke, and she cried every night.
“Keep your parties to a minimum,” I warn her with a grin.
“Ahern, if I choose to have a party, you’ll never know,” she says openly. “How often are you planning to come by?”
“Every weekend,” I inform her of my plans.
If possible, I’d try to stay around for weeks at a time. I can work remotely and be with her. Every day is getting harder and harder to be away from her. I’ve been working on a few prototypes and developing some billing software. If everything works out the way I plan, I’ll be quitting Ahern Inc. soon and opening my own company—closer to her.
6
Wes
Abby Age Twenty-Two
In the blink of an eye, I turned twenty-eight. Ten years ago, I promised myself that even though I was following my father’s advice, I’d be my own person. Two years ago, I wrote a business plan. A couple of months ago I was in San Jose searching for an office where I could start my own company. Today, I’m sitting in on a meeting where my father talks about his decision to take Ahern Inc. public.
He plans on keeping 51% of the company, giving Sterling and me 25%, and hiring a board that will hold five percent. The rest will be sold to the public through the New York Stock Exchange. This is his new dream and the next step in solidifying his career as a businessman.
“I want you to be the CFO,” he says with pride.
“Dad,” I clear my throat. “Are you sure about this?”
My heart beats slowly as I continue reading the documents he handed me when I walked into his office. He said he was going to retire, that he wanted to travel around the world with Mom. This isn’t a retirement plan. I was about to suggest to him that we should sell the company. Cash out while we’re on top of the game. Sterling and I don’t need the money, we’re set.
In a few months, I’m moving to the Bay area. He’s going to need me, and I just can’t keep going.
“Son, this is my dream.”
He said that only six months ago when we bought a small telecommunications company down in Dallas. He absorbed all the technology, offered positions to a few of the employees and a severance package to the rest. I wasn’t happy with his strategy, but he said it made sense. We’ve never done something as drastic as that. His business practices are beginning to shift to a place where I don’t want to continue. And now he wants to go public.
Does he understand what it means?
“Of course,” he continues. “I’ve never been so sure about something in my entire life.”
I exhale, looking at the numbers and reading the list of potential board members. Some of them are unknown to me, and the rest are old neighbors who’ve already retired.
See Dad, this is what you should be doing, retiring.
“What does Mom think about it?”
“Well, I haven’t talked to her yet,” he says. “I need to discuss this with Sterling too. If he would stop playing with clay and start taking life seriously. This company will be yours.”
“What does that mean?”
“While he goes to college and starts to understand our world, I’ll continue as the CEO. Once he’s ready, you take over the company, and he’ll be the CFO.”
I frown as I process what he just said.
“Dad, Sterling lives in Italy,” I remind him. “His career is taking off. He isn’t coming back.”
He chuckles. “That’s nonsense.” He waves his hand, disregarding what I just said. “Next week I’m assembling the board. You can’t say anything to your mother. At least, not until I’ve spoken with Sterling.”
“What if I decide not to continue with the company?”
“Weston.” He slams his hand on the desk. “Your life is this company. I’ve been working my entire life to leave this to you. Ahern Inc. is your legacy, and you will continue with it. Understood?”
A knot the size of an orange is stuck in my throat. The air around me is so thick, I can’t breathe. This isn’t the place where I want to be, nor the future I want for myself. But how do I tell him that? This man has given me everything from the moment I arrived at his house. There’s no way I can turn my back on him.
“Sir,” his secretary knocks a couple of times before opening. “You have a call on line three. Mr. Davalos says it’s urgent.”
“I bet it’s about that company I want to buy down in Argentina,” Dad says with satisfaction.
He’s about to close another deal. Leave a few thousand more workers without employment while he increases his net worth.
“I have a plane to catch, Dad,” I check my watch.
The jet is scheduled to leave in about an hour.
“Where are you going?”
“Away for the weekend. We’ll discuss this when I’m back.” I tap the papers but don’t take them with me.
As soon as I’m in the car, I call Sterling giving him the news.
“You have to quit,” he says.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Repeat after me: ‘Dad, I quit,’” he enunciates the last three words. “See how easy it is?”
I grasp the wheel tightly, changing gears and lanes. Sterling does whatever he wants with his life, without thinking about others. Just like our father. If I don’t take on more responsibilities, Dad’s never going to retire. What’s going to happen with Mom? She wants to enjoy their life, their marriage. Every night when I visit them, she’s showing him new pictures of the places she wants to travel to with him.
“Mom is coming over in a couple of weeks,” my brother announces. “I might tell her to leave his ass. I bet he’ll sell that hellhole once she stops taking shit from him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Do you think Abby is going to take that kind of shit from you?”
“Abby and I aren’t together?”
“Where are you going?” His annoying voice booms inside the car.
“It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Little Abby and I were just on the phone, talking about Mom’s trip. She’s in T
ahoe,” he pauses, and I swear, I know the asshole is smirking. “She’s waiting for you—because it’s her birthday weekend.”
“We’re not together. I’m just visiting her because I couldn’t last Monday.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” His tone is serious. “You didn’t go to visit her on her birthday—because of work. That’s not a way to treat your girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” I groan.
I don’t explain to him why I skipped her birthday. I wanted to celebrate that day just with her. When Mom announced that they were visiting her I changed my plans. I don’t tell him any of that—it’ll solidify his theory. I’m not ready to discuss my relationship with Abby with him.
“Not yet,” he corrects. “You’re in love with her, and one day you’ll make a move. The question is, what kind of relationship are you planning on having? The one where you can’t live without her or the one where you live for Dad and his fucking money?”
I hit the wheel. The traffic isn’t moving. The Denver Tech Center is a fucking nightmare at noon, even worse than downtown. A fifteen-minute drive is taking an eternity. Longer than this call.
“Live your life; believe in your future. I know you think I’m a selfish bastard for doing what I love, but I’m not,” he pauses. “You only have this life. It’s not a rehearsal, it’s happening as we speak. Mom always tells you that. You should listen to her, not to the man who doesn’t know how to live—or love.”
I know that he’s right about living my own fucking life. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to be like Dad. Or have a relationship like the one my parents have. Mom says she’s happy, but my heart breaks every time her face falls because Dad puts work before her. I hate to admit it, but my little brother is right. If I continue on this path, no one is going to be happy—not even our father. At this point, I have no fucking idea how to please him. Nothing I do is enough, he always needs just a little more.
“What are you going to tell Dad when he calls?” I retake the conversation. This is why I called him, not to talk about my life.
Love in the Dark Page 130
