De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  “Why?”

  “Because I knew I wanted her from the minute I saw her, and she was carrying a lot of stress. I wanted it gone, just as much as I wanted mine gone.”

  She relaxes further.

  I skip the good parts.

  “Then she was on the beach—”

  “And I was on the phone with her.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know her as Angela. I called her Bridge, and I didn’t know you.”

  After I get through the PG version of us, she asks me if I was in love with Ines. I tell her no. She asks me about all the models and women on my social media account. I tell her the truth.

  “If you wanna be with my mom, clean out your IG. She deserves better. If you want me to accept it, treat her like a princess.”

  “I’ll clean out the account. The others is already done.”

  “If you came here to win me over, you wasted your time. If she’s happy, truly happy, I’m happy for her.”

  “I promise I will do everything in my power.”

  “Okay then.” She stands.

  “Wait. What about the designs?”

  She laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As a heart attack.”

  Before leaving, I tell her she will get the same contract Mona was given and that she will be needed on weekends in Paris when she isn’t busy with school. “I expect you to really give a shit about this.”

  She smiles. “While I’m considering, you have to do me a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  She gives me a list of movies to watch and wants to know which kiss I think is the best. When I look at her funny, she informs me that it’s a way to her mom’s heart. I don’t tell her I have found lots of other ways. Instead, I tell her, “Okay. And while I’m doing you a favor, you have to promise not to say anything to your mom until Friday night when you get to Paris. I’ll be there.”

  “How will I get there?”

  “You ever fly on a private jet?”

  “No.” She tries to suppress a grin.

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  I pick up her phone and punch in my contact information.

  “I’ll try to clear my schedule.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Natasha?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Bass

  Sitting next to Maisie’s bed, watching her sleep, I wait for the doctor to arrive while watching the third movie Natasha insisted I watch. The Notebook.

  I screenshot the still and send it to her phone with a message.

  My favorite so far. The others are too predictable.

  I watch as the bubbles bounce around.

  I get a picture of a drawing and I like the others better.

  I reply

  It’s good but stop trying to sell me on your work. The others are fresher, younger, yet would still appeal to women of all ages.

  I get an eye roll emoji and a photo

  Then a message

  I drew them because I hated the clothes designed for women my mom’s age. They deserve 2 feel pretty 2.

  I reply

  Couldn’t agree with you more. I say we stick to what we have. How about you draw some for girls your age? Attempt some that say classy, not trashy.

  She replies

  They wouldn’t sell.

  With a laughing emoji.

  I reply

  Which is part of the reason younger men are more attracted to older women.

  Bubbles appear

  Gross. Subject change. What movies have you watched?

  I reply

  Dear John. Definitely Maybe.

  She replies

  Classics.

  Laughing, I type out

  Wuthering Heights is a classic. Sense and Sensibility is a classic. Jane Eyre is a classic.

  She replies

  You ARE old.

  I respond

  So old I read the books.

  I get a message a few moments later.

  How’s your mom?

  And I like the kid even more.

  It’s Wednesday, and I feel like shit. Pacing back and forth, I feel my phone ring in my pocket. It’s my Bridge.

  “Hey, beauty.”

  “How is she?”

  “She’s a fighter,” I say as I slip out the door and close it behind me. “And now that I’m out of the room, I can tell you that is code for she’s irritable and nasty. She wants out of here so badly that, anytime she’s awake, she tries to stand up and nearly falls.”

  “Let me come help.”

  “I love you for wanting to, but you have a new designer to work with.”

  “I know I’ve said this a hundred times, but these look so familiar.”

  I hold back a laugh. “Yeah?”

  “Yes, and they’re brilliant, Bass. But who’s the diva who won’t divulge their name?”

  “I have someone working on it,” I lie.

  “Well, hurry up, would ya? I can’t believe Jean passed on these.”

  “I can picture you in every one of those designs.”

  She laughs. “Is that so?”

  “It is. But let’s talk about something else.”

  “Is it getting hard being at the hospital?”

  “Jesus, Bridge.”

  “Speaking of Bridge, I had a visitor today.”

  “Who?” I ask, trying to will my dick down.

  “Ines.”

  Dick is definitely down.

  “What the hell did she want?”

  “First answer the question.”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember the damn question, but stay the hell away from her.”

  “Bridge, why do you call me that?”

  “Did she threaten you? Did she—”

  “She told me she tried to phone you, but you didn’t answer. She came over to ask you how you wanted her to deal with the reporters contacting her, trying to find out who the woman at the Eiffel Tower was with her old boyfriend. Have you heard of the column Cinq A Sept? Apparently, it’s a rumor mill that—”

  “Yeah, Ang, I know what it is. It’s shit. She won’t bother you again. I’ll call the bitch.”

  “No, you most certainly will not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said no. I don’t want her within three feet of you.”

  She’s jealous. I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love it because she’s obviously feeling territorial. And I hate it because I don’t want that bitch around her.

  “Ang—”

  “So, now you’re dropping Bridge and going for Ang? Tell me why.”

  “Because it’s obviously something that irritates you. Now—”

  “We’re fifteen years apart, not twenty-five like Emmanuel Macron and Brigitte Trogneux.”

  I chuckle.

  “It’s not funny. And to hear about your little crush from her … not cool, Bass. Not cool at all.”

  “Sorry, Angela, but if we were twenty-five years apart, you’d still be in love with me.”

  “Pft.”

  “Deny it.”

  She doesn’t say anything.

  “Now that we’ve cleared that up, I will be calling her—”

  “That’s a hard no for me. She’s vile. She seduced a seventeen-year-old boy. She comes near me, or you, or anyone I love, I will throw a flame and watch her melt.”

  “I’m hard.”

  She laughs.

  “It’s not funny. It’s uncomfortable as fuck. FaceTime me. Be naked.”

  “Not in a million years. You can’t think it would be anywhere as good—”

  “Fuuuuck,” I groan.

  She giggles.

  “Dammit, woman.”

  “I love you, but I need to go to bed. Naked and alone.”

  “It better be alone.”

  “I’m not sure how long I can hold out, Bass. I have a new addiction and—”

  “I’m
going to fuck the hell out of you as soon as I see you.”

  “Mr. Josephs?”

  I look up when I hear my name.

  “Doc’s here, Bridge. I’ll call in the morning.”

  “Can’t wait, Channing.”

  “Oh, hell no,” I correct that real quick.

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

  “I love you, Ang. Talk soon.”

  “Love you, too, Bass.”

  I look up, and the doctor nods.

  “Follow me.”

  I follow him down the hall into an office where he walks around the desk and turns the computer screen to face me. He points to the x-rays.

  “It’s growing faster than we thought it would.”

  I sit down and type a message to Oliver.

  Get here. We have decisions to make.

  Maisie has been our earthly angel. A woman of grace and class amongst old money and ignorance. She’s black; her husband was white. Not that it should matter, but when Joshua passed fifteen years ago and left her everything, she had to fight his family to keep what she and he had amassed together. They never had children of their own. Like us, she was raised in the system. She had no known blood relatives. His family was the only family she had.

  Two years ago, Maisie had her first “spell,” as she calls it. She was told then that she has a brain tumor. She never told us. And her family never came to her side. One of the men who worked for the resort contacted me. Everything changed that day.

  Three months ago, she was hospitalized, and we made sure we were on her healthcare proxy. Since then, we have known everything, yet she doesn’t know that we do. We hid the paperwork in a pile with other forms. It was necessary. We keep it a secret because we fear it would kill her if she knew. Now, we simply play along.

  After the doctor talks with Oliver and me, we decide to bring her home. She knows about Angela and told me I was to get back to her. I told her not unless she came as well. She agreed, but only after I agreed to come back with her to the Hamptons for “her kids” next summer.

  Sitting in the plane, I look over at Maisie, Natasha, and Oliver.

  “What’s up?” Oliver asks.

  “Just thinking that I would thank Jean for this plane if he was standing here.”

  He laughs. “Why the change of heart?”

  “Everything has changed, man, everything.”

  When Maisie and Natasha begin talking, Oliver and I head to the back where I tell him what everything entails.

  “I haven’t decided how to deal with it, but I owe that man much more respect than I ever …” I pause. “Ang said it wasn’t my fault, that Jean allowed it. I agree, but still, it’s hard to take.”

  “She’s right. Smart woman.” He laughs. “Rich, too.”

  “She deserves it.”

  “She that good?”

  “Watch it, Oliver.”

  He holds his hands up. “It’s watched.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bass

  I convince Natasha to take Maisie for a spin around the block before coming in.

  She looks me over and shrugs. “Fine. But it’s Shark Week.”

  “It’s what?” I ask, and then it hits me. “TMI.”

  “The more you know …” She shrugs as she squats down and begins talking to Maisie.

  I laugh to myself at how snarky she is. I like her. Don’t really understand her fully, but I like her.

  “What’s going on?” Oliver asks.

  “You wanna stay with them while I go let Angela know we’re here?”

  “You better make it quick. I’m not a damn babysitter.” He looks toward Maisie and Natasha.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fucking fine, man, Jesus, go.” Oliver turns and shoves his hands in his pockets.

  I watch him kick at the ground as he follows them from a distance, making a mental note to spend some time with him.

  He loves Maisie, too. It doesn’t matter how much time you have to accept the inevitable; it still wrecks you.

  After punching in the code, I walk in. The place still takes my breath away, but the breathing is much easier without the dark cloud of hate and disdain looming throughout me.

  I hear an old familiar song, Bad English’s “Price of Love” coming from the back wing. His office, the place my mother came to rest.

  Standing in the doorway, I watch her. She’s wearing a light gray, cotton, off-the-shoulder, long-sleeved dress that hits her knees. Her brown hair is in a low ponytail, and she has on black ballet flats. Her neck is exposed, and I have to force myself not to rush over to her and lick it all the way up to her lips. She’s classically beautiful, her body in perfect proportion. Her large blue eyes are windows to her beautiful soul, and her full lips are soft and welcoming.

  She is stunning.

  I watch as she walks around the room, singing along to the music as she straightens pillows, pictures, and all those little touches that make this feel like it could be home.

  A home, I think as my chest tightens.

  On one side is a room dividing screen that I’m sure Angela thought would give Maisie more privacy. I love that about her, too.

  Jean’s desk that was taking up the center of the room is now at the other end, catty-corner and facing the wall of windows that looks over the river. In the center of the room is a large, overstuffed, U-shaped sofa. There are four over-sized leather recliners throughout the room as well and a huge flat screen TV. It dawns on me that there wasn’t one in the entire home until now. It now resembles a family room, and I imagine us watching movies on the ever-growing list Natasha sends me in texts.

  When Angela turns around and sees me, she jumps and holds her hand over her chest.

  “Hi.” She laughs at herself as she hurries over to me, but then stops abruptly, leaning to her side to see who is with me. “Are they here?”

  “Taking a walk.” I curl my finger toward her. “Get over here, beauty.”

  She wraps her arms around me as I’m about to lean in for a kiss, but then she lays her head on my chest, and I realize that feels just as damn good.

  We hold each other for a moment before I lean down. “Lips.”

  She looks up, and I see tears.

  “What could possibly be wrong?”

  She smiles through her tears and wipes them away. “It’s silly.”

  When she attempts to look away, I lift her chin. “Why are you crying?”

  “I just want others to accept how much we love each other, Bass. I don’t think they’ll understand how fast this happened, how tumultuous this has been, and all that we have been through, and still … it’s so real.”

  I put my hands on her cheeks, hoping to slow her mind.

  She shakes her head slightly and sighs. “I thought they didn’t come.”

  “Everyone important is here, Angela. And everyone is accepting. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be. I don’t think there has even been a man so in love with a woman.”

  She smiles and places her hands on both sides of my face. “I’ve missed you more than reason.”

  I lean in for a kiss, but she leans back.

  “Not everyone knows yet, Bass. We have to be realistic.”

  “Fuck realism.” I grip the back of her head and kiss her the way a woman should be kissed. I kiss her better than any of those movie kisses. I kiss her because she fucking needs it as much as I do. And when we need a breath, I press my forehead against hers and whisper, “Anyone who means a damn thing is here.”

  “Natasha isn’t—”

  “Why do you think those designs look so familiar?” I interrupt her. “Why do you think I’ve kept the designer’s name confidential?”

  “What?” She steps back as if I struck her.

  “The night you were fucked up on wine and I carried you from the bathroom, I looked around while Autumn was helping you. I picked up a notebook off the pile in the box.”

  “You can’t do that, Bass. They’re
hers. She’s—”

  “Hey, Mom.” Natasha laughs from behind us.

  Angela doesn’t move, just looks at me, stunned.

  I wink and smile really slowly.

  She glares at me.

  “Mom?” Natasha laughs. “Maisie’s dying to see you.”

  Angela gives me a look as if to say, she didn’t mean it. Then her eyes soften as she whispers so only I can hear her, “If that weren’t true, you’d be in so much trouble for this.” Then she palms her face. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Smiling, I lean in and whisper, “It’s okay. I just want you to know that, when I walked in here and saw you and all you had done”—I place my hand on my heart—“every place I have ever stepped foot in, I felt like a visitor. My place in the Hamptons was the first place I thought I could call home, but you, you showed me it could be better. You did amazing. And Ang, it feels like home.”

  I walk beside her, place my hand on her back, and guide her toward them. “Look at our family, Angela. Ours.”

  Natasha is smiling, and Oliver is watching her smile. I wonder if he thinks she’s going to flip out.

  He was shocked as hell when I told him about the watch, asking if she had behavioral issues. I explained she had loyalty issues, and he smiled.

  Angela takes in a deep breath as we get to them. She holds out one arm, and Natasha runs in and hugs her. While Angela hugs her daughter, she reaches out her other hand to Maisie, who takes it.

  My heart is full.

  After a tour of the downstairs and the grounds, Pierre has dinner ready. Even he looks like he could cry out of sheer joy that he’s used his kitchen. But when I suggested we use paper plates for less clean up and eat outside on the patio, he looked wounded.

  Sitting around the dining room table, Natasha and Angela are going over every detail of our “meeting.” She leaves out the part about stomping on my watch, and I make no mention of it either.

  Angela no longer seems upset about it. I think she actually looks relieved. Meanwhile, Maisie is laughing at what Natasha put me through and telling them about me as a kid.

  We feast on French onion soup, mustard and white wine braised chicken, squash gratin, and when none of us think we could eat another bite, Pierre brings out pear tarte tatin.

  When he leaves, I look around and meet Angela’s eyes. “I am going to explode.”