Excitement pumped through me. Finally, some relief from worrying about money.
“Have a delightful day,” he said. “And let’s hope your casting finds the hottest young models in Miami for our party.”
The way he said “hottest” singed my excitement. And the look in his eyes spiked my internal distrust meter even farther into the red zone.
FOUR
A vague sense of wrong burned in my gut as I walked into my partner’s office. A yellow beam of sun was shooting down from the skylight, glowing brightly on the sleek glass-and-chrome furniture. And shining like a spotlight on Alexandria Wells. If I were straight, she’d be the kind of woman who’d make it hard to concentrate on anything but her beauty. That’s exactly what I’d thought when I’d met her four years ago in New York on a modeling job. Now she was thirty-six and as stunning as ever, as if she’d ripened into womanhood and just knew it.
She was standing beside her desk, looking like a pillar of glamour. I loved the femme fatale visual. But it didn’t make me think about sex. It made me think, Badass bitch businesswoman.
The sharp points of her black stiletto pumps let me know she could kick ass even in the toughest business situations. The sleekness of her trademark black pencil skirt, which hugged her slim but curvy hips and behind and tapered into a small waist, let me know she was in control of her diet and exercise. In the office that translated into the discipline to get deals done, no matter how much work or time they took. The crisp white blouse, starched so tough that her collar stood up around a glimpse of cleavage, was the perfect mix of professional and stylish. And the half-carat diamond solitaires sparkling in her ears looked classy and expensive, but not flashy.
Her hair, tinted dark auburn, was blown out and slightly curled back in sassy little tendrils that might look like a swirly helmet on anyone else. But on Alex, it worked.
Her face, however, was looking pretty stressed right now. It was usually a smooth chocolate brown oval, with a little mushroom of a nose and full lips that looked like a figure eight set sideways and glossed in bronze. Anger radiated from her dark gray eyes, which she’d inherited from her white mother and accentuated with black liner and mascara.
Now, her neck jerked just enough to show her sista was about to come out on whoever was on the phone. The air of anger around her only intensified my worry about whether Sterling was trying to lure me and our models into something sleazy.
“You can’t do this to us at the last minute!” Alex’s deep voice boomed up to the slanted white ceiling. If I hadn’t seen the ceiling fan, I would’ve thought her tone had made the wispy plants sway. “We’ll sue the lenses off your damn cameras!”
I stood in the doorway, listening for clues about who was trying to jack her day. As if our firm needed more problems.
Alex ran the film and television side of our agency and the women’s division, while I ran the men’s print and runway division.
Why Alex hadn’t applied this toughness to claw her way to the top of the modeling industry—to become a supermodel—I don’t know. We’d clicked right away. Her female companionship so soon after my breakup with Kim had been comforting. We’d check out those gorgeous Roman god statues at the Met, take in a Broadway show, and blow our diets together on pasta in Little Italy.
But one thing Alex loved was the fast lane. A little too fast for me. So I let her take her walk on the wild side with her model girlfriends, while I focused on my work.
Then once she’d gotten her fill, she left the runway for the classroom, heading down to NYU to earn an MBA.
That makes her a bad sista unto itself. How many beautiful women do you know who can strut their stuff on the catwalk, and then go get a Master’s in Business Administration from one of the best schools in the world?
I was so impressed, she was the first person who came to mind when I decided to open the modeling agency here in Miami. It was only natural for us to team up in business once we both retreated from the concrete coldness of New York for the pastel sunshine of South Beach.
But beachside bliss was hardly what we were feeling right now.
Especially when she slammed down the phone.
“I can’t believe these assholes!” Alex crossed her arms and perched on the edge of the desk.
“Who’s trying to play bad guy?” I asked, stepping into the office. The soft vanilla-musk scent of Hanae Mori perfume radiated from her.
“They can’t just cancel a movie that’s supposed to start shooting tomorrow,” she snapped. “I booked ten people for this bastard. He can’t just call and cancel!”
She reached for the phone. “He needs to honor this commitment. I am not going to call our people and say they don’t have work tomorrow.” She started dialing.
“Alex, what’s his reason for canceling?”
She shook her head. “He said something about losing their financing at the last minute. But it didn’t sound like they had looked elsewhere. Damn, this economy sucks!”
“Maybe they’ll get new financing and the job will be rescheduled. Think of it as just postponed for now.”
She almost smiled as she looked at me. Her tone softened as she said, “You’re so optimistic. Bentley, I was counting on this job to get us out of this hole.”
“Let’s find out more before we go making demands,” I said.
“Can we sue them?” Alex asked, her hand poised over the number pad.
“We can’t afford an attorney. We owe our lawyers, too.”
Alex gripped the phone and held it in midair. “Ugh! Something has got to give!”
“Other jobs will come our way,” I said with far more confidence than I felt. Sterling’s proposition sat on the tip of my tongue. But my inner voice said, Wait. Alex was so squeaky-clean when it came to business, I was afraid she’d hop up on her high horse and tell me I was crazy to even consider anything that looked the least bit questionable. Even if she was strapped for cash.
“You look like you know something I don’t know,” she said. “Like Congress is about to send us the Bentley bailout.”
I smiled, thinking that my new client might actually be about to do that. “I wish.”
Alex slammed down the phone. “This day has got to get better. Tell me you were coming in here with some good news.”
“Mine can wait,” I said. “I think you need to decompress. Go for a run or something.”
All that wrong in my gut burned even hotter as I left her office. As I walked down the hall, I hated that my father came to mind. I’d left the stability and luxury of his world up in Detroit. A world of financial security and prestige that was my birthright, except for the fact that the real me just couldn’t conform to their expectations.
So I’d set off on my own, doing what I love.
And now it felt like my business was a house of cards that could come tumbling down any day.
FIVE
I woke up this morning just before five, hating that my entire being ached to hear my father’s voice. I pressed my head deeper into a fluffy pillow and pulled the soft beige sheets up to my chin. The white ceiling of my bedroom reflected the blankness, the emptiness, which made me feel hollow right now. Hollow, except for all the question marks slicing through me.
Was Mr. Sneed trying to bamboozle me and my models?
Would I look away and play naïve so we can all get paid?
Would that mean I was selling out?
Should I call Father? Should I reach out for help from my sister or Mother? And would I ever see Warren again? Would I ever feel the comfort of being in his arms or enjoy that happy vibe that lovers create together, even when they’re sitting quietly on the couch?
I stared at the sleek gray phone on my nightstand. The blue numbers cast an eerie glow over the dark room. The price of the sleek black furniture I’d bought for this master suite—after leaving everything behind in Detroit and New York—could have paid the bills at the agency for a few months. I had to stop thinking like that. What was done, was
done. I wasn’t going to sell my furniture.
I reached for the phone. Father always followed Benjamin Franklin’s advice about “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” Right now he’d be down in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, and the Detroit Free Press.
While he was far more Internet savvy than most of his colleagues who relied on secretaries, Father was old school when it came to the newspapers. He had to read them in his kitchen every morning. Though he had stainless steel appliances and every modern convenience, he said a successful man stuck to certain habits to anchor his day.
I needed to anchor my heart and soul by speaking with my dad. But a wave of resentment washed through me, along with a cold splash of fear. What if he heard my voice and hung up?
I bolted out of bed. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the gym. South Beach had several gyms. This morning I chose the one where I could run on the treadmill and pound away all this anxiety. This was the serious gym, where I could have a workout without guys ogling me or hitting on me by asking things like, “How often do you work out?” or “How’d you get those rock-hard abs?”
My runner’s high soothed me a little bit, but the ache to hear Father’s voice still made me feel sad. After showering and dressing at the gym, I walked down Washington Avenue to my favorite bagel shop. I had a cup of coffee and a bagel with smoked salmon. I resisted the cream cheese, hating the restrictiveness of my low-fat diet that kept my body sculpted and strong, but loving the results. It felt like everything in my life was restricted now. No romance. No new business except for a questionable proposition. No money. No Father.
The caffeine rush from my coffee gave me a sudden surge of courage. I snatched up my phone. As I dialed his cell, my fingers trembled and I wondered what I would say. I thought about these options:
“I’m sorry, Father, that I disappointed you, but I’m still your son and I need you.” Would that sound weak?
What about, “All right, old man! You’re only getting older. One day you’ll need me to run your businesses or make sure you don’t marry some young chick who’ll take advantage of your old ass.” I could never speak to Father like that.
Or, “I love you and miss you.” What man didn’t want to hear such precious words from his only son?
I didn’t use my speed dial, but punched the numbers in one at a time to make sure that I remembered my father’s number. It was now just after seven. Father would be up and in his office, handling his business. After three rings, I thought maybe I was wrong. But before ring number four, I heard his voice.
“This is B. L. Dean, Jr.” The deep bass of his voice boomed through my phone. Into my ear. My heart raced.
I froze. The words “Hello, Father” and “Daddy” were like little ice cubes on my tongue, which refused to warm up and spit them out.
He changed his name!
Shock paralyzed me. The people in the bagel place around me blurred into grayish streaks; I stared at the potted palm tree just outside the window.
He was using his initials instead of his name! I remembered when I would call him from prep school and from college; he always answered the phone, “This is Bentley L. Dean, Jr.”
Does he hate me that much?
Had I—the third in the line of Bentley Deans—embarrassed him so that he had forsaken our name?
SIX
As Alex and I walked into one of Miami’s lunchtime hot spots overlooking the ocean, I felt calmer than I had in days. The bright blue expanse of the ocean, the palm trees, and all the beautiful people packing the outdoor tables jolted me with the excitement that I used to feel. Not that we could really afford this world-famous restaurant. One of Alex’s clients had given her a two-hundred-dollar gift card last year, for a job well done, and she was just now taking time to use it with me.
“I need your opinion about something personal,” she’d said when I’d arrived at the office this morning looking more somber than I’d intended. Little did she know, she was providing the perfect opportunity for me to talk with her about the party assignment. Why I was acting like it was a choice seemed a little ridiculous when I really thought about it. We needed the money. Period.
“How’s this?” the maître d’ asked, seating us in a prime people-watching spot overlooking the outdoor terrace.
“Picture-perfect,” Alex said. “Bentley, this is a good place to scout. All the waiters are gorgeous.”
The delicious scent of garlic, tomatoes, and basil wafted around us as a hunky blond passed with a plate of bruschetta. The supermodel types at a nearby table stared him down, giggling and pretending to eat their salads. The fast-paced New Age music almost cheered me up.
As did all the people wearing buttons in support of my presidential candidate. That filled me with optimism that he could take office and make the economy boom once again.
“If I scout, I need some jobs to lure them in,” I said. “Speaking of—”
The waiter, who looked like a living, breathing Ken doll, took our orders. Despite all the fresh seafood on the menu, I couldn’t stop myself from ordering a cheeseburger, for nostalgia’s sake. That’s what Father and I used to always enjoy during football games or outings to collect rent from his income properties around Detroit. Back then, it was White Castle, a secret indulgence that health-conscious Mother still didn’t know about. But this upscale place, full of men dressed like Mr. Sneed and wealthy matrons and the young, hip crowd, was hardly White Castle. Still, I needed the comfort of a big, juicy cheeseburger and fries.
“Anything to drink?” he asked after Alex ordered her favorite, red snapper.
“I want a margarita like nobody’s business,” I said, “but it’s lunchtime. I’ll be good and take lemonade, please.”
“Make that two,” Alex said. “But make mine half iced tea, please.”
When the waiter left, she said, “Bentley, these people are like, ‘What recession?’ All those luxury cars in valet, they don’t look like they’re missin’ a beat.” She pointed to a thirty-something woman in a designer dress. “Her designer bag alone could ease our worries for a whole month. I want to go table to table and ask if these people need any models.”
The waiter brought the lemonades.
“You might not have to,” I said. “Yesterday I got an offer to supply fifteen models for a party. And they want to pay. A lot.”
Alex smiled and toasted me with her lemonade glass.
“Cheers to you, Bentley L. Dean. Workin’ it!” She tilted her head. “Why didn’t you tell me this during my meltdown yesterday?”
“I had to think about it,” I said. “My mother always says, ‘All that glitters isn’t gold.’ ”
“Uh-oh,” Alex said, almost slamming the glass on the pink linen tablecloth. “What’s the catch? Wait, you don’t even have to tell me.”
She crossed her arms over her crisp beige blouse. “He’s looking for call bois.”
I shook my head. “Of course that was my first thought. But he didn’t say anything blatant to imply that.”
“Everybody has a price, even if a job seems totally legit,” Alex said.
“Well, I don’t have a price for that,” I said more confidently than I felt. “I’ve checked him out and made it very clear that we are a modeling agency and casting agency. Nothing more. I promise you, Alex, I wouldn’t do anything to damage our relationship and the reputation we’ve managed to build.”
She nodded. “I know that, Bentley. I trust your judgment.”
The waiter brought our salads of mixed greens with gorgonzola crumbles.
“The sleaze factor is out there, big-time,” Alex said. “I can’t tell you how many calls I get a week. People ask for female models but they really want call girls. I’ll be getting all excited about a potential booking, until the alleged client says something stupid like, ‘We only want girls with big knockers and small waists like strippers.’ ”
I stabbed my fork into
the salad and took a crunchy bite. That gorgonzola was so delicious. The flavor reminded me of the steak house Warren and I used to frequent in New York; for some reason everything there tasted extra flavorful. Or maybe everything tasted extra flavorful because I was madly in love with the man across the candlelit table that he hoped looked like a business dinner to everyone around us. The way he was looking at me like I was the big, juicy steak, Warren Stubbs wasn’t fooling anybody except himself.
Back to the present, I focused on being glad I had skipped the cream cheese this morning.
“When I tell these sleazy moods that we don’t employ strippers,” Alex said, “they come back at me like, ‘I know, but we want classy girls who can pass as strippers.’ But, Bentley, in this case, you’re right. The money we’d make on the job would be good for the firm. We could finally go after Hollywood in a big way.”
“We sure could,” I exclaimed, even happier as the waiter approached with my mile-high burger. “It seems like it’ll be a onetime thing.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of the food.
“I’m gonna eat the butter and the sour cream on my potato!” Alex said like a giddy child ordering ice cream. “I worked my ass off at the gym this morning—”
“No, you didn’t,” I teased.
She playfully swatted me, and then took my hand across the table. We bowed as she said, “Dear God, we have faith that you are always working in our best interest. Please bless us with new opportunities, both personally and professionally, that help us live our best lives.”
“Amen to that!” I declared, raising my cheeseburger to my mouth.
Alex took a few bites. We ate silently for a few minutes, loving the luxurious taste of this delicious food and our fancy surroundings.
“We took this for granted in New York,” she said. “I think we ate out almost every night. Spending money like water. Now I have to pinch pennies just like I count calories. And I’m not even gettin’ any.”
In My Father’s House Page 4
