I force my gaze away from my phone screen and try hard to refocus on the task at hand. But, shit…these women look like younger versions of my late wife, Tish. The same late wife who’d been celebrating our upcoming divorce proceedings when she made a wrong turn on a winding mountain road. And I had only married Tish because she was the complete opposite of…
I clamp down on my memories before I can finish the thought. Ten years have passed. By now, I should be past wanting to compare women to her. She doesn’t matter, and hasn’t mattered for a very long time.
“You know what? I trust your judgement,” I tell Della. “Go ahead and narrow down the candidates and then work with Allie to get them on my calendar.”
“Got it!” Della says with a huge smile that signals she already has a list in mind—and no doubt it’s better than any I would have come up with.
I’m not exaggerating when I say I trust Della completely. When I was named acting CEO of a then flagging Cal-Mart, she came up with my current “JFK CEO” branding. She also helped me craft a message and set up interviews and stories about my dedication to serving honest, hardworking Americans, right along with making sure I was in the right media spot at the right time. Because of Della, I was named “Sexiest CEO Alive” by a popular magazine at the exact same time I rolled out a well-received worker’s benefit program. Because of Della, America was easily distracted from the series of articles the New York Herald wrote up about how, under his father’s leadership, Holt Calson cut worker pay and hours until many of Cal-Mart’s employees were forced to apply for food stamps to get by. As of now, I enjoy a higher approval rating than JFK himself.
So yeah, if Della is as good a matchmaker as she is a brand consultant, I know her latest strategy will work. Dating the a young, talented, and attractive heiress a respectful two years after my first wife’s death will definitely send my Q score into a stratosphere the board wouldn’t be able to contend with—even if many of our shareholders, including my father, don’t love my plans to start taking on full-time employees and increase worker compensation.
“I won’t let you down,” Della promises as she gathers up her things.
“I know you won’t,” I answer, flashing her a perfunctory smile as I grab my phone to text Zahir back.
But before I’ve typed two words, Allie rushes in with her phone in both hands. “Holt, there’s something you need to see.”
“I’ll get out of your way,” Della says, starting toward the door.
But Allie stops her with a, “No, you should probably stay…” Then she bends down to my eye level and presses play on what turns out to be a recently posted YouTube video.
“DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!??!!” a familiar voice screams.
He is so loud that both Allie and Della wince. However, I keep my expression impassive as I watch my eight-year-old son kick over a table filled with art supplies, ignoring the gasps and cries of the other children as he shouts, “I will kill you! My father will buy all of you and kill your parents!”
The rant continues with a sobbing Wes throwing paint bottles and other craft supplies at anyone who tries to approach him, including a kind-faced man in a manager’s button-down shirt who attempts to talk to Wes in his faintly accented English. He gets a bottle of red paint straight to the chest for his efforts. After a tick of shocked disbelief, the man calls out in Spanish, “Alguien llame a Vee! ¡Ahora mismo!!”
Then noticing the camera for the first time, he says, “No, no, Señor. You must put that away…”
The picture tilts and then the screen goes dark as YouTube offers a repeat showing of “Richie Rich Cal-Mart Heir Loses His Sh*t.”
So, yeah…I can see why Allie told Della to stay.
With only three months to go until the Cal-Mart board decides whether or not to make my position permanent, my son’s epic meltdown ending up on YouTube a mere eight weeks after he was kicked out of his latest private school is not good.
I am definitely going to need some solid damage control after this.
Chapter Eleven
SYLVIE
That morning instead of my alarm, I’m awoken by the happy trilling of birds. Sun shines through my bedroom’s gauzy employee-issue curtains. It’s not often that the sun is up to greet me. It’s usually dark out when I leave my bungalow for my job as the director of the three different Kinder Clubs at our vacation village.
At first, I panic. Did I sleep through the alarm? What time is it? Where should I be?
But no, that’s not it. I spot the readout on my Samsung. It’s Sunday, my one day off every week. And unlike when I worked off-property in Jamaica, there aren’t any relatives at my front door wondering if I will be going to church with them. Taking the place of my mother who left me in Jamaica after Lydia’s funeral… and never came back.
But despite having worked at the Tourmaline Ixtapa for over a year now, I still haven’t become used to being my own woman on Sunday mornings. I wonder if I ever will…
Why am I sitting here thinking about my mother and the life I left behind in Jamaica? It’s my day off! I sit up and press play on my Jill Scott Spotify playlist—the perfect music for a chill Sunday morning. Unfortunately, the very first song that comes up is “Jahraymecofasola,” the one that never fails to remind me of that summer ten years ago in New Haven…
Nope. Not today, demons. My boyfriend, Arturo, and I are going off-property for brunch after he puts Wes and his V.I.P father back on a private plane. I hit the skip button until I find the perfect tune. And before you know it…
…I am in the bungalow’s small bathroom, showering and humming along to a happy Jill Scott song about taking my freedom and living my life like it’s golden. Then I sway to the rhythm of another upbeat tune while I take my hair out of crown braids in front of my bedroom’s vanity mirror.
When my hair is completely down, I pause and consider the sparse amount of hair products on my dresser. This includes the very last of the Shea Moisture I brought from Jamaica. I bought it in bulk, but my supply is almost down to nothing after a year in Ixtapa. Meanwhile, my hair has continued to grow to where my unbraided curls now reach past my bra strap. The local coconut oil works fine, but there is no way I will be able to wear my hair down anymore if I don’t get my hands on a good leave-in conditioner and hair crème. But since today is my date day with Arturo, I decide to break out the Curl and Style Milk and Curl Enhancing Smoothie and spread it liberally into my hair.
After getting dressed, I leave Jill playing in my room and dance out to the living room, so truly excited to be off today.
I truly love my job, I do. But this week has tested me more than any S.A.T. I missed my full day off last week thanks to Wes Hader’s giant meltdown during art time at our center for 7-12 year olds. I ended up spending all day with him, and then much of the following week thanks to Wes forming an unexpectedly strong vacation friendship with my usually other-child-unfriendly son, Barron. As a result, it has been two whole weeks since my last full off day.
Barron sullenly informed me last night that he plans to spend the morning with the hotel’s local iguana population since, “I will no longer have a friend.” Of course, I am sad for Barron, but his absence means I can start my season two binge of Insecure. I bet I can get at least three episodes in before brunch with Arturo—
I stop cold and the Jill Scott song I’m humming dies mid-note.
Barron is at the little table in our front room where we take our meals. This isn’t the first time I have found him up before me, working on some advanced project or other at the table with a look of such concentration on his face, it isn’t a mystery why some of our relatives wonder if he isn’t the reincarnated spirit of my super smart sister, Lydia.
However, this morning there is no project taking up valuable table space. Instead, a very familiar tow-haired boy sits across from Barron. It’s Wes Hader, the American boy Barron has been hanging out with all week. The very same boy who should be in the lobby with his nanny, Melissa, and his Ame
rican father after receiving a VIP tour from Arturo. And though I look around the room for the plain clothes bodyguard who was hired to accompany Wes everywhere he goes on resort property, I don’t see him.
“Don’t be mad, Mama,” Barron says at the same time Wes says, “Wassup, Vee.” Casual, as if I should have been expecting him at my table this Sunday morning.
“Good morning, Wes,” I answer, looking between him and my son. “May I ask why you are here?”
“I got into the Connecticut Institute of Technology, Mama!” Barron says as if he is answering my question about Wes’s presence at our table.
“What is this you say?” I ask, turning my eyes back to Barron.
“He got into CIT,” Wes repeats as if I did not hear my son inform me he’s been accepted into one of the world’s most prestigious research universities.
“I heard what he said,” I assure Wes. “But I do not understand how this happened.”
“I have my GED. That’s all you need to apply to a college,” Barron points out as if I’m the slow one for not reaching the same conclusion.
“Yes, but…” I blink at the effort of using more of my brain than I am used to before my daily cup of Folgers Tostado Clásico. “You are only ten! How is this possible?”
“I applied online and sent the head of the Computational Biology department the specs and patent for my bioHelmet,” Barron answers. “I didn’t think I would hear from him so soon. But he wrote back faster than you would believe and said he’d push my application through for this fall. Yeah, mon!”
Barron stands to high five Wes who, despite being a full two years younger than my son, seems to grasp what is going on much better than I do.
“Hold on…you have a patent for that helmet of yours?” I ask, struggling to keep up.
“Yes! I told you about it three months ago, Mama,” Barron answers, throwing me a hurt look.
Okay, it’s true. I have a bad habit of tuning Barron out when he gets to talking about his bioHelmet project over breakfast, the only time we have for shared conversation since I am usually with the Kinder Club kids for lunches and dinners. But when you consider his helmet project is the only thing he ever talks about aside from video games, maybe you will understand why I am not 100% focused 100% of the time. The truth is, I barely understand the basic design concepts of the wearable helmet other than he hopes it will be able to receive thought commands and allow kids to play videogames against one another using only the device.
But I can tell from the look on his face that he definitely must have told me all about his plans to take out a patent on his invention. More than once.
“Sorry, yes of course,” I say, then quickly go to my next question. “But how did you get the money to apply to CIT?”
“Me,” Wes says with one of his American boy shrugs. “I paid for it with the credit card my dad gave me.”
“Yeah, mon, applying to CIT was Wes’s idea,” Barron explains.
“We were trying to think of ways to get Barron and you back to Connecticut,” Wes explains in a tone I might call helpful if this entire conversation didn’t feel like a huge case of overstep.
“I told him how Grandma and Aunt Judith still live there, and how you used to live there, too,” Barron adds.
Then Wes jumps in with, “And I was, like, ‘then you should move back to Connecticut!’ So Ender applied to CIT and now you can come back with us!”
“That’s right! That’s what’s up, mon!” Barron says, and this time the boys exchange fist bumps.
For a moment, I can only stare. Barron must not have told Wes he has never exchanged a single word with his “grandma” in Connecticut because she distanced herself from him after his birth. And I am also overwhelmed by how much effort Barron’s new friend has put into lobbying for him. Now, I love Barron to the end of the universe and back again. The moment he was born, I gave up my dreams of going to college and instead, dedicated my life to him, no questions asked. This despite the difficult circumstances surrounding his birth. But the truth is, Barron is not an easy kid to befriend. He is too quirky and too smart for most kids his age to easily connect with.
Which is why this whole friendship thing with Wes so strange. My son has never had a friend who wanted to spend more than an hour or two with him, much less one who would conspire with him to move back to the States.
As for Wes, it is hard to believe the determined young man standing here in front of me is the very same boy I sacrificed my last day off to help defuse. As director of the Tourmaline’s Kinder Club Program, I have seen my fair share of fast friendships between the kids we supervise while their parents—or, in Wes’s case, his poor nanny— get some much-needed R and R. But I have never seen a friendship take this quickly or firmly.
I am torn between disbelief and respect for all the plotting they must have done behind my back. However…
“We can’t just fly back to Connecticut with you,” I say to Wes.
“Why not?” Wes asks, his voice taking on a snide tone as if I am an idiot for not going along with his plan. “Ender got into CIT! And he says he already talked to you about college.”
Barron knows better than to speak to me in such a tone, but he turns pitiful eyes to me as if to punctuate his friend’s point.
“Yes, but…Wes, my friend. I do not have enough money saved up to send Barron to such a place,” I explain. “On top of paying back the fees you charged to your father’s card on Barron’s behalf.”
“You don’t have to pay him back,” Wes insists.
“They are giving me a full scholarship,” Barron points out.
“Wow, that is impressive!” I say because it is, and I’m so, so proud of him. But, “A full scholarship does not cover everything you will need for school—especially if I am also going to take classes as we discussed. There are textbooks to be purchased, and other necessities as well. I will have to save up more money before we can make this dream of ours happen.”
Barron shakes his head at me, his expression a gut-wrenching mixture of heartbreak and disappointment. “So, I will never go to college?”
“No! That is not what I am saying at all. I will do my best to save up for your college dream—for our college dream—by this time next year. And if Arturo gets that transfer to the Tourmaline Florida that he asked for, we can look for a good university for you to attend there.”
“Arturo?” Wes asks Barron. “Isn’t that the guy who’s always asking me, like, a million times if I need anything else or if I’m having a good time? What does he have to do with this?”
“He’s the hotel manager and her boyfriend,” Barron explains, not bothering to hide the eye roll in his voice even if it doesn’t show up on his face. His father might not be in the picture, but Barron has made it more than clear he has no desire to replace him with another man.
“Oh …you can get a new boyfriend in Connecticut,” Wes informs me. As if getting a new boyfriend is as easy as going to the store to pick up milk.
“And it’s C.I.T., Mama! C.I.T!” Barron points out. “They have TWO clean rooms at their tech facility and animals other than iguanas to experiment on. I will be able to develop my bioHelmet there. And after that, we’ll be rich and will never have to worry about money again!”
“Barron, come on now…” I say, squatting down to talk to him. “You know money is not a thing we should be worrying about. We have everything we need right here.” I will admit there is some pain in my voice as I try to convince him of this. After Lydia’s death, I worked hard to provide for him and be the best mother I could. The thought that I might be failing him in the same way I failed my sister sits uneasily on my heart.
And as for what his young American friend is arguing… “Wes,” I say, turning a stern gaze upon him. “Boyfriends are not as replaceable as toilet paper.”
“Yeah, they are,” he answers with the certainty only an eight-year-old can achieve. “My dad gets a new girlfriend, like, every other month.”
�
��Okay, well, I am not here to argue with you about this grown folk business,” I answer, trying not to laugh at Wes’s all-knowing tone. “My point is, we cannot just hop a plane to Connecticut. Barron must stay with me, and right now, my job is here.”
“But it doesn’t have to be,” Wes says. “We live, like, fifteen minutes from C.I.T. You could live with us. I’ll make Dad fire Melissa and hire you instead!”
“Hold on, child. You are trying to fire your nanny now?” I ask, shaking my head at the boy.
“You’re the one who calmed me down last week, not her,” Wes points out. “I haven’t had a meltdown all week because you don’t make me mad when you tell me what to do. You’re a way better nanny than Melissa will ever be.”
“Wes has that right, Mama,” Barron agrees with a solemn nod. “I mean, you’ve been doing the nanny’s job all week, isn’t that right? Wes and his father will be lucky to have you.”
“Plus, you can have as much money as you want. My dad will pay for Barron to go to C.I.T., too. I’m serious! He’ll do anything I ask if I promise to behave at public school until he can find another private school willing to take me. All he cares about is me not embarrassing him anymore.”
And that is how I know I have definitely not turned into my mother, because I can only imagine how she would respond to two boys trying to manipulate the affairs of grown-ups.
But that doesn’t mean I am not feeling the sharp pricks of impatience. Which is why my ability to continue speaking in a calm, civil tone feels like a small miracle as I respond, “Okay, Wes. I can see you would like very much to see Barron again. I will make sure he Skypes with you after he talks with his Aunt Judith next week. But you will not be talking to me anymore about blackmailing your father. Because you are a child and you are not in charge of me or of your father, do you understand?”
Wes rolls his eyes.
“Wes, I am not here for you to be rolling your eyes at. I asked you if you understand?” My voice has taken on a hard, no-nonsense tone I was not even aware I possessed until the first time Barron tried to talk back to me when he was a toddler.
Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 10
