“I have written about your father.”
“Nothing to the same caliber as the article on Jeremiah,” she retorted, uncrossing her legs and crossing them again as if she couldn’t get comfortable. I rather enjoyed her discomfort; I certainly wasn’t comfortable with her there.
“Well, I grew up with Jeremiah. I know him. I have more material to work with.” It was also easier to paint him in a positive light, considering he wasn’t an asshole, but I kept that part to myself. I could be professional when I had to be.
Lauren sighed and waved her hand as if to dismiss me. “Please, you don’t even try to talk to my father. It’s clear you’re biased, which is incredibly unprofessional as a journalist, as you know. You’re letting your personal relationship with Jeremiah cloud your judgement, and you’re not living up to your duties as impartial press. You owe the people a fair and balanced view.”
As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. I tried not to let my personal relationships get in the way of the job, but even if Jeremiah had been a complete stranger, I think I’d have preferred him. The competitor was truly awful, which was the real reason I hadn’t tried to talk to him more. Every time I did, I left with my blood boiling and a desire to punch something. It made it nearly impossible to write an unbiased piece on the man.
But I owed the people fair and balanced reporting.
“Alright, what do you propose?” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I may have even succeeded.
“An interview with my father at his home with his family so you can see what type of man he is outside of the office.”
“Fine.”
Lauren raised her perfectly arched eyebrows in surprise. “Really? You’re going along with it that easily?”
I held up my hands in defeat. “You’re right. I should present both sides equally. I’ll meet with your father in his home and see him as you and your brother do.”
A look crossed her face that I couldn’t read, not clearly. She scrunched up her nose in disgust, but only for a moment. Sometimes it felt like she hated her father as much as the rest of us, but if you didn’t know how to read people, you’d have missed the tics.
Maybe I’d get to see how Lauren really felt about her father. Or maybe I’d see another act. I felt like that’s all they were - an act. They pretended to be a perfect family unit for the press, but something didn’t sit right for me. I was actually looking forward to this opportunity, not just for journalistic integrity, but to see if my gut was right about Lauren really despising her dad, even though she put on a front to the press.
She was, after all, delegated to PR while her brother was being groomed for a career in politics, working as Daddy’s campaign manager. I always wondered how Lauren felt about that, but we weren’t close enough for me to ask.
But maybe I’d get to see for myself.
Ooo000ooo
George and Elizabeth Holt had at least two homes in the Liberty area. One was a smaller house, near downtown, that I swear was just for show. It always looked empty to me, and I believe they only owned it to appear to be living within city limits.
I met them at their other home, the one just outside of Liberty, where there was more land to build their massive estate.
I’d never been to the Holt home before, never had a need. They’d lived in Liberty on-and-off for most of my life, but I didn’t recall them ever really being around that much. And I couldn’t fathom why when I pulled into their circle driveway.
Their home was the size of some small towns. It almost looked like they’d picked up a Southern plantation home and dropped it in the middle of Utah. The home towered over the landscape, nearly blocking the gorgeous mountains from view from the front. There was a wrap-around porch around the house, which was three stories, at least. Likely with some underground garages for Daddy’s car collection. He was a known collector of classic cars, much like some people collect knickknacks. He was often seen driving through town in a new car; he had a different one for each day of the month, it seemed. All of them expensive - Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Bentley.
I always wondered why someone with his kind of money would return to Liberty. His family had lived elsewhere for years, until about two or three years ago when they started work on their mansion outside of town. Maybe they had decided to retire here, come back home. I didn’t know. I didn’t really care either. I just wished they’d stayed gone. People like them weren’t good for Liberty, I feared.
Especially since George Holt had an agenda for our small town. One that didn’t fit with our beliefs here.
As soon as I parked my car, an attendant rushed over. “Welcome, Ms. Schaeffer,” the attendant said. “I’m happy to park your car for you.”
“It can stay here,” I told him. “I’m not blocking anything.”
“As you wish,” the man said, nodding and motioning for me toward the house. “May I escort you inside?”
“Sure,” I said with a polite smile.
The man was dressed as a stereotypical butler. I had no idea they really dressed like that in real life. The fact that they even had help was shocking to me because it was not a common thing in Liberty, outside a nanny or maybe a house cleaner that came out once or twice a month. But the Holts had an entire staff that would rival that of royalty.
In their mind, they thought they were royalty.
I followed the butler up the stairs and toward the gigantic wooden door. It had to have taken several elephants to move that door into place. The door was almost two stories in and of itself, with a handle the size of my head. All wood, thick and strong. As if George Holt and family had to protect themselves from the outside world, much like a fortress.
The butler pulled open the door, thankfully, since it looked heavy as hell. He motioned for me to enter. “After you, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as I stepped inside, I felt like I had left Liberty and entered a castle somewhere foreign. The foyer led to a spiral staircase that seemed to go up forever, with a landing in the middle to stop and rest upon before proceeding up the top. That landing was bigger than my bedroom. A red and gold runner ran up the staircase. A crystal chandelier hung over us, made up of about a thousand large crystals, all sparkling from the light. It was nearly blinding.
There was also an elevator to the left of the grand staircase. It looked like something from a 1920s hotel. Very classy. I’d never been inside a house with an elevator before.
“Right this way,” the butler said, leading me onward.
We didn’t go up the big stairs or use the elevator, to my dismay. Instead, we took a right and went into an enormous formal living room. It was hard to imagine anyone actually lived here, as it looked impeccable, like something from a magazine. There wasn’t a stray cup or even a book out of place. No television. Just a stone fireplace that nearly took up one entire wall with a family portrait - painted, of course - hanging over the mantle. A series of couches and chairs, all burgundy with gold accents, were strategically placed around the fireplace and an oriental rug was in the center of the room.
“The Holts will be joining you shortly,” the butler said.
He sauntered off, leaving me alone in the grand room that felt as staged and fake as the people I was about to interview.
Keep an open mind, Elle. You don’t agree with his politics, but maybe outside of politics, he’s a nice person.
“Dad will be here soon.” Lauren’s voice caused me to jump; it seemed to echo in the otherwise empty room.
I turned to find her in a different outfit than she’d been wearing earlier in the day. She’d changed into a floral pink and light blue dress that clung to her body, showcasing curves I’d never noticed before. She’d put on a little weight since I saw her last year, and the dress allowed me to see that. She actually looked good with the extra weight, in my opinion. It filled out the dress. But I knew her mother was incredibly thin, and for most of her life, so was Lauren.
She’d alwa
ys made such snide comments about other women who weren’t thin, so her appearance surprised me. Her hair was down, long and flowing over her shoulders in soft waves that looked professionally blown out. Her makeup was flawless. I consider myself fairly well put-together, but Lauren looked as if she’d stepped out of a magazine photo shoot.
She sighed as she walked over to the mini bar tucked away in a corner of the room. “Would you like anything?”
“No thanks.”
She didn’t say anything else as she poured herself a glass of red wine - reaching nearly to the top with the glass. She swivelled and walked over to one of the chairs.
“Have a seat, stay awhile.” Her words were polite, her tone offhanded. She looked at me and frowned, then looked around the room. “You didn’t bring a photographer?”
“No, I’m sorry. Kelsey is actually at a Liberty High basketball game tonight.”
“You think anyone cares about that sad excuse for a team? Her time would have been better spent here, with us. But I guess you’ll have to do.”
I bristled at her words. She was probably right; most people probably didn’t care about the basketball team, but it was a tradition for us to cover their homecoming game, and I wasn’t going to break tradition to satisfy a pompous politician.
“I can take photos too. It’s fine.”
“I’m sure you can,” Lauren said dryly. She took a long swig from her glass, then placed it on the end table nearest her.
George Alexander Holt the Third entered, and it was like the air had been sucked right out of the room. He was at least 6’5, a towering presence just like his father. He looked like a younger version of his dad with sandy blonde hair and eyes that were so blue, they almost looked white. He was a handsome man if you didn’t mind the perpetual look of condescension on his face. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile, not once.
He wore a black suit with a black tie, almost like he was dressed for a funeral. It was how he dressed. Always dark colors. Almost always black. Always designer.
“Oh, the prodigal son decides to grace us with his presence,” Lauren muttered.
“How many glasses of wine have you had?” her brother, who went by Alex, asked in an equally dry tone.
“Just two,” she answered innocently.
If the first was anything like the second, well, I could see why she might be acting a little strangely. But I kept my mouth shut. It was none of my business, and in a way, I was seeing them in their true form - as Lauren had wanted. Of course, something had changed since earlier in the day when she insisted I come over. I doubted she would have wanted me to witness this.
Alex went to the bar himself. He didn’t offer me a drink. He hadn’t even acknowledged my existence.
“Dad will be here shortly, and Mom is just freshening up,” he said.
Lauren elaborated. “Daddy had an important meeting.” She took another big drink, downing about half the glass before slamming it down on the table.
Elizabeth Holt made her presence known, as if the clink of the glass had summoned her, and it was no surprise that she had done her best to make it grand.
She swished into the room with a raspy, “Hello, darlings.”
I couldn’t contain the eye roll, but I did my best to hide my face from her.
Her gown was long and flowing, like something someone would wear to the Oscars, not around the house when trying to appear normal. It was Tiffany blue with crystals encrusted at the top. A matching light blue shawl covered her otherwise bare shoulders.
Elizabeth was nearing seventy but would deny it if you asked. She’d had work done to try and defy aging, but it just made her look plastic. She seemed to have no facial expressions except for perpetually startled. Her hair was colored blonde, the same as her daughter. It was long, but she always kept it pulled up , in a braided crown around her head today.
She strode to me, taking my hand in her pale, delicate ones and smiling down at me. I stood up, but she still towered over me. Like Lauren, Elizabeth was tall and thin. I wasn’t short by any means, but around these people, I felt like a child.
“Ms. Schaeffer, it’s such a pleasure to have you in our home,” she purred. “I’ve always supported the free press and respect our hard-working journalists who don’t get paid nearly enough. It’s a thankless job.”
Her comments were also way over-the-top, but at least she was being civil to me. Unlike her two spoiled children.
“Thank you, Mrs. Holt. It’s a pleasure to be here. Your home is lovely.”
Her smile widened as she waved her arms out, as if showing me the place for the first time. “Why thank you. I take great pride in my home. Maybe later I can give you a grand tour.”
I’d hate that, I thought. “I’d love that.” I smiled even though it hurt.
Elizabeth made herself a drink as well - red wine, like Lauren, but only an average amount. She glided to the sofa, and as she passed by Lauren, there was a look between them. A frown of sorts. But it passed as quickly as I’d noticed it and Elizabeth was her smiling, happy self.
“Sorry I’m late,” a booming, male voice called from outside of the room.
I recognized it instantly. My hackles were raised on instinct alone.
I stood again to greet the patriarch of the family - George Holt the Second. He preferred that over being called junior, and I had a feeling that it had a lot to do with him thinking of his family like royalty. George the Second sounded like a king. George Junior didn’t.
George entered the room, and Alex and Elizabeth stood. Lauren remained sitting, staring off into space as if her father hadn’t just entered the room. She reminded me of a petulant child, not the thirty-six-year-old woman I knew her to be.
George purposefully moved closer to me and gave my hand a firm shake. Like his son, his eyes were nearly white, and when they stared directly at you, it was like having ice water shot through your veins. It was hard not to shiver, even in the middle of summer. His sandy blonde hair was long gone, replaced by a head of grey and white.
“Ms. Schaeffer.”
“Mr. Holt.”
Neither of us said it was a pleasure to see each other because the feeling between us was mutual. I didn’t make his run in politics easy, and if he thought I would start now, he was wrong.
He took a seat next to his wife, and Alex sat on the other side of them, on the opposite side of Lauren. The picture of the perfect American family. But I hadn’t been there half an hour and I already knew they were as dysfunctional as any other - if not more so. I found that money didn’t prevent dysfunction; it often heightened it. You were just able to cover it up with fancy curtains and nice cars. You could throw money at almost any problem in the hopes of getting rid of it.
Except for me. I couldn’t be bought. George Holt discovered that himself a year ago, prior to his run, when he’d offered me a large sum of money to essentially work for him and only write what he wanted me to write.
I hadn’t trusted him before, but after that meeting, I despised him.
And clearly, he despised me as well.
“So where should we begin?” Elizabeth asked. “Do you have any questions for us? It’s a unique chance to talk to his family, as well as the man himself.” She beamed proudly, and George put a hand on her thigh, giving it a squeeze. That was the most affection I’d seen between the two of them. I’d thought they didn’t touch.
“Of course. I’d love to talk to your children about their childhood and—”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” George said.
I looked at Lauren. “Okay, well, Lauren wanted me to write about your family life, since I did the same for your competition. I thought—”
Alex cleared his throat and interrupted me. “My father was a good father. We never wanted for anything, and not just when it came to material objects. He was always there, supporting our endeavours. Like when I played baseball in high school. I knew I could count on my father to be at every game. Even though he wa
s working all over the country, he would always find a way to be in the stands.”
Lauren muttered something under her breath that sounded a whole lot like “Bullshit.”
“Excuse me, Lauren?” I asked.
“Nothing.” She took another drink from the wine glass, finishing it. She got up and returned to the bar, but her mom shot her a look.
“Lauren, do you really think that’s necessary?”
Lauren didn’t respond. She continued pouring herself another glass. Completely full, just like the first one. She shook the bottle and poured the last of the wine into her glass.
“Okay, well, I’d love to hear more about those baseball games,” I said, returning my attention to the others. “George, how did you make it to all those games? You were a busy developer, building resorts all over the world. How did you find time to always come back for the games?”
George shrugged. “When something is important to you, you make it a priority. It’s as simple as that.”
Lauren returned to her seat and rolled her eyes. I really, really wanted to hear what she had to say. “Lauren, do you have any experiences like that? Where your father made you a priority?”
Lauren snorted but covered her mouth when she realized what she’d done. Before she could answer, George pulled my attention back to him. “That article you wrote about Jeremiah…you do realize that it’s not completely accurate.”
“Oh?” I cocked my eyebrow. “And how was it not accurate?”
“Well, you said that he took over as mayor because he loves the town of Liberty, that he did it for the people.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“No. He took over the position out of obligation. Because his father died suddenly, he was in mourning, and he wanted to make his father proud. Noble reasons, sure, but his heart clearly isn’t in it. He has no experience in politics, and no desire to be there. It’s why the books are such a mess right now and—”
“Excuse me, the financials were handled by the treasurer,” I said, narrowing my gaze. “And they weren’t a mess. There are questions that have been brought up regarding some of the funding going in and out, but I’m sure that will be cleared shortly.”
Daddy’s Best Friend Page 4
