Beautiful Little Fool

by K. K. Hendin

  “Holy shit, Morris and Associates.” Ellis was shocked. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” But what the hell was he doing in New Haven?

  “Nice to meet you, too.” Mr. Morris smiled. “Now, Mr. Feingold had been keeping tabs on you for quite some time.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he decided he wanted you to be the sole heir to his businesses and fortune.”

  “Where’s the camera?” Ellis demanded.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Morris asked.

  “The camera. What is this, some prank show? This is bullshit.”

  “It is far from bullshit, Mr. Carrington.” Mr. Morris handed Ellis a sheaf of papers. “Look.”

  “June 22, 2012. I, Harold James Feingold, being of sound mind…” Ellis read through the will, absorbing the legalese without much issue. “To Ellis James Carrington, I bequeath…”

  He looked up. “What the hell.”

  “Exactly what it says, Mr. Carrington.”

  “How do you know it’s me? Maybe there’s another Ellis James Carrington.”

  “There is not, and even if there was, he meant you.”

  “But, why? It’s not like we’re the only two people in the world who have James as a middle name. And what other thing do we even have in common? Nothing. None of this makes sense.”

  “I must admit, when Mr. Feingold first informed me of his intentions, I was skeptical, as well. How well do you know your parents’ friends?”

  Ellis shrugged. “Not very well. They died when I was five, and I don’t remember any of their friends but Uncle Fred.”

  “Well, Mr. Feingold had been very close with your parents before you were born, and when you were younger. He was distraught when he heard of their deaths.”

  “So he left his whole business to me? I’m sure I’m not the only orphan in his social circle.”

  “Regardless of if you are or if you aren’t, Mr. Carrington, this is what he wanted.” Mr. Morris pulled out an iPad. “One of the conditions of you inheriting, as you read in the will, is you must live in Manhattan for the first five years after inheriting. You have until tomorrow morning for preliminary packing, and your ride to Manhattan will be here tomorrow at noon.”

  “Ride?”

  “There’s a jet available, or a car.”

  “I’ll take the car, please. I think I need time to digest all of this.”

  Mr. Morris pulled out one more set of papers. “This is an NDA,” he said, pushing the papers toward Ellis. “Saying that you agree not to speak a word of this to anyone until the day after the will is read, under penalty of you not inheriting.”

  “No problem,” Ellis said, reading through the NDA before signing. “Who the hell would believe me, anyway?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Mr. Morris said, taking back the papers. “A car will be waiting for you tomorrow at noon sharp. Do not disappoint Mr. Feingold.” With that, he closed his attaché case, and strolled out of the apartment.

  “…But he’s dead,” Ellis said, as the door closed.

  He stared wide eyed at the closed door for another minute, before he was startled by the doorbell.

  This time it was the delivery guy with his dinner.

  Ellis unpacked the containers mechanically, and headed to the fridge to get a beer. It took him until the second beer before it all hit him.

  He was basically the sole heir of all of Feingold Investments.

  What the fuck was life, even?

  He opened up the fortune cookie that came with dinner, not to eat the cookie, but to check the fortune. New opportunities are waiting behind a door, it read. Ellis tossed the cookie in the trash and laughed. If only the fortune cookie writer folk knew about new opportunities.

  There was a car in front of Ellis’s apartment building the next day at noon. Not just any car, but a fucking limo. A limo, for God’s sake. What happened to the nice car that Ellis could just drive to Manhattan with alone? Where he could go eighty down empty highways before having to deal with the reality of being the richest fucking man on the East Coast? Ellis had googled it again last night, and holy fuck, it was a lot of money.

  Apparently that wasn’t what Mr. Morris had in mind. Ellis swung his battered duffle bag over his shoulder and locked the door to his apartment for the last time in what would probably be a long time. He headed down the stairs, not really sure how he should feel about all of this.

  A tall Hispanic man in a suit stepped out of the car, and held out the passenger door in the back open for Ellis. “I’m Carlos,” he said, “and I’ll be driving you to the apartment.”

  “Carlos, huh.” Ellis stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you, man. Ellis.”

  Carlos shook his hand, and closed the door behind Ellis. He looked a little shocked, but whatever. The last time Ellis had been in a limo was at his senior prom in high school. And it was nothing like this one was. Ellis sat back on the seat, and tried to see if Carlos would be able to see him through the divider in the front. Because if he didn’t, Ellis was going to have himself a fucking party back here, that would probably involve him lying down on the plush, carpeted floor and drink champagne from the bottle. Because that was a bottle of champagne chilling over there.

  A voice came over the speaker. “Mr. Carrington, I’ll be pulling away from the curb in a minute. On your right, you can find the control panel that will allow you to put up the divider, which is soundproof. If you need anything from me, pick up the phone and press one, and it will call me in the front.”

  “Thanks,” Ellis said, not really sure where he was saying that to, or if Carlos could hear him.

  He reached over to the panel that Carlos had mentioned, and watched the divider slide up. The ride from New Haven to Manhattan wasn’t enough time for him to get trashed and then be semi-okay by the time they got there. And Ellis had no fucking clue what he was going to be doing once he got there. Mr. Morris hadn’t said anything about it.

  Ellis toed off his shoes and propped his feet up on the seat next to him, and exhaled loudly.

  This was the weirdest fucking thing that had ever happened to him. Hands down.

  He turned his head, and saw a sunroof near the middle of the car. Well, then. Ellis got off the seat, and wandered around until he found the remote for the sunroof. It was an exceptionally sunny day, and the sun streamed down once the top of the window rolled off. The layer of glass didn’t move, but there was sunshine. Like a cat, Ellis laid down on the floor of the limo, and under the glare from the sun, fell asleep.

  “Mr. Carrington, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Carlos’s voice came over the speaker, jolting Ellis awake.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, sitting up and stretching. Well, that had been pretty damn pleasant. If being filthy rich meant that he could take naps on floors of limos because he felt like it, it wasn’t a bad deal at all.

  He collapsed back on the seat, and shoved his hands through his hair, when panic hit. He was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, for God’s sake. What the fuck was wrong with him? For all he knew, he was going straight into meetings for something, and he was wearing a faded UConn sweatshirt and ratty jeans.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. He scrambled for his phone, and scrolled through until he found Mr. Morris’s phone number. It rang twice before Mr. Morris answered. “Morris.”

  “It’s Ellis. I realized I’m probably not dressed for anything you have planned for today, sir.”

  “Nothing for the day, and everything is ready for you at the house.”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything, sir.”

  “Oh. Okay, thanks.” Ellis hung up, slightly bewildered. Everything? Did that mean they ordered clothing for him? Because even though his things had all been packed by professional movers and all, he didn’t really have any suits appropriate for him.

  Hopefully they got his size right.

  The Manhattan streets slipped by, Carlos driving further and further away from Times Square, before pulling up in front of an old Manhattan
brownstone near the Met. “We’re here, sir,” Carlos said.

  “Which one?” Ellis asked. There were two blocks of brownstone on the street. Everything was immaculately groomed and cleaned, and looked nothing like the busy, messy streets of downtown. Hell, the air even smelled overprivileged and wealthy.

  “All of the second half of the block, sir.”

  “All of it?”

  House?

  “Of course.” Carlos opened the door, and Ellis climbed out. Carlos gestured, and Ellis followed him to the second block of brownstones. He walked past the first three doors, and walked up the steps to the fourth. “Welcome home, Mr. Carrington,” he said, as the door opened.

  It was hard as hell for Ellis to keep from his mouth dropping open, because he felt like Annie when she moved into Mr. Warbucks’s house. And yes, he had watched that movie with his girlfriend.

  It was fucking enormous, which made sense based on the fact that apparently he now owned literally half of the block.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Carrington,” said the woman who had opened the door for him. “I’m Jensen, the main housekeeper here. Mr. Morris called to let you know that he’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “Thanks,” Ellis said. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too.” Jensen smiled. “Would you like me to show you around?”

  “Sure.” Ellis turned to thank Carlos, but he was gone. “Where’s Carlos?”

  “He left.”

  “Oh.” Ellis tightened his hold on his duffle bag. “Well, then.” He inclined his head. “After you?”

  “Oh, just leave that, sir. One of the boys will put it in your rooms.”

  “Rooms?” Ellis repeated.

  “Of course, sir. All arranged and ready. Not to worry, they weren’t the late Mr. Feingold’s rooms. Mr. Morris thought it was too soon for that sort of thing.”

  “No problem,” Ellis said. “Yeah, I don’t really think I want to be sleeping there.”

  “We’ll start at your rooms, and then to the office. Mr. Morris will be meeting you there.” Jensen started climbing the enormous staircase. Ellis followed, still a little cowed by everything, but vowing that he would pretend he wasn’t. The staff was probably all watching him now, and he had to make a good first impression. Although what that was, he wasn’t quite sure.

  The tour of his rooms was all just one big blur, and what seemed like seconds later, Ellis was in Mr. Fein—his office. Holy shit, his office. “Mr. Morris will be here in a few minutes,” Jensen said, staying by the door as Ellis wandered through the office. “Mara will be in with refreshments and a light lunch.”

  “Thanks,” Ellis said, but the door was already closed. He sat down on the enormous desk, and wondered how the hell he was sitting in Harold Feingold’s actual chair, at his actual desk, in his actual fucking house, which was shown to him by his hot housekeeper.

  Life had gotten pretty fucking weird recently. From the way things were looking, they were only going to get weirder.

  Cedar dressed immaculately for the reading of the will. And because she was absolutely sure that she wouldn’t act in any sort of inappropriate manner because of it, she had a shot of vodka before she left her house.

  It had the potential of being one of the biggest days of her life, and hell if she was going to walk in completely sober, just in case it wasn’t.

  All of the members of the board were already in the office when Cedar arrived. None of the housekeeping was, so she assumed Mr. Morris would just tell them alone. But nobody else. Just the board members. And her.

  Cedar’s hopes began to rise. If it was only them here, then maybe Harold had written his will in a way that Cedar wanted. There was always that option.

  She took a deep breath in and out, smiling serenely the whole time. There was no need for the board members to ever see an expression on her face that she didn’t want them to see. They weren’t her friends—hardly anyone in New York was. But that was okay. She didn’t need friends. That wasn’t what she was there for.

  If she wanted friends, she would have stayed in Brooklyn, in her parent’s old house. And there was nothing she wanted to do less than that.

  Mr. Morris bustled into the room, holding a sheaf of papers. Every muscle in Cedar’s body stiffened. The board members all sat up straight.

  “I’ll just get started, then.” Mr. Morris cleared his throat, and began to read the will out loud. “I, Harold James Feingold, being of sound mind and…”

  You could hear a pin drop as he read through the contents of the will. And when he mentioned the name Ellis James Carrington, the room was so thick with tension you could have used it to soundproof Cedar’s office.

  “And that’s it,” Mr. Morris said, looking up from the will. “Board meetings will be postponed for the next week, barring any emergency.”

  “Who the fuck is Ellis Carrington?” One of the board members finally burst out, voicing the question that everyone had been thinking.

  Cedar’s fingers were flying across her phone, googling him as fast as she could. Heir of almost everything Feingold owned. And none of them had heard of him.

  Harold, what the fuck were you thinking? She thought, furious, scrolling through Google. Graduate of business school. Lived in Connecticut. Parents died in a freak accident when he was five.

  Nothing. It told her nothing.

  There weren’t any recent pictures of him, which infuriated Cedar. She needed to know what he looked like, and she needed to know right then. Not that it would make that much of a difference, but she had to know everything she could about him. And if he was attractive, all the better for her.

  Because whoever this Ellis Carrington was, he was hers. He didn’t know it yet, and he didn’t have to, but he was.

  And he’d find out soon enough.

  Cedar shot off a quick email to the PI she hired when she needed to, asking him to call her as soon as he could. This was a damn emergency, and she was more than willing to pay for it.

  It was going to leak to the newspapers soon, and Cedar had to know who he was before she decided just how to snare him in. She smiled at the board members, and at Mr. Morris, and left the office as quickly as she could.

  Ellis James Carrington.

  Age 25.

  Date of Birth: February 28, 1990.

  Height: 6-foot-2.

  Hair Color: Blond.

  Eye Color: Blue.

  His driver’s license didn’t do him justice, but the pictures the PI had provided sure did. Tall, broad, just a little too messy for New York. A little too inexperienced. A lot too innocent.

  He was perfect.

  Absolutely perfect.

  Cedar leaned back, and read through the rest of the report, committing as much of it as she could to memory. When she was done, she shredded the document, and then tossed it into her fireplace and used it as kindling. She had a week and a half before she would meet him for the first time, and she was going to use that week and a half the best she could.

  Forget about Harold’s funeral being one of the most important events of her life. The gallery’s next showing was. It was where she would meet Ellis, and where she would set the wheels into motion.

  Cedar thought about answering Lawrence’s booty call disguised as an invitation to a party, but realized that if she was going to get Ellis where she wanted him, she was going to have to leave everyone wanting more of her than she let them get. Not just him.

  She deleted his message and headed to bed.

  She had better things to do now.

  She had better people to do now.

  Cecil was heading back home at five in the morning when Cedar texted him about the gallery opening. He would have rolled his eyes, but he was too fucking tired to roll anything. Del was pretty damn thorough, and he had a little nasty coke habit he liked to indulge in after.

  Meeting at work about the next gallery opening as soon as you get in. Bring extra coffee.

  Great. Cecil slowly opened
the front door to his apartment and leaned against the door, exhausted. The days after he hung out with Del could never be a calm day. Maybe that was a sign of something, but Cecil ignored whatever that sign was. Today would just be a Red Bull day. It wasn’t like that never happened. And tonight he would sleep well. His ass needed a break from Del, anyway.

  His phone pinged again, and he groaned. If that was Cedar again, he was going to fucking stab her in her sleep. It wasn’t, though. It was one of the many Google alerts he had set up for work. Hopefully this one was actually relevant, not like the one about Kain Security. He worked in an art gallery, for fuck’s sake, not for the Army or anything. Sometimes Google was hella stupid.

  The New York Times had an article about the heir to the Feingold fortune.

  Cecil focused through blurry eyes, and scanned the article. It wasn’t Cedar. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why wasn’t it Cedar? He had been counting on it. Even though it was great being her assistant now, but if she had inherited everything? God, that would have been amazing. He would have had an entire team of assistants just for him.

  Who the fuck was this Ellis Carrington guy? Cecil had never heard of him, and he made it his fucking business to learn the name of everyone he was supposed to know in the city.

  And it wasn’t like Cedar hadn’t been an enormous pain in the ass as it was about the next gallery opening. This Ellis guy was going to set her over the edge. That would be his first public outing. In her space.

  Dammit. Cecil hoped the guy was gay.

  Cedar was pacing her office when Cecil dashed in, holding a tray of coffee. “They’re on call for the office. I figured you didn’t want the coffee to get cold.”

  “This needs to be the best fucking showing this gallery has ever seen,” Cedar said, sitting back down at her desk. Post-its littered her normally pristine desk, and she had been at work for an hour and a half already. Fuck sleep, this was the rest of her life.

  “Of course it does,” Cecil agreed fervently. Even if this Ellis guy was straight…as long as one of them got him in the end, they’d be okay. “And it’s going to be.”