Trickiest Job

by Cleo Peitsche

  Finally Hawthorne wipes his mouth with a napkin, and I can tell by the way he lets the cloth fall to the side of his silverware that the pleasantries are over.

  “What would your grandfather do if he gets you?” he demands as he leans forward, eyes practically stabbing into me.

  I sigh and lick my lips. A crumb of toasted bread comes up on the tip of my tongue, and I pull it into my mouth.

  “Well,” I say. “I don’t know what his current plans are, but they likely involve having me committed to a psychiatric institution run by one of his buddies. Before I left home, he spent a month making a trail as proof that I have mental problems.” I fix Hawthorne with my stoniest gaze and dare him to say something funny.

  “But you were underage,” Slade says, breaking the tension. “He wouldn’t have needed proof.”

  I glance at him and nod. “That’s true if his intent had been solely to get me into an institution, but he wanted to retain power of attorney after I turned eighteen.”

  “Because?” Romeo asks.

  “Money,” I say. Then I take a deep sip of my drink and I tell them the story of my life, starting at the beginning.

  Chapter 6

  “My mother met my biological father while she was a college undergraduate. She was heartbreakingly beautiful. I’ve seen photos, and even without makeup and just out of bed, she could have been an international star. She was that stunning.”

  “Like you,” Slade says.

  I shake my head. “I inherited the broad sketches of her looks. It was the same blueprint in the hands of a lesser architect. Her shockingly pale blue eyes turned into washed-out blue for me. Her bone structure was exquisite.”

  “Like I said,” Slade says, and I just shake my head because he can’t imagine how impossibly beautiful she was.

  “My mother was an outlier. I’m a textbook example of regression to the mean.”

  This makes Slade laugh.

  “And your father?” Romeo asks, refusing to be distracted by our tangents.

  “He was a businessman. Very successful. Very married. He behaved abominably, but I don’t think my mother was difficult to impress. She always had a weakness for the nicer things in life, and she was trusting. A little naive. Not dumb, just a good heart. She didn’t want to see the bad in people, so she simply… didn’t. She said she’d rather be taken advantage of once in a while rather than distrust everyone she met.” I shoot a look at Hawthorne. “Yes, she was a natural blonde.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t thinking that.”

  Sure you weren’t.

  “When she found herself pregnant, my father flipped out, but in the end he did the right thing. Or at least a version of it, which included an allowance for my mother to care for me without ever needing to work, plus a generous trust for me, to become mine at the age of eighteen.”

  And with that, my father concluded his involvement in my life.

  It didn’t bother me because I never knew him. Long before I was old enough to form memories at all, my mother had met and married David.

  “David, Layla’s father, treated me as his own, raised me as his own. For years, I didn’t even know that Layla and I had different fathers. Everything was fine until our grandfather came for a visit. He’d been semi-estranged from my father, and after a health scare, he was desperate to make amends. Or so he claimed. The next thing we knew, his visits were lasting longer and longer.”

  “Your grandfather,” Hawthorne interrupts. “To clarify—he’s David’s father?”

  I nod. “Yes, but could you guys just… allow me to finish? This isn’t easy.” A lot of the things I plan to tell them have never been spoken aloud before. Who would I have talked to?

  But before I can continue my story, the waiters return. They clear our dishes and put down clean ones. I have a few fortifying sips from my wine glass.

  How simple my life sounds, condensed like this for an audience. To say that David treated me as his own doesn’t encompass how good he was to me. He was the best father anyone could have asked for. He never showed favoritism, never resented me.

  How someone like him was related to my grandfather, I could never figure out.

  The doors close, and we’re alone again. I know it won’t be long before the waiters return with our entrees, and I decide to make my story fit into that time.

  With that in mind, I skip ahead, passing over the happy years that the five of us lived in the mansion. Because my grandfather didn’t get greedy and controlling immediately. He did it gradually, like a slow trickle of sap that eventually swallows whole the unaware butterfly.

  “My parents died in a car crash,” I say. The words, which I’ve said many times before, stick in my throat. I grab my wine glass and drain it. “Vehicle malfunction. The insurance money went to me and my sister. My mother’s will was a bit tricky, but everything she had ended up in trusts as well. Our grandfather wasn’t happy about inheriting two kids and having to pay for them. He claimed he didn’t have enough money to keep the mansion, and if we did this one thing…” I repress a shudder. “They started small, his insurance schemes, and at first he told us we’d all be homeless if we didn’t go along.”

  He also convinced us that our parents would have approved, but I decide not to mention that; it would raise too many questions.

  I sip my water. “He made the schemes more elaborate, and when we protested, he told us we could go to prison for what we’d already done. He could be very persuasive. At least, to a scared kid.” Or to an adult. Unfortunately.

  I stop because I’m not sure how to say the next part. I don’t want to involve these men…

  Hawthorne reaches out and takes my hand. I stare at our enmeshed fingers in shock. He covers the top of my hand with his other palm. “We know,” he says.

  My eyebrows rise as I turn to meet his gaze. “Know what?”

  “He tried to marry you off,” Romeo says. “Is that about right?”

  The sudden lump in my throat is so total, so huge that I can’t breathe, let alone speak. I jerk my hand from Hawthorne’s and reach for his glass of wine.

  “Not a good idea,” he says, smoothly pulling it from me.

  “How do you know?” I finally ask Romeo.

  “We did some investigations of our own,” Slade says.

  They wait. They want me to talk, and I’ve had enough wine that I figure what the hell.

  “He basically auctioned me off. The starting bid was the cost of my trust fund. He wanted the money. With the permission of a guardian, I could have been married at the age of sixteen. A few months before my birthday, two of his friends started coming weekly to see me. Grandfather called it courting.” The word twists bitterly in my mouth.

  I leave out the part where they sometimes tried to sample the goods. Tight little virgin, the older of the men would whisper into my ear, his foul breath making me gag. You want to make money? Pull up your skirt. No one has to know.

  “One day I went to talk to my grandfather. I’d had enough, and I realized that he didn’t have my best interests at heart.” It had taken me entirely too long to admit it to myself.

  “And?” Romeo and Slade say at the same time.

  “He told me that if he couldn’t marry me off, he’d have me committed, and it was my choice. He said if I behaved, my sister wouldn’t suffer the same fate. I don’t think he would have done anything to her. He liked her, and if he’d gotten the money, I do think that would have been the end of it.” She was his flesh and blood, and he’d always treated her well, aside from the insurance schemes.

  “And that’s why you ran?” Romeo asks.

  I nod.

  “Taking control of your inheritance now wouldn’t be a problem,” Hawthorne says.

  “I ran away at the age of sixteen,” I say with a dark laugh. “I don’t have a high school diploma. I’ve been on the move nonstop. No one knows me, so no one can vouch for me. I’ve done illegal things to hide my identity.”

  “No one ca
n vouch for you?” Romeo asks. “You know that’s not true.”

  “He’s got lawyers and money,” I point out.

  “That may have been a problem when you were on your own, but we’ve got lawyers and money. Much more money,” Hawthorne says.

  I feel my cheeks warming, partially because I’m flattered by what they’re saying and partially because I’m upset—I don’t think they’re really paying attention.

  I take a deep breath and try again. “While I’ve been running, he’s been strengthening his case that I’m mentally incompetent. This is a man who has perfected the art of running scams. It’s not just the money he’s after. He enjoys manipulating the rules. Getting me committed is child’s play to him because he’s had years to lay the groundwork.”

  Hawthorne starts to argue, but Slade cuts him off.

  “Is that the whole story?” Slade asks.

  After a moment’s pause, I nod. They don’t need to know about the dirt I have on my grandfather. They don’t need to know what I discovered the night I went to tell him that I wasn’t going to let him sell me off like a heifer. They don’t need to know why he’s afraid of me.

  Chapter 7

  During dinner we don’t talk about my childhood, which is a relief. In fact, we don’t talk about much of anything, which is somewhat less of a relief.

  Because in the silence, I can’t help but guess what they’re thinking.

  Romeo: I wonder if my companies are adequately protected against fake lawsuits.

  Slade: She seems pretty well-adjusted.

  Hawthorne: She’s surely lying. I wonder how much of my money she spent on hair bleach and clothes.

  Eventually I just come out and ask the men what they plan on doing next.

  “We’re taking you back,” Hawthorne says. He puts down his fork and reaches for the bread basket.

  “And then you’re going home?” I ask, a glimmer of hope sparking, then sputtering out. I want them to go, but I’d love some sex before they do. I’m just not sure how to suggest it without exposing myself to possible rejection.

  “We’re taking you back with us,” he specifies.

  “No, that’s not going to work for me,” I say as I push away my plate of half-eaten risotto. “I still want to see my sister.”

  “You’ve been here a week and you haven’t seen her?” asks Hawthorne.

  My cheeks warm. “No. But even if I had, there’s Bandit to think of.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Therefore I regret to inform you that I shall not be accompanying anyone anywhere.”

  Hawthorne and I glare at each other.

  “Your grandfather is out of town until tomorrow evening,” Hawthorne says. “What on earth are you waiting for?”

  I didn’t know he was out of town, and I’m not sure I want to learn how Hawthorne came to be in possession of that knowledge.

  “I called his secretary to make an appointment,” Hawthorne says. “In case you were wondering how I knew.”

  “Good,” I say.

  This makes Romeo’s face warm into one of his dark smiles. “It sounds like we’re in agreement. We’ll take you to see your sister, and then we’re taking you home. Where you belong.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, I establish that they can’t be talked out of this.

  It’s my fault. I showed my hand the moment I told Romeo that I knew he could talk me out of leaving.

  That’s the problem with being honest.

  ~ ~ ~

  The closer the limo gets to the mansion, the more nauseated I feel.

  By the time we reach the gate, my stomach feels like it’s on a trampoline.

  I’m unable to hear what the driver says to gain access to the driveway, but a moment after he stops, the gate slowly rolls back.

  How many times have I sat in the back of a limo and waited for this gate to slide open? Even the pitch of the nearly silent motor is like a memory given life.

  And my eyes blur with tears. I miss my parents. I miss my sister. While I’m terrified to see her, I’m suddenly impatient.

  We reach the semicircle that grazes the front steps, and the limo slows. Hawthorne doesn’t wait to have his door opened by the driver. In fact, he barely allows the car to stop moving before jumping out.

  Apparently he’s in a hurry to see me confront my fears. It’s what he wanted all along. I want to tell him that an extra three seconds isn’t going to cut into his gloating too much.

  I know I’m being unfair to him, but I’m keyed up and feeling a range of emotions, some of which I don’t even know the names of.

  Romeo reaches into the limo and extends his hand. It’s easy to rest my weight on him as I swing my feet onto the gravel and stand, and I only release his hand because I feel I have to, not because I want to.

  The door opens, and Miss Susan steps outside.

  Her attention is on the men, and it’s clear she’s wondering who the hell we all are. When she sees me, her eyes and mouth all go as wide as the glasses she wears. Her frizzy hair is now completely gray, her shoulders a little stooped.

  We stare at each other, then she practically explodes toward me, her arms outstretched.

  “I’ve been waiting for this day,” she says as she squeezes me into a bear hug.

  Her head barely reaches my shoulder, but it’s not because I’ve gotten taller. It’s my high heels. When I was growing up, I lived in sneakers. I must have had forty pairs, and I wore them with jeans, with shorts, with skirts and dresses on the occasions when my mother nagged me into one.

  To my great satisfaction, Miss Susan still smells like the pine liquid she uses to wash the floors. I close my eyes. It’s so easy to remember her scolding us for being a nuisance by sliding around in our socks, and my mother coming in and apologizing and leading us away.

  I squeeze her even tighter. I have so many questions, but there are only two I’ll ask.

  “Grandfather’s not here?”

  “He’s on a golf trip,” she says as she releases me. There’s a twinkle in her eye as she adds, “Apparently, thunderstorms are keeping him indoors.”

  That makes me smile. “And Layla?”

  “She’s out with friends,” she says, “but she has class tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Will you wait inside?”

  It’s stupid that my eyes fill with tears at the invitation, but they do.

  I walk slowly across the wide, flat porch. The stone is immaculate, and the sound of my shoes rings out like my mother’s footsteps used to.

  One step up, then through the wide doorway. My fingers trail over the decorative bull’s ring knocker on the mahogany door as I pass.

  But the vestibule is different. My mother always used to keep fresh flowers in the two vases, and after my parents died, the household employees took over the task. They did it for years.

  I wonder when they gave up.

  “Where are the photos?” I ask, and Miss Susan’s lips tighten. Up close, I see that the downy light hair on her cheeks has become thicker.

  “Mr. Yorker had them removed,” she says. “He found them depressing, and he felt it would be more appropriate to keep all the photos in the same room.”

  That’s so like something my grandfather would do. I don’t need to ask her which room because I’m sure they went into my parents’ former bedroom.

  The mansion has several master bedrooms. After my parents died, their room became a sort of shrine. I used to go there on the worst days, in the times when Grandfather was preparing me or Layla—but usually me—to do something unethical for one of his millions of lawsuits.

  Being there always made me feel better, but I tried to limit my visits; I didn’t want to give our grandfather something to use against me. He might have emptied out the room, or threatened to, if he’d known.

  “Can I… go up?” I ask.

  “Oh, my dear,” she says. “This is your house. Maybe your grandfather forgets that, but no one else has.”

  I don’t have the heart to argue with her, an
d anyway I just wanted permission to go up. I’m already climbing the stairs, and I swear I’ve forgotten about the three men until I hear a set of footsteps behind me.

  My fingers trail up the curving banister of cool polished wood. It was never right for sliding down, but that didn’t stop me and Layla from trying. Right at the top, my fingers make a tight turn, and there it is, that fracture from when Layla and I broke off a chunk thanks to an unruly soccer ball. We glued the broken and splintered pieces together before anyone found out, and it wasn’t until almost a year later that our father noticed.

  Every step I take evokes a hundred more memories.

  Deep inside, the knotted, petrified remnants of my heart are aching, twisting. It feels like my chest is going to crack open.

  I go up the next set of stairs. As I turn, I glance back and see Romeo is following. I wonder how it was decided that he would come but not the others.

  The bedroom is at the end of the hall. I know my mom loved it because of the balcony overlooking the pool. She could be doing her own thing, then come check on us.

  Layla and I were never allowed in the pool without Miss Susan or someone else keeping an eye out, and even though our mother worried, we were pretty good about that, even if we broke a lot of the other household rules.

  Like letting the dogs into our bedrooms.

  Or watching television shows that we weren’t supposed to.

  Or playing with the cars in the garage, listening to music while pretending to drive. The keys were always in the ignitions, so it was easy enough.

  I touch my palm to my sternum. The skin, the bone, it all feels paper thin, like if I push hard everything will crumple.

  My other hand rests on the polished knob.

  I don’t know what I’ll discover behind the door, but I know what I won’t find. I know who won’t be sitting in her overstuffed chair, an open bottle of pink nail polish filling the room with its acrid odor—Hey, baby love, let me do your nails? How about just one? You said the blue the last time wasn’t so bad.

  She accepted me as a tomboy, but she never gave up hope. If she could see me now…