Shopping for a Billionaire 4

by Julia Kent

  “Amanda?” I cough out her name.

  Brilliant, right?

  Andrew pours two more shots in my glass and stares at me, hard. My eyes struggle in the dim light to find Declan in him, but all traces are gone.

  Another patron at the bar flags for his attention, and he shrugs an apology, leaving me for a minute to pour a requested Guinness. I sip gingerly from the tumbler and remind myself that this is a job. I am working. My smartphone comes in handy and I pull it out, retrieving the evaluation form from my app and as Andrew helps a second customer with a martini, I answer questions with the background noise of the shaker.

  “You look like Princess Elsa,” a slurry voice says to my right.

  I look up, disoriented, and find the face of a man about ten years older than my dad. He’s bald, wearing stylish glasses with a black line straight across the top of the lenses, and has an earring in his right ear. Tattoos cover his forearms and he’s wearing a plaid button down. It’s like L. L. Bean, Mr. Clean and Keith Richards climbed into a Vita Mix and got poured out into a Man Mold.

  “You’re hitting on me by using Disney movie characters in your pick up line?” I answer, trying to summon outrage as I tuck my smartphone back into my purse. None appears. The whisky just makes me find this all amusing.

  My skirt melted part of my bar stool and as I shift, the cloth stays put. My thigh, though, decides to give the female equivalent of The Full Monty. Good thing I’m wearing underpants.

  He lifts one shoulder and smiles, revealing two gold teeth. Both canines. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Great line in a bar made of ice. You got a room here? And a sister?”

  “A sister? Why, you have a friend for her?”

  “No.” His hungry eyes are trying to tell me something, and as I sip my scotch I try to figure it out.

  Can’t.

  “Pete, get the hell out of here,” Andrew growls, reappearing quickly. “Quit hitting on people who graduated high school in the twenty-first century. And stop suggesting threesomes.”

  “She’s legal. You’re legal, right?”

  I’m flattered he might think otherwise, but I’m also trying to process what Andrew just said. Threesomes? “If you think I look like I’m under eighteen, Pete, then you need to get those glasses checked,” is all I can think to say.

  Andrew hands him a glass of something clear on the rocks. “Go find someone else to bother.”

  “She yours?” Pete barks out, rotating his look between me and Andrew. “Lucky man. You get those thighs wrapped around your head and you couldn’t hear a tornado coming even if it plowed through your building.”

  I don’t have a brother. Don’t have a brother-in-law any more. So the look on Andrew’s face doesn’t make sense to me in the moment, though in later years I’ll come to understand it better.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Andrew says, eyes flicking up to get the attention of the plainclothes security dude at the main door. His name is Jerry (I checked when I walked in) and Jerry’s there in three seconds.

  “I’m a paying customer,” Pete slurs, loose eyes taking me in as I try—and fail—to cover my legs. “Who’s your boss? I’ll have you fired.”

  “I’m my boss,” Andrew says as Jerry escorts (drags) Pete out.

  Compassion and a kind of wariness coexist in Andrew’s eyes as he looks at me, but seems to struggle to make eye contact at the same time. “You okay?”

  He seems more upset than I am. “Me? Yeah. Sure. He’s just another asshole man who hits on women.” The thigh comment rings through my mind. I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.

  Andrew’s mouth hangs open a bit. Oh. I guess I said that part aloud.

  “Would you be offended?” I add, drinking the rest of my second scotch. “If someone said that about your thighs?” I pull out my phone, not waiting for an answer. “Let me ask Amanda. I wonder if her thighs are big enough to block out sound when she’s—”

  Andrew turns bright red at the mention of Amanda’s name.

  Aha.

  “Amanda,” I say.

  Red.

  “Amanda!”

  He flushes again.

  “Oh, this is fun.”

  “What is?” he asks. “Talking about women’s thighs?”

  “How about Amanda’s thighs?”

  Red.

  “It’s warm in here,” he mumbles. “Need to turn down the temperature or the ice will melt.”

  “The temperature isn’t the problem. Amanda is.”

  “She sure is. This is all her fault,” he announces.

  Declan’s words from earlier ping through me. “Declan said she set this all up. Is that true?”

  He nods, then chuckles. “That friend of yours is a determined one, I’ll tell you. Marching into my office like that yesterday.”

  “WHAT?” I motion to the wall of bottles and tap my glass. The mystery shop says to order two drinks, but what the heck—I’ll pay for my third.

  He gives me a single shot in a glass and upturned eyebrows. “That’s it for now.”

  “Tell me more about Amanda barging into your office!”

  “She came to find out the story about Declan and how our mother died.” Something in him dials down a bit. The bar’s emptying out and I look at the clock. It’s early dinnertime, and people are either commuting or getting ready to eat.

  “We know how she died,” I say with as much sympathy as I can.

  “Amanda wanted the whole story.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “Yes.”

  “And....?”

  “And told us we needed to go undercover for this mystery shop. To get Declan to see you.”

  “Huh?”

  He runs a frustrated hand through his light-brown hair and looks like a younger version of Declan. It makes me smile. Then again, the television news could show footage of a serial killer and I’d smile. What’s in this scotch that makes the world so...good?

  “Shannon, I have never seen my brother so happy with any woman before. When he was dating you he was happy. Happy and Declan don’t go together. Not since Mom died and Dad blamed Dec for her death.”

  “Why would he?” I gasp, horrified at the thought. “He was eighteen and a wasp stung her—what did Declan have to do with that?”

  The eyes that meet mine are haunted. Just like Declan’s.

  “Because on that day, I was stung and so was Mom. We only had one EpiPen.”

  No.

  “And we were at one of my soccer games, just goofing around. There were these long trails on the outskirts of the playing field, most of them two or so miles long. Mom loved to walk along the paths and see the creeks, stand on the bridges and listen to the water rush by. She said it was a welcome reprieve from the craziness of business life with Dad.”

  My own inbreaths feel like icicles entering me and piercing my heart.

  Andrew clears his throat. “The three of us were walking, a good mile away from the soccer fields, when a swarm hit us. Just blasted right over our heads, but a few strays stuck around. Mom was stung twice, I was stung three or four times. We knew about Mom’s allergy. She had an EpiPen.”

  I’m stone cold sober suddenly.

  “But we didn’t know I was allergic, too, until that moment.” His voice has a sing-songy quality to it. He’s reciting a well-honed story, one that took telling and retelling to shape.

  I can imagine it all in my mind. All too well. Because I just lived it with Declan a very short while ago, in my own way.

  “One of my stings was near my eye, another one on my neck, and Mom worked to find her EpiPen for herself, in her giant purse. By the time she found it I was wheezing. Declan started screaming about running back to get help, get an ambulance. I didn’t have my phone with me, and I think we later realized neither did Dec, but Mom had one in her purse.”

  A sick dread fills me.

  “And?”

  “My wheezing got worse and I remember black spots filled my vision.
” He shakes his head, hard, like he’s trying to force the memory out. “Mom was panicking and shaking, and then she dropped to the ground. Dec came running back and kept shouting. I don’t remember the words. Then he grabbed Mom’s purse and found her EpiPen.”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “Mom trained us all—repeatedly—on how to inject her in an emergency.”

  “Of course,” was all I could croak out.

  “But when Dec went to her she pushed him away and pointed at me. It felt like I was breathing through a coffee stirrer by then, and the force of blood pumping through me made it sound like—”

  “You were under a waterfall,” I say, interrupting.

  We give each other a knowing look. My words seem to make him stop and close down a bit.

  “Can you guess what happened next?” he asks. “Do the math. One EpiPen. One mile from help. One mother’s decision.”

  A painful rush of emotion rolls up the muscles of my throat into the roof of my mouth, through my sinuses, making my eyes water. “Oh, Andrew. Oh, my God. She made Declan inject you, didn’t she?”

  He closes his eyes and his jaw tightens.

  “Yes.”

  His phone buzzes in his pocket and he grabs it, desperate for a reason to be done with this conversation.

  “Gotta go,” he says in a clipped voice. Then he pauses, tongue rolling in his cheek, lips parted slightly. His eyes have gone neutral, a skill he shares with his brother.

  “So now you know,” he adds. “Dad blamed Declan. Said he should have treated Mom.”

  “But your mother insisted!” Any good mother would. I know my own mom would have done the same, exact thing. Know it with all my heart.

  “I know she did. Or,” he pauses. “I know she did at least once. I blacked out and woke up in the hospital.”

  “And your mom...”

  “Died the next day. Dec injected me, searched Mom’s purse in case there was something he could help her with, found her phone and called for help. Then he ran back to the field. By the time they got to us, it was probably too late for her. But he did everything he could have done. Everything.”

  “But not enough for James.”

  Andrew shakes his head slowly. “Never enough for my dad.” And with that he purses his lips, breaks eye contact, and steps out into the main lobby, leaving me shivering.

  But I’m not cold any more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It’s 5:17 p.m. now and I decide that maybe I should have a wee bit more than five or six shots of scotch in my stomach as I struggle to comprehend what Andrew’s just told me.

  Fortunately, part of my job here at The Fort involves eating dinner in the main dining room. Testing whether they’ll seat me without reservations happens to be built in to the evaluation, which is great, because not only did I not think ahead to schedule any, my mind is like a series of shrapnel bits spiraling through space after the grenade Andrew just lobbed at me.

  A friendly, helpful, extremely insightful grenade, but a dangerous weapon nonetheless. Declan’s words from our fight, the day he broke up with me.

  I took a chance on you.

  Of course, I thought he meant it the same way Steve did—that I was too rough, too jagged-edged, not fit for the upper echelons of society.

  Declan meant it in such a different way.

  As I approach the restaurant a coiffed, sleek woman who looks like Jessica Coffin’s twin, fast-forwarded thirty years, graciously offers me a table. She does not say “for one?” with any condescension, which is important. Business travelers routinely dine alone, and alienating them is not in anyone’s financial interest.

  I just need a steak and a salad and some equanimity. I think the first two are on the menu. I know the third is not.

  I’m seated at a lovely table with a glass waterfall to my right, the water trickling in perfect ribbons onto a Zen rock garden, peaceful and serene. Water lilies—real—float on the pools filled with koi fish, and I inhale deeply, muddling through the thousands of details, snippets of conversation and feelings, that fill me now.

  A white-jacketed waiter brings me water and says,

  “Enjoying your stay, Ms. Jacoby?”

  I flinch and startle, flinging my arms wide, hitting the wine goblet he holds out to me, sending a spray of water all over his very familiar, lined face.

  James McCormick.

  “What kind of joke is this!” I sputter.

  “That was supposed to be my line, Shannon,” he mutters as he uses the napkin on his arm to wipe his face.

  Whether it’s the scotch or the mind blowing story Andrew’s just told me, or the aftereffects of just seeing and kissing Declan, I let loose without thinking.

  “How could you blame Declan for your wife’s death?”

  “You don’t mince words, do you? I dated a woman like that once. It didn’t work out.”

  “I know. Because she dumped you.”

  His eyes turn into wrinkled triangles. “What are you talking about?”

  “The name Winky mean anything to you?” Andrew opened the floodgates with the truth. Well, technically, Amanda did. My head hurts. Too much to tease through, so instead I’ll just bulldoze James.

  He deserves it.

  Reflexively, he looks down at his crotch. Is this a male thing? “Winky? Like that children’s television character?”

  “Winky the dog.”

  He sits down next to me, moving just slow enough in that way people in their fifties—even the really fit ones, like my mom—have.

  “What kind of joke is this?” He’s studying me carefully.

  A little too much scotch, way too many revelations, and a flying vibrator that stops traffic have made my day one big, giant crater. “The name Marie Scarlotta mean anything to you?” Mom’s maiden name.

  James’ eyes widen and he searches my face avidly. “My God! I knew you looked familiar.” He laughs through his nose. “You’re Marie’s daughter? And Jacoby is your last name?” He leaps up and disappears around a corner, headed for the kitchen.

  That was remarkably anticlimactic.

  A worker brings a breadbasket with artisanal options that carry a layer of seeds and nuts on top thicker than an energy bar. James returns, carrying two tumblers of scotch.

  Neat.

  He holds one out to me and with a shaking hand I take it. Seems like the best idea ever, especially right now.

  “A toast.”

  “To extraordinary fathers,” I say.

  He beams. “Why thank you.”

  “I was talking about mine.”

  His smile fades, but he shrugs. “To Jason.”

  Our glasses crash together, retreat, and then we empty them.

  “He never accused me of killing someone,” I say viciously.

  “Is that the baseline for being a good enough parent?” James fingers the rim of his glass. “If so, I’ve failed.” Standing, he pulls off the white jacket and rips off his bow tie. Fit and trim, like Declan, his stomach is flat, shirt a bit askance after his partial undressing. Shrewd eyes meet mine as he raises one hand and a waiter attends to us instantly.

  I cover my glass with my hand and shake my head ‘no.’

  James smiles, baring teeth. He’s just wolfish enough to scare me. Not in a sexual predator kind of way.

  Just a plain old predator. He’s dangerous. Any man who would blame his own son for—

  “I regret it. I never should have said that to Declan, and even now, ten years later, I find I can’t help myself. It slips out. I’m really angry at me. Not him.”

  The confession feels insincere.

  “You don’t believe that.” I pull a piece of bread bigger than my head from the basket and take a bite. The crust is so hard you could use it to stone rape victims in backwards countries with misogynistic laws. I think I just cracked a tooth. Good thing I have whisky to help with the pain.

  “What do I believe, Shannon?”

  “You’re pissed at your wife.”

  “Beca
use she chose to save Andrew? What kind of a father would feel that? I’m not a monster.”

  “No, not because of that. Because she died. Period. You’re just pissed. Anyone would be. It’s human. You’re allowed to be human.”

  He sighs slowly and looks angry.

  “And so is Declan,” I add.

  “If I’d been there, I might have—”

  “What? Been racked with guilt like Declan?” I shake my head. “It’s a freak accident. They happen. In fact, if Declan hadn’t done exactly what his mom told him to do, you might have lost Andrew, too.”

  “I know.”

  “And you told Declan to stop dating me because I’m too similar to his mother,” I mutter, making the connection.

  The booming laugh that greets my statement rattles my teeth. “You? Similar to Elena? No.”

  “But we have the same affliction.”

  “Yes.”

  James worries the glass in front of him and glances at the ice bar, where Andrew’s back in place, this time in a suit and tie, talking with what looks like a manager.

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a child or a wife or a loved one with a severe, anaphylactic allergy like this, Shannon?”

  I point to my heart. “Ummm....”

  “No.” He sighs. “I am absolutely not trivializing what you live with, day in and day out, but no. It’s not the same as loving someone who has it.”

  I frown. Where’s he going with this?

  “When we learned Elena was severely allergic we went to the best specialists. Took all the preventive measures. Trained the boys and had them tested. I took every damn precaution known to man, mitigated risk as much as possible, and—” He spreads his hands out in a gesture of supplication. “Look what happened.”

  “You can’t live in a bubble,” I say, helpless.

  “Do you understand,” he says through gritted teeth, “what it is like to live in constant, vigilant fear that the person you love can, through the simple, random accident of brushing up against a bee or a wasp, be taken from you? To twitch every spring and to sigh with relief every fall at the first frost? To live in that state incurs a kind of madness.”