by Allyn Lesley
The Faulkners have weathered many a financial storm like the Stock Market Crash of ’29 but rebounded within a year tops. The beginning of the end started with the ’73 oil crisis, then worsened on Black Monday in ’87. During this last turmoil, yachts were sold, overseas properties were put up for short sales, and extensions of loan repayment dates were pleaded.
Nothing has turned the tide back in my father’s favor. He now blames the recent twenty-nine-year streak of financial woes on a number of things, depending on how much gin and tonic he’s consumed. The excuses range from poor returns on investments, thieves swindling the family’s bank accounts, and imbeciles acting as his financial advisors.
The fourteen-acre estate, which has been held for five generations now, is fighting a losing battle with foreclosure signs on its grounds. Maria sends me out each morning to move the “offending item,” as she’s labeled it, to the pool house. The latter part of last year, the rest of the dismal staff, who’d been kept on to save face with our neighbors, were dismissed.
“Now the bride and groom will be joined by Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner on the dance floor.” The master of ceremonies’ booming voice intrudes on my thoughts.
I glance toward the center of the room where the two couples are twirling happily around. My gaze flits over Monica’s reed-thin frame, which shows off her second dress for the evening, then up to swaying long, dark brown hair with its usual center part before settling on her slender shoulders where the family’s fate resides. Older than me by eight years, Monica’s been groomed since birth to be the family’s savior. A lot rests on those shoulders. She throws back her head, laughing at something her husband says, and I figure said body part seems sturdy enough to handle the weight placed on them. She’s more than capable of accomplishing her parents’ dream, having been successfully pawned off to a disgustingly rich man who’ll in turn fund their lavish lifestyle.
My sight moves away from my perfect half sister and over to her equally perfect parents. My father’s dark suit is tailored, an expensive treat he hasn’t enjoyed in a while, and his full head of gray hair contemporizes his otherwise portly appearance. Maria’s brunette hair is glossy and pulled into a chic, high ponytail, and her makeup is flawless.
I look away from the people I feel no connection with and wonder the reason. Maybe it’s because I came into the Faulkners’ life in an unsavory manner. It’s the same story told a thousand times over. A torrid affair between the only son of a wealthy family and their maid that led to a pregnancy no one wanted and a death no one could’ve predicted.
“No wonder I feel out of place,” I mutter under my breath. It doesn’t help that I was found on the back steps of the Faulkners’ kitchen inside a cardboard box with a note stuck on top of it. Some believe I just appeared that night, while I’ve heard whispers that my mother’s mom dropped me off before quickly vanishing into the thick of the night never to be seen again. My father swears on a stack of Bibles the note, where she apologizes for initiating the affair and then gives me to them, was in my mother’s handwriting. My hands form into fists in my lap as I remember the one time I had the courage to ask to see the note and was informed it had been destroyed.
Nearby hand-clapping draws my focus back to Maria and my father, who are now seated and drinking champagne as the bride and groom dance to a final song. I give my stepmother a lot of latitude, pretend not to hear her snide remarks, and overlook her hatred. It has to be difficult to swallow your spouse’s indiscretion. Not only did he cheat, but Maria’s forced to see the fruit of his indiscretion every day. I can’t imagine her anxiety from acknowledging, living with, and raising her husband’s bastard right alongside the rightful heir to the Faulkners’ empire.
A long time back, I was playing hide and seek with an imaginary friend, and I overheard some household staff whispering to each other.
“I need to find a new job.”
“Why?” the other ask.
“I heard Mr. Faulkner sold off the last of his fancy horses. You can be sure one of us will be getting a final paycheck come Friday. Mark my words.”
I slow down at the corner to listen. My twelve-year old ears pick up that something vital is being discussed.
“They tell us to understand when our checks are late or short but you see Mrs. Faulkner still have money to buy whatever she wants though.”
I lose interest in their conversation when I remember I’m supposed to be finding a hiding spot. I rush past them.
“Quiet down. Here comes blacksmith.”
My old sneakers screech against the tiles, stopping me where I am while my memory chews on what I’ve heard. “What?” Is she talking about the medieval job function?
Neither women gave me an answer and it took me a couple of years to figure it all out. Turns out I was called black Smith behind my back, another reference about my irrelevancy. I’m not alabaster white as everyone else in the Faulkner lineage, and the last name, Smith, is one I inherited from my dead mother.
“Won’t you give the happy couple a congratulatory clap again?” the master of ceremonies encourages while I watch the pair circle the dance floor.
Four
Their dance ends, and they walk gracefully to their sweetheart table.
Cascading floral arrangements of the softest shades of ecru spill artfully from the room’s chandeliers as well as the centerpieces that transform the hall from bland to majestic. On the left side, near where other dignitaries are clustered, I note that Maria and my father are seated with the mayor of New York City and New York State’s governor.
I’m seated next to a young socialite and her boyfriend on one side, and on the other side, a leering forty-something man whose hand likes to rest on my thigh while he speaks. Beside him, his tipsy wife is too busy talking to the rest of the table to worry about her spouse’s disappearing hand. Conversation flows between the guests, who all know each other, as a sumptuous five-course meal is served. My culinary palate is widened by Chef Masaharu Morimoto’s fine cuisine, but my dining experience comes to an abrupt end when Mr. Handsy’s fingers sink into my thigh. Again.
“Get your hands off!” I whisper harshly. My fingers crush his, reinforcing—in no uncertain terms—my statement.
His overly red jowls tell me he should lay off the scotch, which won’t happen. I’m left with one option—find another seat. While a waiter refills his glass, I take the opportunity to escape from the table.
Walking through the ballroom’s double doors near the back, I exhale a long pent-up breath and inhale the fragrant woodsy smell just beyond the curtain of darkness that stretches for yards in front of me. The claustrophobic feeling from the table melts away as I take in the dropped lighting hanging from the tree branches overhead.
The deck is transformed into a semi-secluded magical oasis. I twirl under the stars of the night and the twinkling lights, imagining I’m dancing with my broad-shouldered man. He looks deeply into my eyes as if he’s about to—
“Nice moves.”
The powerful timbre in the voice makes my feet falter. My heart skips a beat before the adrenaline pumps said organ stronger than ever. I clutch the top of the limestone ledge with its Roman stone pillars underneath to catch myself. The light breeze and the rushing water of the Hudson River nearby distort my hearing momentarily, and my mind wanders back to another time when I believed my hearing was playing tricks on me.
“He’s from Los Angeles, Daddy.”
There’s an excitement in Monica’s soprano voice I’ve never heard before. Usually she sounds bored when talking about her suitors.
“What does he do?” I hunch my ear closer to the closed office door. “What about his family?”
“He runs Drazen Inc. We haven’t gotten around to his family yet but he’s been vetted. Trust me. He’s on Forbes’ Billionaires list three years running.”
I blink, coming back to the outdoor patio. When I turn, there’s nowhere to hide from his startling emerald eyes demanding I return his stare. I’m hot,
then cold as goosebumps fly over my skin. Now, I’m hot again as his gleaming gaze inventories my every curve. Another light breeze comes through, blowing my dirty blonde curls all over. I tuck some strands behind my ears while I tell myself to calm the heck down. My pulse still races, ticking away in the silence. My breathing is uneven, and I swear the smirk gracing his lips now is because he can hear how fast my heart is beating.
“I should leave.” But I don’t move. I can’t. I’m distracted by how casually the wine glass is dangling from his long, adroit fingers and how his undone black bow tie gives him an edge like a rogue CEO. Danger, bad boy ... they all come to mind as I stare at him. Then I recall another time when Monica tried to describe the man who stands before me now.
“His company does something in technical security.” This time the conversation takes place between my half sister and her mother over the large island in the kitchen while I hover just out of sight. “When I Googled him, I found a lot written about his business acumen and about how his management style is as unique as Jack Welch’s when he ran General Electric. Just the other day, the New York Times quoted him on the front page of the business section. It said his personal drive for his company to remain at the top of its field is based on his—”
“Need to legitimize himself,” Maria interjects.
“And his work, Mother,” Monica hastily finishes.
“Don’t be insufferable. He needs people in our social circle to let him in so he can make more money. I was merely pointing out that fact. Now sit up and stop slouching over like you’re related to the Hunchback of Notre Dame.” The chastisement is quick; then she says, “I’m just glad you two met before a money-hungry tramp could sink her claws into his bank accounts.”
There’s a sigh, one that comes off as if Monica’s reminiscing. “The day I bumped into him on Fifth Avenue was the best day of my life. There he was, exiting his chauffeured Maybach, on the phone and not paying attention to where he walked. He saved me from falling and decided to take me to dinner that night. That was a little over two months ago, and here we are, a week from being married.” The sigh comes back again.
“Just remember he’s new money. His marriage to the Faulkner heir will authenticate his wealth, secure his social position, and help his company along the way.”
“My old name will open doors for him, while his new money will buy me more Louboutins and Birkins.”
They share a laugh, and I hurry away when I hear their footsteps.
Old money, new money. They’re all the same to me. Money affords one to be the master of one’s own life, to lead rather than follow, and money makes you very, very relevant.
“You’re Monica’s sister,” he says, bringing me out of my head. His statement isn’t beleaguered by a single doubt.
“Half sister,” I respond instinctively. Maria would skin me alive if I said anything else.
He stares deep into my eyes. I breathe out shakily. Even though Monica and I are only halfway related, I’m positive she’s mentioned my name to him. At least once. Even in passing. His continued silence reveals the truth.
Don’t let this bother you. Lock this away in the same chest with all those other crappy memories, Katie. It’s okay that Monica’s never mentioned my name or introduced me to my brother-in-law. After all, irrelevant is who I am. I need to leave. I need to escape the oppressiveness of being reduced to a nobody in front of this stranger.
He comes close, so close that his decadent cologne nearly sweeps me under. “I know who you are, Katherine.” The corner of his lips lift seductively, and he takes a sip from his glass. The way he says my name makes me feel as though I’m floating on air. “Are you enjoying the evening’s festivities?”
The yes that’s about to fall off my tongue dies in mouth when his hungry gaze drops to my lips. My teeth sink into my bottom one unconsciously. When his tongue swipes across his lips, I step away from the seductive allure. We’re indecently close even if we’re now related by marriage. His eyes darken as they lower from my heaving breasts straining against my strapless, coral lace dress down to my nude pumps. He inspects every inch of me as if I’m a newly acquired addition to his collection.
I fill the heated silence by awkwardly saying, “Congratulations. You and Monica will be very happy.”
He takes another sip. Then he lets me see that his eyes are trailing, again, over my entire body. The dress is modest, hitting my calves; however, under his devouring eyes, I feel like I’m in my birthday suit lying on a bed, saying, “Come hither, Jonathan.”
“You think?” he asks.
I blink a few times. Surely I’m imaging this exchange. I take another step back until my backside hits the ledge. Out of room. I swallow my nerves. “Yes, most certainly.” Desperate to rid our exchange of this sexual heaviness, I recite Monica’s virtues. “She’s charming, well educated, and beautiful.”
One long step and he’s too close again. If I take even a small breath my breasts will graze his chest. And I want that tiny graze. My nipples harden at the taboo thought even as my sight gobble up his angular face with its grass-green eyes then his wide shoulders and strong hands down to his toned legs.
He drains his wine glass, then puts it on the ledge by my hand.
“And what about you?” He runs an index finger along my jawline.
A shiver races through me without my control. He chuckles darkly at my body’s reaction.
I meet his near unrecognizable eyes. “What about me?” Excitement replaces the shivering.
“What are you like, baby girl?”
I frown. “I’m irrelevant.”
“There’s not a fucking thing irrelevant about what I’m looking at.”
Somewhere behind his wide shoulders a throat clears, surprising me, but it’s the deep masculine voice that startles me when it says, “Incoming.”
He takes a small step back, but it’s as if he’s been dragged against his will to move.
“There you are. What are you doing out here?”
Drazen’s a foot taller than I am and blocks me from his wife, who has yet to see that he has company. Monica’s arms circle his waist from behind but his eyes never look away from mine. Danger and something more nefarious and a little fascinating swim within his gaze. As if he enjoys his wife hanging on to him in the presence of another woman. Monica raises up a little in her heels to whisper into his ear. His lips lift up in a smile, but he’s still has me in his view.
That’s when she sees me.
“What are you doing here?”
She snarls out her question and its furiousness wallops my dignity as it was meant to. Monica steps to her husband’s right before scowling at me. There’s a glint in his eyes, which aren’t as dark as before, as if he wouldn’t mind seeing a catfight.
“No-nothing,” I stammer out.
Drazen doesn’t deign to respond to Monica’s question, and he doesn’t offer an explanation about his current location. I don’t need to be told that I’m not wanted. I quickly walk around him, not sure if I’m more afraid of Monica’s unreleased wrath or the heat that brewed between her husband and me.
Five
I grumble under my breath at the stupid bell that’s ringing.
The sound comes again: a reminder I need to be somewhere other than hiding out in my small bedroom where the help—when we had them—once slept. This is the current form of communication between Maria and me since my father’s death. Three days after Monica’s wedding, he was found cold and stiff in his bed. Now, with father gone, there’s no buffer between us, and Maria’s abhorrence for me is flagrantly displayed.
She’s not shy, complaining about me to me. She’s quick to tell me I’m only living in her home because of a clause in my father’s will. She’s equally quick to share that her lawyer is still trying to work a way around it. That particular announcement was a week ago at the start of May.
I reach the sitting parlor just as she adjusts a pillow at her elbow.
“I require more t
ea,” she tells me. In our history together, she’s never called me by name and now only rings the bell and gives her instructions.
Across from her, Drazen sits bemused, yet silent, in an armchair. I feel his eyes bore into my back when I walk between them to get her empty cup.
“Hurry along. Jonathan and I still have business to attend to,” Maria says in that haughty way she speaks to everyone.
I’m at the vintage console I was told was part of a Norwegian monarch’s private collection, refilling her teacup, and though I should mind my own business, I move at a slower pace to listen about this business. I’m about to drop a second sugar cube into the dark, hot liquid since there’s nothing but silence behind me.
“Sugar is the devil.” Her signature laugh that’s not really a laugh agitates the balance in the room. “I’m watching my girlish figure.”
I turn to face the sixty-one-year-old woman who’s long past being a girl. “Here you go.”
Maria waves a dismissive hand at me. So much for hearing about this business.
“Katherine, sit,” he commands.
I do with my knees knocking and knots the size of boulders in my stomach. When I dare lift my head, he’s looking over my choice of attire—dungarees with rips in parts of the front legs and a fitted T-shirt. I feel his eyes lingering on the swell of my breasts, my thighs, and even my toes in my flip-flops. When I glance his way, he’s smirking in his three-piece black suit. His green eyes are greedy, demanding.
I drop my head at the interest I see in them and fidget with the bottom half of my jean overalls wishing I’d worn something not so revealing. The three of us sit in silence with Maria’s cup grazing against the saucer making the only sound.
I look to my stepmother, catching myself before I call her name. The last time I made that mistake was the day my father was found, and I paid dearly. Her handprint was still visible at his small funeral. “What’s this all about?”
