Fractured (Not Quite a Billionaire #2)

by Rosalind James

  She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Uh…Hope. I can turn on the stove by myself and everything now.”

  “It’s not that,” I tried to explain, because Hemi wasn’t the only person I’d been thinking about over the past couple days. “It’s that you and I haven’t been spending as much time together since we moved in here. I’m sure you’re glad to have your own room, but still—it’s pretty different, isn’t it? You might be feeling a little neglected, even, by your big sister,” I tried to joke. “So if you want to do something later…go shopping, maybe? Go to the movies?”

  She didn’t seem to be feeling neglected, because she said, “I went to the movies last night, remember? I have to go again tonight, too. It’s pretty much killed my craving for popcorn, I’ll tell you that. Anyway, no, thanks. I want to go over to Mandy’s. We’re going to check out the thrift stores. And besides, shopping in the sportswear section of Saks doesn’t exactly add to your street cred, you know?” With that, she finished off the smoothie and started in on her Cheerios as if she had to grab them before they got away.

  The thrift stores? Street cred? That was a new development. Karen had never cared much about clothes. Lately, though, she’d been experimenting, branching out from her previous Happy Geek presentation in sometimes startling ways. Today, for example, she’d adopted a grunge look that I was having a little trouble adjusting to. Heavy black eyeliner, dark lipstick, a black T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and had apparently come pre-ripped, and a short gray skirt.

  “Matter of fact,” she said, after finally wrestling her breakfast into submission and climbing off her stool, but at least taking her bowl and glass with her today, “I should leave right now.”

  That was the moment when Hemi walked into the kitchen. He took a long look at Karen, and she put her dishes in the sink and said, “So, hey, I’m off. Brooklyn calls. And yes, I asked Hope.” Well, she’d told Hope, at least. “Enjoy your walk or whatever.”

  When she started to head past Hemi, though, he said, “Two things. First, clean up after yourself, please.”

  She sighed, but said, “Right,” swept her fruit and vegetable trimmings into the garbage, shoved her Cheerios box into the cupboard and, at a hard look from Hemi, put the milk carton back into the fridge and slammed the door before slotting her dirty dishes haphazardly into the dishwasher.

  “Satisfied?” she asked him, shoving the dishwasher shut with a knee.

  He said, “Not entirely. You’ll also need to change before you go anywhere.”

  “Why?” she asked. “I’m fine. This is what everybody wears. Besides, I have to wear an ugly uniform to school, and an ugly uniform to work. This is my only chance to express myself.”

  “No.”

  Karen’s dark brows drew together behind her glasses, her expression turning stubborn, a look I recognized from her childhood, though I’d been seeing it more lately than I had since she’d been about four. “What? Why not?”

  “Because it’s too sexually suggestive,” he said, leaping boldly into the breach, where brave women—well, where I—feared to tread.

  “It is not,” Karen said. “It’s grunge, that’s all. And anyway—ha. That’s all you do, is design stuff for women so they look sexy. And I’m not twelve, I’m sixteen. I’m allowed to look like somebody who might occasionally want to attract the attention of the opposite sex.”

  Hemi could match anybody on earth in the Hard Expression department, though, and he was doing it. Storm clouds ahead for sure, and time for me to step in, as I should have done from the start, instead of sitting back and letting him do my job for me. Why had I done that, anyway? “Well, yes, sweetie,” I said. “It is. Suggestive, I mean.”

  What was, you’re wondering? The pair of over-the-knee black stockings she was wearing with her clunky black shoes, that was what. Karen’s legs were long, and the skirt didn’t exactly reach her knees. In fact, there were a good four inches of long, slim thigh between the skirt’s hem and the tops of the stockings.

  It was a look, yes. What kind of look, though…It had bothered me when I’d seen it, but I was never sure how hard to come down on her. I’d never had to come down on her. She’d been snarky, always, but studious and responsible, too. But then, that was partially because she’d been sick for months, if not years, and we’d always been in fairly desperate straits financially. When you were right at the edge, you tended to cling together for balance.

  Now, though…things were different.

  “This skirt isn’t even that short,” she said, which was technically true. “Am I suddenly going to parochial school? Are you guys going to get out a ruler?”

  “You’re right,” Hemi said, causing Karen to look very startled indeed. “And if you take off the stockings, you’re all good.”

  Did that settle it? Of course it didn’t. “That makes absolutely no sense,” she said. “Then I’d be less covered up. You want to put Hope into a burqa, fine. I mean, not fine, because I don’t see why she has to do what you say. But whatever. I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “You’re not my fiancée, no,” Hemi said. “But you’re sixteen, and I’m responsible for you.”

  “Actually,” she said, “you’re not. Hope is. And how can she be your fiancée if…”

  That was too far, though, and even she saw it. She shut up, and I said in one big hurry, because the alternative was actually leaping between them waving a flag, “Hemi doesn’t tell me what to wear.” At her snort, I added, “Does he try sometimes? Yes. That doesn’t mean I listen, unless I think he’s right on rational reflection. He is a designer, you know.”

  “For thirty-year-olds,” Karen said, thankfully abandoning the hazardous ‘why-Hemi-can’t-be-your-fiancé-because-he’s-already-married’ tack. “If I wanted to look like some society lady, I’d be all set. I can’t wear socks, though? What am I supposed to wear instead, nylons?”

  I tried to look as calm as Hemi, but I was sure I wasn’t succeeding. “I agree with him,” I said. “The stockings have to go, sweetie, sorry.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  Hemi answered that one. “Because they’re a sexual fetish.”

  That was the nice thing about men, they came right out and said it. Or maybe that was just Hemi.

  Karen apparently didn’t think it was as nice as I did, because she crossed her arms and said, “It’s not up to me to dress so men don’t sexualize me. Men have the ability to control themselves. It’s not women’s responsibility not to show anything just so men don’t get excited. We aren’t in Saudi Arabia.”

  “You’re right,” I said. This one might be better coming from me. “It’s not your job to manage their reactions. But it’s also not your job to dress to give them a cheap thrill, either. Why should you? And there’s still what’s appropriate for you to wear and what isn’t, not when you’re sixteen.”

  “So…what?” she asked. “I’m supposed to wait until I’m eighteen to wear anything that doesn’t make me look like I’m ten, or forty? Should I wear a poodle skirt and saddle shoes, maybe?”

  “Cheers on your knowledge of mistaken trends in fashion history,” Hemi said. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

  “Fine,” she said. “When we meet the guys from school, and they think Mandy brought her little sister with her, I’ll just think, ‘Oh, thank you, Hemi, for saving me from getting any male attention ever. In my life.”

  Hemi said. “They’re already paying attention, trust me. You’re a very pretty girl, and you don’t have to do anything extra to get them to notice that. And by the way,” he added as if he’d just thought of it, which I knew wasn’t true, because Hemi never ‘just thought of’ anything, “if you want laser surgery so you don’t have to wear glasses, we should arrange that now, before school starts.”

  He actually rendered her speechless for a few long seconds, which was quite a feat. “If I say I want that,” she finally answered, “I’m still not going to stop arguing about what I can wear.”

&
nbsp; “Thanks for letting me know,” Hemi said gravely. “I won’t be expecting it, then.”

  “I’m also going to point out that you’re hypocritical,” Karen said. “Both of you. You like Hope to look good when she goes out.”

  “Your sister always has taste, and class as well,” he said, which was nice of him, but maybe not especially diplomatic.

  “And when he tells me that something I’m wearing to work is more suggestive than I realize,” I put in, “I listen, because he is a man, and he does know more about that than I do, or than you do, either. And he’s right that those stockings aren’t OK.” Back to the specific issue under discussion, not the Principle of the Thing, since Karen was capable of arguing any topic well into the ground, until all you wanted to do was throw your hands in the air and put your own battered, beleaguered point of view out of its misery.

  “Time for the bottom line,” Hemi said. “We’re done with this discussion. Take off the stockings, and you’re all good and can go see your friend. Or leave them on and stay home. Your choice. And I’ll drop Josh a note about the surgery, so if you want it, he can arrange it.”

  “Fine,” she muttered, stalking out of the room. “Welcome to the patriarchy.”

  Hemi

  “Wow,” Hope said blankly. “Adolescence shows up with a bang. Where did all that come from?”

  She wasn’t looking too flash this morning. She was fairly white, in fact, and I felt a stab of concern. Had I been too hard on her the night before? “All right, sweetheart?” I asked.

  “What? Of course.” She got up and put her own plate and cup into the dishwasher, then grabbed the sponge and began wiping down smoothie-splattered surfaces.

  “Why do you do that?” I asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Clean up after Karen. She’s sixteen.”

  She laughed. “That’s why. Because she’s sixteen.”

  I went to her, took the sponge from her hand and chucked it into the sink, then pulled her in for a cuddle. “Rough, eh,” I said against her hair when I felt her sigh.

  “Oh, a bit,” she said, going for airy and not quite succeeding. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

  “Mm. We’ll have to manage it together, then. Why didn’t you come say good morning to me?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.” Her voice sounded a bit choked, or maybe that was my imagination. “You looked so busy.”

  “I was.” I stepped back and gave her a kiss on her soft mouth. “But a kiss doesn’t take long, eh. And hang on a tick, will you? I’ve got something to show you, since we’re on the subject. You could make another cup of tea, maybe, sit a bit longer.”

  “Do you want one?” she asked. “Or actually—I wondered if you’d have time to take a little walk for an hour or so.”

  “Warm out there,” I said dubiously. Late July, to be exact, and the mercury was rising fast this morning. I had too much to do, and Eugene coming in the afternoon.

  “I’d like to anyway, though. We could…I don’t know. Walk in the park. Get an iced coffee or something. A half hour, even, if that’s all you have.”

  I started to say no, but she was looking tense again. Why?

  Oh. “Am I meant to…” I began cautiously. “Be doing something more with you than we’ve been doing?” Which, come to think of it, had been…what? Dinner out once a week, a few workouts in the same gym, and, yes, sex.

  Huh. That had suited me, but maybe…“Am I not paying enough attention to you?” I asked.

  “What?” she said. “No. I know you’re busy, and we’re not…courting anymore, or whatever. I get that.”

  “Rules of negotiation again,” I told her. “If you want something, ask for it. Don’t tell me it’s all right that I’m not giving you what you need.”

  She looked confused, as well she might. Once again, I was ceding territory I didn’t have to, breaking all my own rules. She finally said, “I don’t know what’s reasonable, I suppose. I’ve never lived with anybody. But OK, I do want to go for a walk and have a talk. If you can.”

  I sighed. “Don’t say ‘if you can.’ Just ask.”

  “I just did,” she pointed out, and I had to laugh and give her one more cuddle.

  “Then we will,” I said. “In a few minutes. First, I’ve got something to show you.”

  Perfect timing, actually, while she was softened up. I hadn’t broken my rules that much. Strategy was in my blood, after all.

  I came back a few minutes later to the slammed door that was Karen leaving the apartment in a huff but without black stockings. There were two cups of tea on the counter, and Hope was back on her stool. I sat down myself, put one of the documents in front of her, and said, “Here you are.”

  Deed of Trust, it read at the top, followed by two pages of legalese.

  She began to read through it. “Hemi,” she said, flipping to the second page and scanning it. “This is…”

  “Karen’s educational trust. Signed by me, as you see, with the two of us listed as trustees. Done and dusted.”

  “But this is two hundred fifty thousand dollars. And we aren’t even married.” Her hand was shaking some, and the paper was rattling.

  “Yeh.” I put my hand over hers, because I couldn’t stand to see Hope shake. “You forgot to add ‘yet.’ Not even two more months, baby. We’re going to get there. Meanwhile, private universities aren’t getting any cheaper, and if I’m responsible for Karen, she’s not going to get financial aid unless it’s purely on merit. And then there’s whatever’s beyond that degree, because I reckon that girl’s going to be a lawyer. It’d be a pity to waste all that verbal ability, eh, or that gift for an argument. Her dad must’ve been part pit bull, I’m thinking. It can’t have been your mum.”

  “How do you know?”

  I smiled, put my hand behind her head, leaned over, and kissed her once more, just because she looked so worried, and maybe because kissing Hope was one of my very favorite things. “I’m not saying you’re not strong, but you don’t exactly have a burning need to win, do you? Could be that you even enjoy losing at times.”

  I brushed a curl back from her cheek, and she turned the same delicious shade of pink she’d been the night before when I’d been pushing her, bit by irresistible bit, ever further out of her comfort zone. I did love playing with toys, especially when I was playing with Hope.

  “Nice try,” she said after a moment, “to distract me and keep me from noticing that “if I’m responsible for her’ part. I’m not saying I’m not grateful,” she hurried on to say. “I’m incredibly grateful, and you know it. This is beyond generous, even though it makes me really uncomfortable.”

  I wasn’t quite as happy to hear that, but then, it was only what I’d expected. I said, “It’s not generosity. It’s what I want to do for Karen, and most of all, it’s what I want to do for you. I want you to lose the worry, because you don’t need it anymore. Which brings us to the second half of the program.” I slid the second document across the counter.

  Only one page this time. Simple, and with a signature line that hadn’t been filled in yet, because I couldn’t sign this one.

  “Power of attorney,” she said slowly.

  Here we went. Time to be persuasive without being overbearing. Fortunately, I’d thought it through. “Yeh. I won’t lie to you, I still want to be Karen’s co-guardian as well. It would give her security and you the backup you need, and give us a united front. That would be obvious to her, too, because it would be legal. Same reason I want to marry you. It’s not just a piece of paper, eh. When it’s official, it’s real. The guardianship takes a bit more, though. An application, a court proceeding. And you haven’t agreed to it, of course,” I hurried to add, seeing her stiffen. “But we do need to do this.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, let’s think about it.” I kept my voice perfectly level. Logic, and nothing more. “What if you’re out of town, or even across town? What if Karen’s taken ill, in hospital again? What if h
er school rings up when you aren’t available to say that she’s decided those stockings are perfect under her school uniform, or that she’s leading a hunger strike to protest the sexual politics of the Family Life class?”

  “She already took Family Life.” Hope was clearly grasping at straws now, and I couldn’t quite see why.

  “That’s right. She did. And now that she’s learned to put the condom on the banana, wouldn’t it help to have somebody else she can call? Wouldn’t it help for her to know that I’ll be there in a heartbeat if she needs me?”

  She sighed and ran a hand over her forehead. “Yes. Of course it would. I know you’re right. I just feel…I suppose that it’s going to be tricky, being between the two of you. Today being a prime example.”

  “You think so? I’d think it could be easier. Three more years to go here, and I can tell you for sure that there are going to be boys in them. I may know a wee bit more about that than you do, and be better prepared to deal with it, too.” I saw her hesitate, and went on, “You won’t be helping Karen by not telling her what to do, you know. She needs somebody to draw that line. Or better yet—she needs to see that line, and to know exactly where it is, so we don’t have to keep drawing it as much.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know Karen, you mean? How do I know myself?”

  “Hard head,” she suggested.

  “Hard head,” I agreed. “I need you to draw the line, because otherwise, I’ll keep pushing until I’m well and truly over it and it’s too late to step back. I think Karen needs both of us to do that, and official makes it better.”

  She picked up the paper, read it over again, and said, “What am I so afraid of? What you said makes sense.” Not as if she were asking me, though, so I didn’t answer, just waited. “I can revoke this, right?” she finally asked.

  “Karen may not be the only one with a hard head,” I said, and Hope smiled, but still looked troubled. “Yes,” I said. “You can. The power is yours.”