A Reluctant Enterprise

by Gun Brooke

  “That was harsh. I mean, in 1989 it wasn’t a big deal to have a kid as a single parent. I know your family moved with the big elephants on the East Coast, hell, probably in all of the US, but still, it wasn’t the Dark Ages.”

  “You’d think so. When you’re a DeForest you have a hell of a lot of fuck-off money.” Aeron pushed the papers back into the box. “I guess I learned about my mother in a weird way today. I caught a glimpse of how her teachers saw her. She wasn’t stupid. She was actually smart when she wanted to be.” Feeling confused at how her own vision of her mother had begun to blur, Aeron shoved her fingers into her hair, massaging her scalp.

  “I come from a similar background as you, back in Sweden, and I can testify that it can be damn hard. The expectations, especially if you’re an only child, are immense. There’s talk about the company, the empire, and your obligation from the moment you get out of the cradle.”

  “Is that why you’re here in the US?” Aeron regarded Sylvie curiously. She’d lost some of her lipstick during the video conference, but that only seemed to rejuvenate her looks. Paler now, her lips looked softer and fuller. Her wavy hair caressed her cheeks and neck where it moved when she spoke.

  “Partly, I suppose. I have worked for fifteen years to reach the position as CEO of Thorn Industries US. My…my father didn’t think I had it in me.” It was hard to see if she shrugged with emphasis or if she drew a deep breath.

  “Shows what he knows,” Aeron said laconically.

  “Sure does.” Smiling broadly now, Sylvie said, “My parents are driven people, each in their own way, and I suppose I am too. I’ve worked toward my single most important goal for so many years, I can’t slow down now.”

  “Yet you agree to, no, even suggest, babysitting me.” Wrinkling her nose, Aeron studied Sylvie’s expression. She expected Sylvie to agree, but instead she gave an open smile and gestured with her hands, palms forward.

  “That could well turn out to be my best deal. I really liked the Maeve I got to know over the years, and if I can tell you about her…” Sylvie’s cheeks colored faintly. “Did that sound presumptuous?”

  Aeron considered the question. “No. No, it doesn’t.” She couldn’t allow this nice and apparently caring side of Sylvie to sway her. Sylvie was in this for the money. She wanted to save her company and shut out whoever tried for a hostile takeover. Dreaming up a scenario that she and Sylvie could become friends when they both had clear, personal agendas was preposterous.

  “Anything else of interest in that box?” Sylvie peered over the edge.

  “Only some photos, I believe. It was mostly school stuff, so perhaps those are from her high school.” Aeron dug them out and began to browse through them. “I don’t recogni—wait. This must be Maeve.” Staring at the picture of the young, strawberry-blond girl dressed in loose white pants, a white shirt with a mandarin collar, and a blue denim jacket with the biggest shoulder pads known to mankind, Aeron felt her stomach tighten. She turned the photo over and saw the text: Kelly, Dana, Jack, and me, March 1988.

  Flipping it over again, she examined the faces of the other three. She couldn’t remember having seen them while growing up. But perhaps she had. People change when they become adults. Maeve’s eyes glittered as she gazed into the lens. She posed, as always, but the laughter evident on her face seemed authentic. “Here. Look.” She passed the photo over to Sylvie. “Apart from Maeve, I don’t recognize any of the others.”

  Sylvie studied the photo carefully. “Neither do I. It’s unmistakably Maeve in the denim jacket. I can’t believe how well she aged. She looked a lot like this.”

  “She was nipped and tucked a little bit, but not as much as some of her peers.” Aeron wondered why that was. Maeve had been as vain as people come, but apart from her teeth, lips, and a few wrinkles around her eyes, her mother had seemed content in her own skin. “She didn’t socialize with many of her peers. She hung with people my age or even younger. Booze, cocaine, and even ecstasy, those were the things she claimed kept her as young as her entourage. I stopped trying to convince her about the dangers eventually. Who knows? If I’d persevered, she might have been alive today.”

  “No. Don’t go there.” Sylvie placed a hand on top of Aeron’s, which made her go rigid. Not very many people touched her, and this kind gesture made her mouth go slack. Still, she didn’t withdraw her hand from under Sylvie’s, as she somehow knew that would feel worse. Sylvie squeezed her hand for a moment and then removed hers. “This was her life, her choice. I tried to reason with her too, and for weeks at a time, she’d seem to be making an effort. Helena, Noelle, and I began to have hope she meant it.”

  “Helena Forsythe and Noelle Laurent? I saw them at the funeral.”

  “Helena and Noelle have a house in the Hamptons across from Maeve’s. I suppose that’ll be yours too now.”

  Groaning, Aeron wondered if the room had ventilation issues or if she was about to have a panic attack. “So Maeve let you down, of course.” She tried to focus on their topic, but it wasn’t easy as vertigo was about to hit any moment.

  “Needless to say, we were disappointed several times. Your mother seemed haunted during those times when she had yet another setback.”

  “Setback? Don’t you have to have succeeded for slightly longer than she did for it to be called a setback?” Aeron heard vitriol permeate her voice but couldn’t stop. “Maeve was full of good intentions. There wasn’t one good intention around she didn’t love, or attempt.” Aeron flung her hands in the air.

  “The thing was, after so many years trying to be like she wanted me to be—to lie to people, preferably guys, about my status, to forgive her every ‘setback,’ and most of all, to let myself be pulled into her magic—no, I don’t deny she had a masterful pull on people, including me.” Aeron inhaled and then coughed. It was as if she couldn’t breathe properly.

  “But eventually even the strongest supporter becomes immune to all the surprises and excuses. She could easily make you adore her when it suited her, only to make sure you knew she could toss you aside at a whim.” Aeron was hoarse now, the tears clogging her throat as she refused to let them fall from her eyes.

  “Yes, she was all that, but this time, I think she really was trying to change.” Sylvie pulled the chair closer to the table and held Aeron’s gaze. “I know it sounds contradictory, but she was in the process of turning her life around. She did still go to some parties, and she must’ve done so the day she crashed.”

  “With a blood-alcohol level sky-high and testing positive for cocaine. How can you say she tried to get sober? She still drank and did drugs. She still partied.” It was strange how cornered Aeron felt as soon as Sylvie tried to be reasonable regarding Maeve. Sylvie hadn’t lived her entire childhood with a young woman who had no inkling whatsoever what bringing up a child entailed.

  “What’s in the pink book?”

  Aeron flinched and realized she must have sat lost in thought for a while. She looked from Sylvie’s blue eyes to a leather-bound book at the bottom of the pile of photos. She opened it on the first page and froze.

  “Oh. Oh, God.”

  “Aeron?” Sylvie looked alarmed.

  “It’s a…it’s…” Aeron could hardly breathe and wished Sylvie were still holding her hand. “It’s a journal. Maeve’s journal for 1988 and 1989.”

  Chapter Ten

  Manhattan—Present Day

  Aeron curled up on the bed in her barren hotel room and squinted at the pink journal on the nightstand as if it were about to attack. With cold hands, she grasped a mug of hot chai tea, and still she had to pull a blanket firmly around her. She’d asked someone to come look at the air-conditioning unit, but so far, no one had showed up.

  Part of Aeron wanted to tear open the journal, but another part wanted to rip it to pieces and flush it down the toilet. Or burn it. Or rip it first and then burn it. She snorted. She’d probably burn down the entire hotel if she tried the fire approach. And who was she kidding? She wanted t
o read the contents so much it hurt. It was just…she was all alone, and when she tried to phone Annelie, her Adirondack neighbor and very close friend, the call went directly to voice mail.

  Annelie would never ignore her without good reason, so either she was in a meeting or out on the lake with her little sister and Carolyn, if she was on a break from taking over Hollywood. Who else could she call? Not Paulina. She was like family, which felt too close. What if Maeve had written anything about Paulina while under the influence of any of her favorite drugs?

  Sylvie. Sylvie knew Maeve enough to understand and perhaps well enough to be a sounding board. Would the stern but oddly vulnerable-looking Swedish boss be up for it? So far, only Aeron had gotten anything out of their agreement. Aeron had checked her email earlier and found the document from Lucas Hayes. After reading through it twice, she’d signed it and prayed Sylvie wouldn’t get cold feet.

  Now, Aeron browsed her contacts on her smartphone and found Sylvie’s number. Suddenly hesitant, she hovered with her thumb above the green symbol. Sylvie might be totally fed up with Aeron for one day. She’d spent four hours at Sylvie’s condo going through yet another of the smaller boxes, which had been filled only with receipts from expensive Fifth Avenue stores. Apparently, Maeve saved all such documents religiously.

  She pressed dial before she chickened out. After four rings, Sylvie answered. “Good evening, Aeron.”

  That was very formal. Ah. Perhaps Sylvie wasn’t alone. “Er. Sorry to call so late. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Aeron’s cheeks grew warm.

  “You didn’t. I was getting ready to have a little nightcap. I normally don’t drink alone, but after…well, let’s just say—”

  “That you’re a bit fed up with this whole arrangement,” Aeron said dryly.

  “What? No!” Sylvie sounded stunned. “Don’t put words in my mouth. If there’s anything I loathe, it’s when people assume I don’t mean what I say.”

  Taken aback, Aeron felt sick to her stomach as she blurted out her words. “Sorry. I’ll remember that. Anyway, are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything right now?” She might have guests…or a special someone there. That thought didn’t help Aeron’s sensitive stomach feel any better. What the hell was up with that? What did she care if Sylvie had a thousand torrid affairs?

  “I just said I was about to drink alone. If you keep me company over the phone while I have my brandy, I’ll listen to whatever question you have and try to help. Sound okay?” Now Sylvie appeared to be amused, which was much better than her annoyance.

  “Sounds okay.” She might as well get it out. “I’ve been worried about opening Maeve’s diary.”

  “Ah. I thought as much.”

  “You did?”

  Sylvie paused, and Aeron heard her inhale and take a sip of her drink. “If I found my dead mother’s diary and had tons of unanswered questions, I’d be freaking out too.”

  “Yeah.” Those were the right words. Freaking out. Aeron set the cell phone to speaker mode and attached the charger cable. Reaching for the journal, she let it rest against her bent legs as she made herself comfortable against the pillows again. She didn’t need the blanket any more. “Okay, here goes.”

  “Just take your time.” Sylvie’s slightly husky voice suited her drink. A little smoky, yet silky, it flowed through the phone and gave Aeron enough courage to continue.

  She opened the thick, once-glossy cover of her mother’s diary. For a moment she thought she could sense Maeve’s perfume. Was this her only one, or had she always written? Bracing herself, Aeron started reading out loud.

  1988

  Manhattan, June 11

  So. A diary. What kind of birthday present is that for a girl turning seventeen? I mean, the pink color of the cover alone? My father never did have much sense when it comes to picking out gifts. And as much as I frown upon this diary, the time he gave Mother a two-week stay at a fat-farm still wins first prize. The only thing this diary will be good for is to bitch about the idiots at school. I hate private schools. I detest uniforms. I throw up when I see how some of the faculty members suck up to mother and father just because they’re filthy rich.

  If I had my way, I’d go to one of the cool public schools where the students dress any which way they want. I’d wear my new jeans, the bright-pink top, and my purple-passion Nike sneakers. But as it is, I go to school wearing a dark-blue skirt, white shirt, and gray cardigan—and a fucking tie. All that I can live with, but the goddamn knee socks drive me insane. One day I tried wearing pantyhose to school, which made the uniform look infinitely better. Of course our principal spotted them at our first break and sent me home to change. I had to take home a note for my parents to sign. I don’t think I’ve ever heard my mother laugh so much. She’s rarely on my side, but that day she was.

  “What on earth is wrong with wearing pantyhose?” she asked, pouring herself yet another martini. “Half of America wears them.”

  Father piped up from his armchair. “You can see the girls’ legs. They want them covered up so the boys in the private school across the street won’t feel tempted.”

  “To do what?” I was furious. “See a hint of skin and go mad? Are boys really that immature?”

  It looked like father was about to answer yes, but mother glared at him.

  “Don’t be so hard on young boys,” mother said and put on her best understanding expression. “Soon enough you’ll start chasing them, and we’ll have to change our phone number.

  I wasn’t going to share my biggest secret ever. Not with these shallow people who called themselves my parents. They don’t mean any harm, but they’re…well, they’re more interested in the perks of owning a constantly growing fortune. Spas, vacations, yachting, you name it; they’ve done it all dozens of time. They have a large estate in the Hamptons, and I suppose that’s the perk I can really relate to. I enjoy the parties there, and as long as you carry enough dollars, nobody pays any attention to the fact your ID is fake.

  Aeron couldn’t take her eyes off the text. This young woman was the same person that would in less than ten months give birth to her. A child, really. Her handwriting was precise, which was a huge difference from the older Maeve’s larger-than-life, airy penmanship.

  “What do you think? Sound like Maeve?” Sylvie asked quietly.

  “Yes and no. I can’t remember her sounding this together and even eloquent. Well, you knew her. She sounded more like a teenager than I did, who was one at the time.”

  “Actually, I think it sounds more like the Maeve I knew than how you describe her,” Sylvie said thoughtfully. “Perhaps that’s because a few years had passed between your teenage years and her wanting to redirect her life. I got the impression you hadn’t talked to Maeve, not face-to-face, for quite a while.”

  Aeron’s chest hurt. “That’s right. It had been months since we spoke on the phone and years since I’d seen her. We’d lost each other long before…long before…” She couldn’t speak. Tears clogged her throat and immobilized her vocal cords. No matter what she might find out through the diary, or what questions Sylvie could answer…it was too late. There wouldn’t be any reconciliation between Maeve and her.

  “Hey. Are you all right, Aeron?” Sylvie’s voice, soft and calm, interrupted the pain. “Talk to me.”

  “I don’t think I can. Not yet. But I can read some further into the diary, if that’s okay.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Relieved, Aeron browsed a few pages until a sentence caught her attention as if it were written in fluorescent ink.

  Hamptons, June 19

  If it didn’t sound ridiculous, I’d actually apologize to an inanimate object right now. It turns out that being snarky about writing in a journal was shortsighted of me. Now when my life has changed forever, I need an outlet for all these feelings! And since I can’t tell a soul about what’s going on, I’m going to have to use this journal and keep vigil over it so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.

  I’m i
n love. I, who always ridiculed my friends at school when they went gaga for some boy, I’ve fallen head over heels—which is a stupid expression—and no matter what’ll happen, I wouldn’t want to miss out on feeling like this.

  If I could talk to anyone, I’d know just what they’d say. He’s too old. He’s not for you.

  There. It’s out there on paper and my insides are positively squealing.

  I met him at one of the coffee shops down by the marina. He was reading his paper, and reaching for his mug, he knocked it over just as I passed him. Thank God it wasn’t scorching hot as it splashed all over my naked arms and legs.

  He was so alarmed and polite at the same time. We exchanged phone numbers, and he made me promise I’d let him know if I developed blisters. I asked him if he was a doctor, and he said no. I don’t dare write his name here, as you never know who might get their hands on my journal. I’ll just call him A. I ended up promising to tell A if there were any residual marks from the hot coffee. I already knew I’d be fine, but I also knew I’d call him anyway.

  And since I did, we met at one of the less-populated beaches. He brought a ready-bought picnic basket and a blanket. We sat away from what little crowd there was, and I was glad I hadn’t told him my age or he might not have shown up and perhaps not offered me champagne. Not that I haven’t had champagne before, but like this, alone with A, it was different. Grownup different.

  He’s tall. I fit just underneath his chin when we stand next to each other. His eyes are green and his hair has the funniest dark-blond color. I don’t know what it is about his accent, because he’s from the South, but it does things to me that I’ve never felt before. It vibrates inside me, and when he says my name, it sounds so different. I used to loathe my name and had decided to change it as soon as possible. When I mentioned it, A said, ‘Please don’t,’ with that tone in his voice that turns me into a complete mess. I suddenly love my name because it’s beautiful to him.