by B. E. Baker
A sinking feeling in my stomach supplants the outrage and anger.
“Finally, after she and I had both given up hope that it would ever happen again, your grandmother became pregnant.”
That, I did not expect.
“It happened after a particularly bad season with Gingham Designs. She was exhausted, and I worried about the health of the baby.”
I’m worried too, and I already know the outcome. My father’s an only child.
“I brought in a designer to replace her, someone who was willing to compromise on quality and materials.” Grandfather doesn’t meet my eye. In fact, he’s looking at an empty spot on his desk, and the normal fire in his eyes is gone. “Greta did not take it well. I had never seen her so. . .”
“Angry?”
He shakes his head. “Worse. Despondent.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear anything else. I stand up. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“Sit down.”
I surprise myself by listening to him.
“Greta didn’t eat well, she didn’t sleep well, and she wouldn’t talk to me. When she lost the baby, a perfect little girl. . .” Grandfather coughs.
I did not expect anything like this when I decided to come here today. I expected joking, or chiding, or criticism. I figured I’d hear a lot of excuses about infidelity, but I didn’t expect to hear about an aunt I never knew I almost had. I didn’t expect to hear about normal marriage issues. My heart hurts, and my eyes sting. I breathe in and out deeply through my nose. There are many things in life I will never do.
Crying in front of my grandfather is near the top of the list.
“She never forgave me,” he says. “And I’m not sure whether she blamed me more for ruining her business or because we lost the baby. I’m sure they were both my fault, so I didn’t even argue with her when she left.” His voice is small now, almost broken. “I should have done something. I’ve spent decades wondering whether I might have brought her back if I’d made the effort to do it.”
“Obviously it haunted you, right through the next thirty girlfriends and five wives.”
Grandfather doesn’t yell at me this time. He looks me dead in the eye, looking his age for once. “That’s fair. I handled it all very poorly. I knew I’d ruined the only real thing I’d ever had. I didn’t deserve another Greta, and I never came close.”
“Well.”
“Can you do it?” he asks.
“Can I do what?”
“Forgive me.”
Gigi wanted me to forgive him. She knew all of that, suffered through it, and perhaps he’s right that she didn’t want to talk about it. After hearing grandfather and seeing his reaction to the story, I believe him. He’s still a lousy guy, but maybe he’s not as inherently evil as I thought. I’m disappointed in his life choices, but I don’t hate him anymore, which was Gigi’s goal, I imagine. “Maybe.”
“Well, I never managed it myself,” he says. “So I applaud your tender heart if you do.”
That pulls a chuckle from me. I’ve never heard any part of me described as tender. “Look, we may never be best friends, or pen pals, or even regular dinner companions, but I’ll throw away the voodoo doll I had made for you a few years ago when I get home.”
Grandfather’s eyes light up. “Don’t throw it out. Send it to Diane. I imagine she’ll make good use of it.”
“Your wife is the one who sent me a coupon code to buy it,” I say. “I’m sure she has her own already.”
He runs his hand over the stubble on his chin and leans forward, placing his elbows on the top of his desk. “You’ve inspired me today.”
“Excuse me?”
“I already told you I’ll soon have fourteen kids, and you’re one of my twelve grandchildren.”
“You’re virile. I get it.”
“Actually,” he says. “I didn’t tell anyone this, but I had a heart attack a month ago.”
I blink.
“I’m alright now, although my diet is restricted, and they have me on some kind of exercise plan. But it made me think. I feel fine, and I’m as healthy as most any seventy-five year old can boast to be. Even so, I won’t live forever.”
This is just now occurring to him?
“Do you have any idea what I’m worth?” His brow furrows.
I shrug.
“Three and a half billion dollars.”
“Impressive,” I say. I even mean it.
“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your net worth?”
“I didn’t realize this was going to be an ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours’ type of conversation,” I say. “I’m embarrassed to say that I’m not sure.”
Grandfather chuckles. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know. You’re worth nine hundred million right now, give or take.”
It’s not that impressive a magic trick for him to puzzle out my net worth, not for someone in the business world. “Fulton Bank does alright,” I say.
“When you were a small child and you came to visit me, do you remember what you always spent hours and hours doing?”
Who remembers what they did at the age of three or four? I shake my head.
“You would build the most intricate and impressive block towers I’ve ever seen a toddler build. They had arches, and they reached up as high as your arms could stretch.”
“Okay.”
“As soon as you finished the tower, do you know what you did?”
“No idea.” I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with this entire line of conversation. “Did I demand you tell me how fantastic it was?”
“That’s what your father would have done. I’ve never met anyone more motivated by praise or devastated by criticism than my firstborn. But you didn’t care whether anyone else liked it. You would place the very last block, and then a sort of manic glee would grip you, and you would level the entire thing to the ground.”
“Okay, well, that’s an interesting story.”
“I hoped you would get it out of your system, but you never did.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but I can assure you that I haven’t played with blocks in at least thirty years.”
“You destroy things,” he says. “You destroyed any chance of a future like your father’s, and then to make sure he knew why you did it and how badly you despised both him and me, you borrowed my money and used it to create a financial wrecking ball.”
And I’m back to wanting to punch him in the nose.
“Ah, I’ve struck a nerve. But you should be old enough to acknowledge your life for what it is, a giant middle finger to the people who trained you. You’ve spent decades and made a tremendous amount of money tearing up companies and selling the parts to the highest bidder, but it’s time to retire from that pursuit.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask. “You said it yourself. I’m in my early thirties, and I’ve amassed nearly a billion dollars.”
“You’re almost the most successful of my offspring,” he says. “Almost.”
“Who’s worth more than me?”
“Your father. He’s the only one who even comes close, and he amassed his fortune by building something.”
“Fulton Hotels,” I say. “I know.”
“I’ve been planning to leave it all to him,” he says. “I’ve always planned to leave him the bulk of my assets. I mean, I’ll leave ten million each to the rest of my feckless children and grandchildren, secured so they only have access to the income. But the bulk of it, my empire, I’ve always intended to leave to James. That heart attack reminded me to arrange my affairs soon. I’ve had my lawyer draw up documents for an irrevocable trust. I’m going to keep a few hundred million, enough that Diane won’t leave me, enough to ensure some of the children and grandchildren still visit, but it’s time for me to transfer control of the ship.”
“I don’t care what you do with it,” I say. “I don’t want it.”
“Now don’t lie, little Jimmy. It’s beneath yo
u.”
“Let me put it this way, I don’t begrudge your decision to give it to my father, or any other person you choose.”
“But you’d prefer that I give it to you, I imagine.”
My eyebrows rise upward. “Is that on the table?”
Grandfather shrugs. “It wasn’t, but now that you’re here, I’m wondering whether I don’t have a chance to set something right that I messed up years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father doesn’t need a dime from me. I paid for the best education for him, the best of everything. When he turned twenty-one, I gave him ten million dollars to start up his hotel chain. I also co-signed on his first hotel.”
“Did he repay you?”
“It wasn’t a loan,” grandfather says. “It was a gift.”
“I repaid every dime you ever gave me,” I say.
“Of course you did. You can’t tear down a building if someone else helped you build it.” He grins and his eyebrows bob up and down. “Not without feeling guilty about it, anyway.”
“I’m not going to tear down my own company,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“You don’t have a company,” he says. “You have a consulting firm that shreds things, and you have a bank that allows you to do it more effectively.”
I stand up. “I’ve forgiven you like Gigi asked, and I wish you well with your newborn, but I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Let me at least make my offer before you leave.” Grandfather stands up as well. “Your father’s company is worth fifty or sixty million more than yours are. He’s just shy of his first billion too.”
I don’t bother pointing out that Dad’s in his mid-fifties, whereas I’ve been at this for barely more than a decade. Which means that year for year, I’ve made triple what he has, and without the benefit of a ten million-dollar gift to start.
“If you can close that gap by Christmas day, if you’re worth over a billion by December twenty-fifth, I’ll leave you the three point two billion dollars I was going to leave to him. That gives you almost nine months to make a hundred million dollars.”
I can probably do it. I don’t actually care about the money, but I would love to stick it to Dad.
“But I have a stipulation.”
Of course he does.
“You can’t make it by knocking anything down. You have to build something between now and then. If you can increase your net worth by creating or growing something of value, or improving something you can convince me you’ll keep, then you win.”
He knows it’s the victory that motivates me. He might be more insightful than I gave him credit for, but he’s set me an impossible task. “No one can start a company, get it off the ground, and turn a profit of a hundred million dollars in nine months.”
“But someone who knows what they’re doing might be able to find companies that are struggling and rehab them into something profitable in that timeframe.”
It’s extremely unlikely I could do that, and trying will take every spare second between now and Christmas. But it might be worth the effort just to see Dad’s face if I manage to pull it off.
“I guess I’ll see you on Christmas,” I say.
Grandfather beams. “You can hold your newest aunt or uncle.”
Oh goodie. Time to go hunting for some properties on the brink of collapse.
3
Paisley
“I’m worried about the Thigpen return,” Mary says. “Holden said that the K-1s—”
“Stop,” I say. “You don’t need to worry about work stuff.”
“But I’ll be gone for more than a week, and with tax season barely ending—”
“You’re a work-a-holic, but I won’t let that ruin your wedding and honeymoon. In fact, I forbid it.”
“But can you check on whether or not—”
“I promise I will,” I say. “And so will Holden. And Betty. We’re all on top of this, and everyone we didn’t finish was extended. I showed you yesterday. Remember?”
“But did you check to make sure all of the returns we filed at the end were actually accepted? Because the IRS kicks them back sometimes—”
This may be Mary’s first year as the principal of the entire tax office, but I’ve survived years and years as her assistant. I compress my lips into a flat line and glare at her.
“I’m not a very good bride.”
“You’re a breathtaking bride.” She looks like the most elegant cake topper I’ve ever seen. Luminous, even. I glance down at my own mint green, fluffy-skirted, empire-waisted dress and try not to pull a face. “Luke deserves to have a bride who’s here, in this moment, thinking about the life she’s going to share with him. So stop thinking about work, right now.” I tap her on the nose. “In two weeks I’m taking time off, but not before you’re back and on top of things. Which means I’ve got this, and you don’t need to worry.”
“You know you’re so much more than my assistant,” Mary says. “You’re also my best friend.”
I smile. “I do know that, and on that note, I am about to be on Troy duty so Trudy can get a turn in here with you.”
“You’re just perfect.” Mary tilts her head and sighs. “I bet this time next year, we’ll be standing right here for your wedding.”
“Right here? You don’t think Paul will mind hosting my wedding and reception?” I quirk one eyebrow. “Because that would save me a bundle on venue fees.” I swipe her phone and stuff it underneath a pillow on the loveseat. “Do not even think about checking your email or texting anyone from the office while I’m gone.”
She swats at me, and I shoot out the door. I cross the backyard and head for the main house, sweeping the area for Troy’s curly mop. I check the mostly empty tables first to make sure he’s not writing on them. Troy has a sixth sense about permanent markers. If one exists in a four hundred foot radius, he will locate it.
And when he does, he writes his name on things. Lots of things. Things like furniture, and clothing, and purses.
I check the flower beds next. It would be just like Troy to have escaped his mother’s careful watch, only to dig a sequence of holes in Paul’s pristine flowerbeds. But there isn’t a single piece of mulch out of place. I turn toward the house next to check out the bathrooms. Troy loves to use toilet paper for a variety of creative and infuriating things. But I’m sidetracked when I notice a tall, dark, and handsome man leaning against one of the tent poles.
It’s the same man Trudy was relocated to sit beside last night. She said he was a bad egg, but Trudy’s down on pretty much all men right now. He was probably late on his taxes last year, or maybe he swiped someone’s parking space. He’s tall, at least as tall as Luke, but not quite as freakishly tall as Cole. Carefully trimmed, shaggy, dark hair frames a square jaw and an ever-so-slightly hooked nose.
I wasn’t kidding last night when I told Trudy he looks like a hawk. I’ve never wanted to be a rabbit quite this badly. As if he can hear my thoughts, he turns toward me and our eyes meet. A tiny thrill runs from the base of my neck down to the heels of my feet, and I square my shoulders to do battle. The corner of his mouth turns up just enough that I know he noticed me too.
When I offer him a half smile, he straightens. I hope that means he’s going to walk over here.
“Aunt Paiswey!” Troy says.
Right. The whole reason I’m wandering around. I glance down at Troy, whose face is covered with something sticky. He’s holding his hands out in front of him and they’re bright orangey-yellow.
“Whoa, sir,” I say. “What in the world is all over your hands?”
“The tables has flowers, and the flowers has powder paint in the middle of them!” He holds up a stargazer lily, one orange stamen dangling at an angle.
Trudy waves at me from two dozen feet away where she’s eating her last bite of eggs. I’m a little shocked to see Paul right next to her, since I thought he was on the outs. “Morning Paul, Trudy.” I wa
lk toward her, Troy trailing behind me. “I’ll take over with Troy. You two need to go get your sister and brother ready for this thing.”
“Are you sure?” Trudy asks, her eyes widening when she takes in Troy’s orange hands.
I chuckle. “Totally fine.” I snag each of Troy’s wrists to immobilize the threat. “That’s why I came dressed already. Mary loves me, but she needs her sister in there right now.”
Trudy side hugs me to avoid running afoul of Troy’s polleny fingers.
“Besides, when I’m in there, she can’t seem to stop thinking of more work things she needs me to check on.”
“She’s obsessed,” Trudy says.
“Try and get her to think about something else.” I gently shove Mr. Busy Hands toward the closest bathroom. It takes three rounds of soap and scrub before the majority of the orange pollen finally comes off his hands. Only his nails are yellow, and I’m not sure that will ever come off. Miraculously, none of it stained his adorable little sky blue suit.
“Do you think Chase needs to wash his hands?” Troy asks.
Oh man. Too many little kids, not enough grandparents. Troy helps me find Chase, who was painting pictures of what I think are supposed to be dogs on the wall in one of Paul’s guest bedrooms with the same orange pollen. Based on the amount of scrubbing that just went into cleaning Troy’s hands, I’m not optimistic that those images are ever coming off.
“Wow,” I say. “Your Uncle is going to love that creative, unique picture, I’m sure.” I march Chase and Troy back into the bathroom. Three rounds on Chase, and another round on Troy when he feels left out, and we’re finally ready to go. Chase’s suit didn’t escape entirely, but I reposition his tie to cover the worst of the orangey-yellow staining. Who knew flowers would be capable of making such a mess? If I was a florist, I’d have cut those things out.
