Neutral Grounds

by Jiffy Kate

  We finish unloading the truck and spend the next half hour soaking up that a/c I mentioned earlier while downing a few bottles of water.

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t hire a moving company. It’s very un-Sheplike of you.” Maverick tosses his empty water bottle in a bin by the back door then pulls a beer for each of us from the cooler he brought with him.

  “Come on, I’m not completely incapable of doing things on my own…or with the help of my best friend.” I take a swig of the cold beer, enjoying the crisp flavor on my tongue more than the water I’d just finished. “Besides, I only brought the necessities. This place came fully furnished, so I left everything else back in Dallas.”

  “Ahh, so you’re keeping your house on standby in case New Orleans doesn’t work out? That, my friend, is very Sheplike.”

  “Fuck off, man. You know I have to keep my options open.”

  “Oh, believe me, I do. But, in case you were curious, there’s nothing wrong with settling down. It’s pretty great, actually. You should give it a try sometime, especially since you have a big milestone coming up.”

  “Why must everyone harp on the fact I’m turning thirty?” I ask, tossing my empty can into the trash. “You’re sounding like my mother.”

  “Fuck,” Maverick mutters. “Sorry, man. You know I don’t want to be classified with her.”

  “I mean, age is just a number, right?” I ask him, kicking my feet out and relaxing back on the oversized leather couch. “I just don’t get why everyone is so hung up on it. What, do my priorities automatically change overnight when I turn thirty? If that’s the case, no wonder people dread it so much. I like my priorities right where they are and I’m nowhere near ready for them to change, regardless of my age.”

  “Well, you are Shepard Rhys-Jones,” Mav says with a matter-of-fact tone. “We all know the rules don’t apply to you.”

  I really hate it when he patronizes me, and normally, I’d throw a punch to his arm or gut to drive that fact home, but I let it slide since he did just help me unload all my boxes off the moving truck. Just because he’s a whole six months older than I am, Maverick likes to think he knows more about life and shit but he’s wrong.

  And I look forward to proving that fact.

  “So, how big of a celebration are we doing this year, Shep? Thirty is a pretty big milestone, or so I hear.” Carys laughs and pinches Maverick on his side, causing him to jump back with a surprised yelp.

  “You little…” he starts and reaches out to grab her around her waist and pulls her to him, eliciting a laugh from Carys. I pretend to hate it, but deep down, I’m mesmerized by it.

  For my entire life, I’ve always looked at relationships from a business standpoint. My parents married because the Rhys’s and Jones’s wanted to form a partnership, hence the hyphenated last name. Fucking pretentious bastards.

  It was part of the deal when they married that each family would be equally represented.

  All of my parents’ friends have similar relationships, most marrying for status—mergers and acquisitions. I’m not sure what my grandparents’ relationships were like because my maternal grandparents died before I was born and my paternal grandmother died shortly after. So, I’ve only ever known my father’s father. He spent his days in an office and his nights in his study. But I’m assuming they were similar people, my parents being products of their upbringing. That’s how it is in the circle we’re from.

  Rich breeds rich.

  Entitled breeds entitled.

  Silver spoons breed fucking silver spoons.

  Except for me and Maverick. Back in school, we gravitated toward each other, seeing in the other something we identified with, an intense desire to be our own people, regardless of what was expected of us. Sure, we followed in our parents’ footsteps for the most part, but we always knew when the time was right, we’d break free from the roles we’d been born into and find our own path.

  I’m glad Maverick is finally on his.

  And me, well, I’m getting there.

  “So, your birthday,” Carys says, pulling me out of my thoughts. “What are we going to do?”

  I shrug. “I just want to drink and see something naked.”

  “Did someone say naked?” Jules, the guy who helps out at the hotel walks by as we’re hanging out in the courtyard of the Blue Bayou, raising his well-groomed eyebrows in interest.

  “No,” I tell him pointedly. I already know what his suggestion will be and the one drunken night I experienced at Revelry is enough to last the rest of my life. About a year ago, after mine and Maverick’s first big sale, they talked me into it.

  I regretted it for three days.

  I think I was drunk for two of those.

  “Come Again?” Carys suggests, smiling over at Maverick. “Maybe we can do the cooking school thing before we go next door for drinks.” She gets more excited with each word. “And invite CeCe.” She jumps up and down and my stomach drops at the mention of CeCe.

  The ring of my cell phone saves me from giving away the emotions that get stirred up every time she’s mentioned or comes around.

  “Hello?” I say, placing the phone to my ear and walking off to have some privacy.

  “Shepard.” My mother’s voice sounds off, which is completely uncharacteristic. She rarely shows emotion or a chink in her well-dressed, high-end armor. “I have some…news.”

  After a brief pause, she continues. “Your grandfather has passed. The funeral will be Sunday, so you’ll need to cut your little vacation short and come home.” She clears her throat, bringing back the bravado and smooth outer shell I’m used to getting from my mother. “We’ll have the reading of the will the following day.”

  My chest feels a little tight at her news but not sad like I should be after hearing that my grandfather passed. Like everything else in my life, this just feels like a business transaction—something that has to be done and there’s an order to it.

  “I’ll catch the next available flight out,” I tell her, ending the call.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Maverick asks, making me jump a little before turning around to face him. “You just got here.”

  “Dallas,” I inform him. “My grandfather died.”

  When the words come out of my mouth, they take a shape and form I wasn’t expecting. There’s a sense of loss left with their departure—his departure. We weren’t close in the conventional sense of the word. He was always so serious and driven, just like my father. But he was never unkind. He sent me to summer camp and made sure I played sports. Back then, I felt like it was because he wanted me to be well-rounded and primed to take over the family business. But through the years, I got the feeling he was living vicariously through me in a way, giving me experiences and freedoms, he never had.

  And now he’s gone.

  Maverick’s hand comes down on my shoulder and grips tightly. “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Thanks, but you know there’s no need for sentimental condolences,” I say, shrugging him off. “This will go down like every other life event in the Rhys-Jones family—a business deal. We’ll show up, wear our black, shake hands with people who don’t give a shit about anything except how much money we have, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

  “Yeah, but still—”

  “But, nothing, Mav,” I interrupt. “I’m fine, really. Not all grandfathers are nice and loving like yours was, unfortunately. I’m more upset I have to be back in Dallas so soon. Speaking of, I guess I should go back to my place and make my travel arrangements.” I walk toward the door and slide my sunglasses over my eyes. “I’ll talk to you before I leave. See ya, Carys.”

  I give them a small wave before pushing my way out into the sultry New Orleans afternoon.

  Chapter 2

  CeCe

  “Thanks, Jim,” I call out over my shoulder to the older man who delivers my mail. Just like everyone else in the French Quarter, he’s like family.

  “Got something for you to si
gn today,” he says, catching me off guard. I expected him to be halfway out the door like usual. He’s always walking around like a man on a mission, worse than the speed walkers who make laps around the square for exercise.

  Finishing up the drink I was making, I hand it over to the customer. “Enjoy,” I tell her. “Come back and see us.” As I walk over to where Jim is standing by the counter, I wipe my hands off on my apron and catch a glimpse of the envelope.

  Nothing good ever comes in a registered envelope. Taxes, past due bills, notices—those are the sorts of things people pay extra money to make sure you see them and pay attention.

  “Sign here,” he instructs, sliding a card across the counter.

  “Thanks,” I say absentmindedly as I take the envelope and begin reading the return address.

  Laughlin Law.

  Huh, never heard of them.

  Grabbing a butter knife from the silverware caddy on the counter, I make quick work of opening the envelope. As I unfold the paper, my eyes are already scanning the letter.

  Miss Cecelia Calhoun,

  I’m writing you on behalf of my client, Theodore Duval.

  At the first line, my heart is already beating faster in my chest. Theodore Duval was my uncle. He died five years ago.

  Mr. Duval is contesting the will left by his father, Theodore Duval, Sr.

  Wait. What?

  I start back at the beginning, reading the first few sentences again, making sure I’m understanding them correctly. Theodore Duval, Sr.? I’m guessing that’s my Uncle Teddy. But who is this Mr. Duval? A junior? Which would make him what, my cousin? Why have I never heard of him? My mind is spinning as the door chimes.

  “Be right with you,” I mumble, unable to tear my eyes away from the crisp white paper in my hands.

  Working on autopilot, with my mind on the letter, I make a few drinks and serve some desserts, thankful it’s the middle of the day and between rush hours. I tend to the customers, forcing small talk when necessary and smiling when appropriate. But the second the last one leaves, I walk over to the phone that still hangs on the wall, dialing the only person who might have an idea what this is all about.

  “Hey, baby,” my mama’s familiar voice greets on the other end of the line.

  “Hey,” I say, unfolding the letter and scanning it again, hoping this isn’t what I think it is, but how could it—

  “I know this isn’t a casual call, you never call during the day…so, what’s going on?”

  She’s always been perceptive and reads me like the back of her hand. “I got a weird letter today…registered mail. I had to sign for it and everything.”

  “Okay,” she drawls. “Who’s it from?”

  “A Mr. Laughlin…” I say, pausing to swallow down the unease creeping up my throat, “on behalf of his client…Mr. Theodore Duval.”

  There’s a long, uninterrupted silence before my mama finally breaks it by clearing her voice. “Come again?”

  “Theodore…Duval,” I repeat. “How can Uncle Teddy send a letter from the grave?”

  “He can’t,” she says as she releases a huff of displeasure.

  “What’s this about?” I ask. “It says Mr. Theodore Duval is contesting Theodore Duval, Sr.’s will…that’s a lot of Theodores. I only know about one.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  I don’t like the sound of that.

  “Mama?” I ask, a warning in my tone, one I don’t usually take with her, but I don’t like the sound of this one bit. I don’t like the sound of anything that threatens me or my business, and in turn, my family’s well-being. “What is this about?”

  Her deep sigh is enough to make me want to crawl through the phone and demand answers. “Mama.”

  “Well,” she begins, hesitant and like she’s still trying to wrap her head around the information I’ve given her. “There was a rumor floating around when I was younger, too young to be involved in adult conversation. Your Uncle Teddy had moved to New Orleans and met a girl. Supposedly, they had some kind of whirlwind romance, but when her rich daddy found out she was with a shop owner from New Orleans, he demanded she come back home.”

  She breaks for another sigh and I brace myself on the counter.

  “Anyway, I remember them talking about her being pregnant and that was really why her father made her come home. Your Aunt Irene and Grandma were talking at the kitchen table one day. I’d just come from school and overheard them whispering. Mama said something about the girl’s family probably forcing her to take care of it…Now I know they were probably talking about her getting an abortion. I think that’s what everyone assumed. Uncle Teddy never spoke about her again…or the baby. But…”

  This time, the pause takes up the span of a minute, at least, or maybe that’s just how it feels because all of a sudden, I feel like my life is hanging on her unspoken words.

  “But what, Mama? Just spit it out.”

  “When I went to the reading of the will,” she begins again, taking small breaks to think as she speaks. “There was a letter with it…it was an old will…not even that official—something your Uncle Teddy had written up years ago, probably sometime after Mama and Daddy died, leaving just a few of us left. It said he left everything to his next of kin, which everyone in the room that day assumed was me, after his brothers and sisters died, that only left me…and you and Rory. He’d never married…never had any children…at least, that’s what everyone assumed.”

  That statement makes me think of what my old history teacher used to tell us.

  “You know what you get when you assume, right?” I deadpan, knowing she’ll get the reference.

  Her laugh holds no humor as she says, “You make an ass out of you and me.”

  “So, what you’re saying,” I continue, “is that Uncle Teddy left the building and business to his next of kin, which could be Theodore Duval…junior.” I just go ahead and connect the dots and rip the bandage off. It’s better to know what we’re dealing with than to sweep it under the rug and pretend like it doesn’t exist.

  “I wish I had better news for you,” she adds. “I… I just never…you have to know if I ever thought this was a possibility, I would’ve told you. Please know I didn’t keep this from you intentionally. No one ever spoke about the relationship or the baby. It was just one of those things that wasn’t brought up around the dinner table, like politics and religion.”

  I sigh, rubbing my forehead as I scan the space around me—everything in this shop feels like a part of me.

  Ever since the day I started working for Uncle Teddy, I just felt like I belonged here. I picked up the business in no time. He’d always joke that I could run it better than him. After I’d been here a year, I started in on him about opening up a coffee bar. He was hesitant, but I assured him he’d never have to run it, just help me get it off the ground.

  That’s how we worked—he kept the day-to-day, tried-and-true portion of Neutral Grounds going and I added in new life, bringing in fresh concepts. Sure, I never made it to business school, but I got plenty of on-the-job training. My years working with Uncle Teddy were like an apprenticeship. He taught me everything I needed to know and then some.

  Which is why, when he died five years ago and left everything to my mother, it didn’t feel strange in the least. She deeded everything over to me and I send her money every month and help pay for my younger sister’s college tuition. It’s how this family works.

  “What are we going to do?” This time, when my mama speaks, it sounds too small and too timid.

  I straighten my back and take a deep breath, wiping back the stray strands of hair off my face. “I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out.” I have to. That’s my job in the Calhoun family. I take one for the team—like skipping college to work and help support my mother and sister. After my dad left when I was ten, my mama worked two jobs, leaving Rory and me home by ourselves a lot. When I graduated, I didn’t want Rory to be alone while I was off at college and Mama was at wo
rk, so I decided to get a job. Mama quit her nighttime cleaning job and started working at the school cafeteria. It wasn’t much, but between what she made and what I sent home, it was enough to pay the mortgage and get Rory through school.

  “We’re going to be okay,” I assure her.

  When the door chimes, I wipe an unexpected tear off my cheek. I don’t cry. Cecilia Louise Calhoun holds her shit together. “Gotta go, Mama. I’ve got a customer.”

  She quickly says bye and hangs up, but I can tell she’s worried.

  That makes two of us.

  Chapter 3

  Shep

  As my driver pulls up in front of my family’s estate, I already feel the air around me change, and it’s not just the climate. The small sense of ease I’d started to feel after being in New Orleans for only a short period of time is gone and in its place is the rigidness of formality.

  There’s no warm greeting.

  No mourning family gathered.

  When I step inside the large foyer, I’m met with silence.

  If I had to guess, my mother is playing bridge with the ladies. It is Tuesday, after all. And my father is at the office. Business doesn’t even pause for death. If anything, it’s moving at a faster rate, as everyone makes sure every “i” is dotted and every “t” is crossed.

  “Mr. Shepard,” a familiar voice greets.

  Glancing up, I smile. “Maggie.”

  “We were expecting you later today. Dinner won’t be served until six.”

  “I got an earlier flight.”

  She immediately goes into action. “Let me take your bag.”

  “It’s fine,” I tell her, hoisting my duffle higher on my shoulder. “I’ve got it.”

  “Can I get you something? A drink, perhaps?”

  Sighing, I actually think about turning around and calling my driver, asking him to come back. Staying at my empty house would be better than being here. Shit, a hotel would even be better. But it’s only for a couple of days. “A drink would be great,” I say, smiling a genuine smile.

  After I put my bag in my old room, in the west wing—yeah, the house has fucking wings—I make my way back down the stairs and partake of the drink Maggie offered, knowing I’ll need the amber liquid to make it through the next forty-eight hours.