“But I do have the power to change the world. To make it less hateful, less angry, less difficult. And maybe if someone had helped that girl’s family out when she was younger she wouldn’t have fallen into the trap her co-conspirators laid. So I took my trust fund and set out to make a difference. I’ve been gone for ten years, but I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been changing the world one family at a time through my charity, Change the World. I can’t change anything big,” I say. “I can’t change governments, or stop wars, or prevent draught or famine. But I can take one family at a time and change their future.”
The whispers get louder and the confusion and tension eases out of the faces.
“Because I learned a very valuable lesson from the woman who falsely accused me of rape. I learned that something as small as a few words can have a profound impact on the future of five boys. And if words can do so much damage, then surely there are things equally as small that do so much good. A few dollars in Africa can feed a family for a week. Give out a million of those dollars to the right people and I just fed the population of a city.”
“Shit, Mac,” Ellie says with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug. “You didn’t know. No one knew. I didn’t want to do good deeds to be rewarded for them. I just wanted to do them to prove to myself that not everyone is bad. That I’m not the greedy kid they made me out to be. And when I found out that Alexander needed to retire to take care of his health, and he wanted me to come claim my fifty percent interest in the company and head up the North American branch while Heath took over the developing market in Asia and Camille ran Europe, well, I was reluctant. Why should I leave behind what I built for this? For people I don’t know and, more importantly, people who might not need me as much as the ones I’m walking away from?”
I turn to the Stonewall employees. “I came here to sell it,” I say, raising my arms. “Just sell it off. I didn’t see the value. Not compared to the work I was doing. But I was wrong.” I turn to Ellie. “You, Ellie Hatcher, have value. You’re an exceptional employee. And I know you have big plans in your future, so I’m not going to ask you to stay. But I want you to know that I value you.
“I value all of you and if Alexander still wants me, I’m in. I’d be honored to help keep Stonewall Entertainment the number one corporation to work for. Not just America, but the world. I’d love for us to change the future together.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
ELLIE
I am at a loss for words. My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. I feel like a fish gasping for air.
“Ellie?” Mac is staring at me with a worried look on his face. “Ellie? Are you OK?”
I look up. All the faces staring down at me. Stonewall Senior is up there. And Jennifer. And Stephanie and Mr. Sowards.
“Ellie? What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
I shake my head as I let out a long breath. “I can’t.” I really can’t. So I just turn on my heel and walk out the building. Outside it’s bright, and the morning sun is beating down on the parking lot, making me instantly feel much too warm. I press a finger to my temple as I head for my car.
“Ellie!” Mac yells from behind me. “Wait!”
I can’t wait. I can’t deal. None of this makes any sense at all.
“Ellie,” Mac says. He grabs my arm hard enough to pull me to a stop. “Where are you going? Don’t you have anything to say? No comment? Not even a shrug?”
I stop because he makes me, but I don’t turn to look at him. I stare down at my feet. Study the small cracks in the concrete parking lot. Count a few stones.
“Goddammit, Ellie. What the hell is going on with you?”
“You want to know?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” he says loudly. “I’d really like to know.”
I turn to him, willing myself to be strong. Not to cry or appear any more ridiculous than I already am. Mac is so handsome. His face, his body, his suit, his shoes, his car, his apartment. Everything. “I thought you were the one floundering and I had it all figured out. But it turns out I’m a joke in every sense of the word.”
“What?” Mac asks. “What does that even mean? Ellie, you’re not making sense to me right now. What is the deal? Do I need to convince you I’m not guilty of those crimes they accused me of? Or—”
“No,” I say, putting up my hand to stop him. “No. That’s not it, Mac. It’s got nothing at all to do with those ten-year-old accusations, it’s got everything to do with your life since then.”
“I don’t get it,” Mac says. “I don’t understand what you hate about what I’ve been doing with my life, Ellie. Just tell me and I’ll fix it. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’ll fix it.”
“You’ll fix it?” I ask, doing my best to stifle a small snort, but not entirely succeeding. “You can’t fix it, Mac. You can’t fix it because it’s not about you, it’s about me.”
“Ellie,” Mac says again, but this time his voice is stern. “I don’t understand.”
“I know,” I say. “I know you don’t. How could you? You are Mr. Perfect. You are accused of a heinous crime and instead of bowing under, you take control. You segregate yourself from society and start feeding the world.”
“What’s so bad about that?” He yells it. His patience is over. “What the fuck is the problem here? I thought you’d be proud of me. I thought you’d be happy to finally find out I really am a good guy and not this asshole you’ve conjured up in your head.”
“I am proud of you, Mac. It’s the perfect turnaround, right? But I’m good at that conjuring. All those delusions and pretend babies.”
“Ellie, just stop, OK? I told you I like that part of you.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I hate it.”
“What?”
“I hate it. And you know what? You should be proud that you’re Mr. Perfect. You certainly earned the title. Do you know what my biggest contribution to society has been, Mac? Buying designer clothes from a charity shop. Unless you count feeding the egos of celebrities worthwhile. Or pretending that I’m some world-wise woman who can help people sort out their life goals.” I can’t contain my snort this time, it comes barreling out through my nose. “I am so pathetically ridiculous.”
“Ellie,” Mac says, his voice softer. He places his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not a competition. You and I are in different places. I’m able to give the way I do because of money I inherited.”
I sigh and nod my head as I stare at my shoes. “You’re right. We’re in two totally different places. You have arrived and I haven’t even started my journey yet.”
I turn away again and start walking to my car. I don’t look back, but I know Mac isn’t following me. I click my key fob, hoping to slide behind the wheel and get out of here without any more talking. But Mac doesn’t grant me that last wish.
“You know what, Ellie Hatcher? I was right about it all along.”
I glance back at him standing down the aisle, his hands by his side, his posture straight, head high. “About what?” I yell back, lifting the latch on the door and pulling it open. “Me?”
Mac shakes his head and then his shoulders slump a little. “Never appear too perfect. Law 46 was right. People don’t like perfect, they much prefer fake.”
“Well,” I say, a sad final laugh passing my lips, “then maybe that law was a warning to stay away from me, Maclean Callister. Because I invented the fake world, remember? I’m just another sign on the highway of life telling you to move along. I’m not where you belong. I’m not even worth stopping for.”
I get in my car, start it up, and drive away.
He didn’t understand anything I was trying to say back there. Not one thing. And I can’t blame him because I’m not sure that I do either. All I know is that everything feels… wrong. This job, my book, that fake life I dreamed up to numb the emptiness in my heart.
I follow the manicured landscaped roads until I get to my apartment building. Just another reminder of how little I’ve
been living since college. How little I’ve accomplished.
Mac gets accused of rape and murder and he goes off to feed the world and make a difference.
I land a cushy job at the number one corporation to work for in America and end up writing delusional text messages to a man who has no interest in me.
Way to go, Hatcher. Your parents would be proud.
That makes me cry. Hard. Tears begin streaming down my face and instead of slowing down to turn into my parking lot, I keep going until I hit the freeway. I enter and drive east. The landscape changes after about twenty minutes, going from suburban city to sprawling horse property, to ranch and farm land. Two hours later I pull off and follow a lonely two-lane highway south until the roads turn to dirt and the grazing land turns to waist-high cornfields.
I stop the car at the top of a hill and get out, the summer wind blowing my hair across my face as I turn my back to the sun and stare down at the farmhouse I grew up in.
It’s half a mile away from where I stand, but I don’t need to be close to it to see what I need. The sprawling front porch. The children playing in the yard. The dogs running around. We had sheep as well as corn when I was a kid. But the new owners never did raise animals. Just crops. They even tore the barn down so they could squeeze every bit of yield out of that land.
I lived here on my grandparents’ farm with my dad after my mom took off. And after my grandparents died, we sold. I was in college anyway. But it made me so sad to sell. This was the one place that felt like home. Where I could be me. How long have I been living my delusional life? Longer than those text messages to Heath, that’s for sure.
I haven’t been me in a very long time. Why did I stay at Stonewall all these years? It’s not the career I ever imagined for myself. I minored in psychology for a reason. I have always wanted to help people and I always had a dream of being a life coach. Getting to know celebrities was supposed to be a stepping stone but instead it became a dead-end road.
I’m glad someone bought the farm. At least it’s not sitting empty. At least it’s got a new family inside those rooms.
And they look happy.
I’m happy for them. I was happy growing up there, that’s for sure.
I wipe the tears from my eyes and get back in my car, my head resting on the steering wheel for a few seconds. I guess this is why I like my delusional world better than my real life. I guess I’m just trying to get back the part of my life I left behind when I left this place. Fill up that hole inside my chest that threatens to come out every time I slow down and have a few minutes to really think about my own life. My own hopes and dreams.
I am such a joke. Why did I ever think I could coach other people through the pitfalls of life when I can’t even face the reality of my own situation?
My phone rings inside my purse. I take it out and then thumb the accept tab. “Hey,” I say.
It’s Ming. “I just heard what happened, Ellie. What’s going on?”
I start crying and Ming does her best to get it out, piece by pathetic piece. I sit on the side of that road and face the facts as I tell her everything. About all the things I wanted out of life, and all the things that never happened.
Ming listens with the patient ear of a best friend, offering me encouragement and soft words to ease my hurt feelings.
“Come back,” Ming says. “You can stay at my house for a while.”
“No,” I say, my breath still hitching from my sobs. “I can’t. I need to figure out what the hell I’m doing, Ming. I need to come to terms with this stuff. I can’t keep pretending that things are good. Hell”—I laugh out one last sob—“they’re not even close to OK.”
“Publish your book, Ells. Just put it up online like we talked about. It’s good.”
“How can it possibly be good?” I say. “How, Ming? My life is a mess. My career. If you could ever even call it that, is over.”
“Your career hasn’t even started yet, Eloise Hatcher. That book is your future. You’re a good life coach. Don’t they always say that? The cobbler’s children go shoeless or some shit like that? Well, you can still find clarity in the lives of others, even if you can’t in your own.”
“It’s fake,” I say. “It’s fake to say I can help people when I can’t even help myself. And I can’t deal with this fake life anymore.”
“Ellie.” Ming sighs. “I like your funny dreams and delusions. Everyone does. Your fantasies make people happy.”
“Well, they don’t make me happy,” I admit. “Not one bit.”
“So change it, Ells,” Ming says softly. “Come home and change it. We’ll do it together.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
MAC
A knock on my office door disrupts my pensive mood as I gaze out the window at the cows. It’s snowing today and all they are are little blobs of black and red on a sea of white. “Come in,” I call out.
“Mac?” Stephanie says from behind me.
“Yes,” I say, sticking my hands in the pockets of my suit trousers.
“She’s on in three minutes.”
I nod without turning around.
“Do you want me to turn your TV on? We’re all going to watch on the big TV out in the Atrium.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Stephanie leaves, closing the door quietly behind her. It’s been six long months since I saw Ellie. Six months of wondering how to fix things and six months of coming to the realization that there are some things people need to do on their own.
Returning to this office after Ellie walked out was mine, I guess. I was hiding when I came here as McAllister Stonewall, I just didn’t realize it. But Alexander has been a dear friend of mine all growing up. Heath and I really are like brothers. And if anyone messed with Camille I’d be there to set him straight just like any big brother. So I guess I rationalized it. I could still be Mac, I’d just take the Stonewall last name until the company was sold. Alexander never wanted to sell, he wanted me to step up. And I guess he got his way after all. Because the thought of walking away from this place after Ellie left was too much. I wanted the job at that point.
No, I correct myself. I needed it. To give me a lifeline to her. To give me some hope that the things I was beginning to realize about myself might not be true.
They are true. Were true.
I was hiding. For ten years I lost myself in the charity. In philanthropy. In the hopes that it would wipe away the dirty stain left over from college.
The guilt.
I didn’t rape that girl. And if she hadn’t accused me, and all my friends, of raping her, I’d probably never even remember her name.
But the guilt after she was killed. That was something I couldn’t live with.
She was dead because of who I am. Maybe I didn’t do it, but if Maclean Callister didn’t exist she would never have been involved in that setup. She’d still be alive if I was never born.
So yeah. I ran. I can admit now, but only because I know what it feels like to be left behind.
Which is why I stayed, I guess. I pictured what my father probably went through after I took off and started giving my money away like it was growing on trees.
I never needed the money. And giving it away isn’t even meaningful. I have so many trusts that are accruing interest, and some mature every year or two. My family set me up this way so I’d never have to work a day in my life.
It wasn’t a risk to give it away. Not even in the denominations I was dealing with. Because barring some continuous financial catastrophe, I always knew there’d be more.
The philanthropic work was satisfying for a long time. It kind of felt like work. I got up every day and had phone calls. Meetings. Made decisions.
I just never had to report to anyone.
Which is why I stayed on here at Stonewall.
I report to Alexander now. I sold him two percent of my interest in the company, just to give him peace of mind that the empire he built would never be thr
eatened by the whims of another partner.
He agreed to sell the company if I wanted to, even after I sold my controlling interest. But by that time I had figured it out.
I want this.
I want what he has.
A family. A fresh start with someone I trust.
Things I had been denying myself ever since I heard that accusation back in college.
Giving away my money to self-select myself out of the company of other billionaires was never going to get me that. It feels good. And I will never give up the charity, but they don’t need me to pretend to work as I write checks. I never did anything meaningful anyway.
Stonewall does though. Camille is successful over in Europe. And Heath, even though I do consider him a total pig when it comes to women, is making major inroads in China. He’s not coming home anytime soon.
So here I am. CEO of Stonewall North America.
And here I am. Still alone.
“Mac?” Stephanie yells. “Ellie is on!”
I’ve had regular updates from Ming about Ellie. We’ve had a standing Friday evening appointment since the week Ellie walked out, but that’s all been about business.
Ellie stopped looking for a publisher for her book.
She got a new editor.
She found a cover designer.
She got the book formatted.
She found a printer.
She pushed publish.
That was last week’s report, so there are no more meetings about Ellie Hatcher’s book release progress. And I haven’t dared to ask even one personal question. I refuse to discuss Ellie like she’s a thing that needs to be planned and plotted.
But every minute—every second—of every day, I wish I had.
Does she have a boyfriend? Does she ever talk about me? Is she happy?
I won’t ask, but I want to. I won’t ask until Ellie agrees to see me. And she hasn’t. I’ve asked her at least two dozen times to meet me somewhere. Drinks? Lunch? Dinner? A weekend at my house?
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