Five Brothers, page 44
I set my phone down on the island. “Everyone.”
Her face falls, her eyes shifting to the phone.
She breathes in and out for several seconds, her jaw clenching over and over again. “Mars and Paisleigh—”
“Will stay with me for now,” I reply. “We’ll discuss guardianship once I touch base with Dad.”
We stare at each other, and I know everything she’s thinking. Her children are leverage. She doesn’t want to give that up. Relatives will pity her—give her money—if she has children to support.
And deep down, she really does care. Not as much as Mars and Paisleigh deserve, but if something happened to us, she’d cry. Genuinely, I think.
But I also know she doesn’t want this anymore. She married him, never thinking he’d take off with someone else. She would give him a home, kids, and the respectable family image, and he’d give her the life. He’s the one who broke the deal.
She wants to be free. She’s still young, after all.
Besides, Bateman and I have been taking care of the kids 85 percent of the time for the past nine months anyway. She’s already gone.
“Okay,” she says. The tone is clipped, but she agrees.
She turns and takes out a pan, setting it on the stove. “Can I make you some lunch?”
“Pack,” I tell her. “Go now.”
She twists around, shocked.
I start to walk away. “I’ll let you know when I talk to Dad.”
I take a right out of the kitchen and head toward my father’s office, passing the hidden room under the stairs. I don’t look, and I don’t look back to see if she’s coming after me for a fight. I know she’ll leave. She wants what I promised.
And I wouldn’t fight anyway. I feel no anger. That’s for people still trying to make it work.
I walk into my father’s office, leaving the door open as I traipse over the area rug to the desk. Sitting in his chair, I yank open the bottom left drawer and sift through all the files until I come across one labeled Auto. I slip it out.
I need to find my car title so I can sell it. An old Rover won’t support us forever, and I will still need a car of some sort, but I don’t need that expensive one. And I don’t want my dad’s old car. I don’t want anything of his. I should be able to get forty thousand for the Rover. Finding it, I slip it out and set it aside, replacing the folder in the drawer.
But I spot another one labeled Financials. I pause my hand over it. I’m sure he took anything of any consequence, but then again, how would we know? My mother and I aren’t very smart with this stuff. If he hid money—assets—it would be worth a look. Then I’ll know what I can ask him for, because he won’t want my mother’s divorce lawyer discovering that on their own. Hiding assets is illegal.
Stealing a cigarette from the box on his desk, I light it as I start to sift through the papers, but my stomach sinks almost as soon as I start.
It’s going to take forever to make sense of what I’m looking at, and there are so many accounts. Things for his businesses, papers for his family’s investments, stocks, bonds, real estate, and while everything is in his name, except our house, which he gave to her, I have no way of knowing if there’s anything she’s not aware of. She didn’t stay involved. She let him do what he wanted. Trusted him with the money.
I stuff it all in a folder to keep it in my possession in case he comes back for it and pick up my phone to call Clay’s dad. He might be able to help me understand this.
But then I see the word “Assets” and pause. Peering down into the drawer, I spot another folder and pick it up.
Household Assets.
Flipping it open, I scan a slew of certificates of authenticity and insurance policies—for art, antique silver, jewelry, even items of clothing.
But I see my name.
Then I see it again.
And my heart starts racing as I piece together what I’m looking at.
I grab my phone and bring up the screenshots that I took from his email. I didn’t study everything yet, but I swipe through the pictures, remembering seeing something.
I stop. No, it was a text.
I go through the texts with his girlfriend, reading one that I glimpsed but didn’t think anything of when I originally saw.
Was that everything? she asks him.
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but they must’ve just talked in person and are continuing a conversation.
There’s more, he tells her. It’s not in her or my name, though. I’ll get it back from Krisjen afterward.
Something builds, climbing my throat, and I start shaking. And then…I laugh.
I plant my hands on the desk, cigarette smoke streaming up into the air as I bow my head and break into laughter that I can’t keep quiet.
I pick up my phone and text Clay and Aracely.
I recently acquired a six-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Get over here. Both of you.
Holy shit.
I smile. This doesn’t change my fate, but it will ensure Mars and Paisleigh can govern their own. I drop the phone to the desk, fold my arms over my chest, and take a long drag of the stale cigarette. Fucking yes.
“Oh my God!”
I jerk my eyes to the door, seeing Paisleigh.
“I’m gonna tell Mom you’re smoking.”
I blow out the cloud and grin at my little sister. “I got a better idea.” I snuff out the cigarette. “Let’s dance.”
* * *
—
I don’t have to sell my Rover. My father was hiding assets, after all. Not a lot, but enough.
Just enough.
“I must say,” Jack Hewlitt says, “you could’ve gotten more at auction.”
I sign the papers, handing each to him one by one. He leans against the edge of his desk while I sit in a chair, using it to write on. “I’m not interested in waiting.”
I’ve spent the past two days liquidating two paintings, one sculpture, and the entire wine collection, and I did find a small account in my name. I transferred the funds to one my father doesn’t have access to. I haven’t asked him why he put the stuff in my name. I know why.
He knew he was leaving her. A long time ago.
And he assumed I wouldn’t notice before the divorce was final. He was almost right.
I didn’t find anything in Mars’s or Paisleigh’s names, and there’s more that I own, but I’m not going to sell everything off yet.
“No waiting, huh?” Mr. Hewlitt teases. “Leaving the country?”
I smile small. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He hands me my copy of the documents, and I shake his hand. “Nice doing business with you.”
“And you,” he says. “These will fetch a good profit. Thank you.”
A great profit. I sold them to him for much less than my father paid, and art doesn’t go down in value.
I rise, my earring swaying across my neck, and I wet my lips, because the lipstick coating my mouth feels dry like clay. I slip my forearm through the handles of my Gucci bag and take my paperwork with me.
My phone rings, and I nod a goodbye to Jack.
Fishing the phone out of my bag, I see my father’s name on the screen. I changed it to Lachlan Conroy instead of Dad months ago.
“Hello?” I answer.
“You’ve been busy.”
I shudder a little at the curtness of his voice. I almost forgot.
He always sounds like someone who’s jetting from one meeting to another. A little rushed. Distracted. Bothered. He doesn’t have an accent, but he adds one on purpose. Just on a word here and there. An inflection at the end of a sentence maybe. Sometimes it sounds Scottish. Most of the time it’s some weird concoction of British and Bostonian.
“Krisjen, listen to me—”
“No.” I walk slowly, heading to the front door of the gallery. “We have asked for you. Mars and Paisleigh have asked for you, but now that I’m selling property you hid in my name…Now I warrant your attention?”
It’s in my name. I’m eighteen. He can scramble to get back what I haven’t yet sold, but he’ll have to find it first. The first thing I did was hide everything.
“We should talk,” he tells me.
I agree.
“Wolfe Room,” I state. “Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
“How do you know about that room?”
I hang up, walk out the door, and step onto the sidewalk. How does he know about that room is the question?
I’m glad I didn’t let him keep me on the phone. Part of me still remembers back when he was a good father, and it hurts. Paisleigh has never known that version of him.
The wind blows through my hair and across the sliver of stomach left bare in my sleeveless white blouse. I step in my heels, one foot after the other in my tight, white pants, barely noticing the boys until they’re there.
Army. Dallas. Trace.
My heart leaps in my chest. It’s been days, but it feels like years. The Bay seems so far away.
Army isn’t wearing a shirt. A major no-no on Main Street in St. Carmen, and Trace wears a green T-shirt. It matches his eyes.
I see them, they see me, and I slow, thinking they’re going to stop. Time halts as I wait for it.
But they don’t.
And neither do I.
Army passes me, his familiar eyes following me over his shoulder as he goes.
Trace and Dallas veer around me, glancing at me but continuing without a word. My heart splits.
I don’t know if I keep walking, or how I get to my car down the street, but when I look back, they’re gone.
And that’s how easily things can change.
30
Macon
“A little higher,” I tell Santos.
He grunts, exhaling, “ ’Kay.”
We lift the beam, the sun beating down as we balance high on the scaffold and I drill a bolt through the wood. The handheld tool stutters, signaling the bolt is tightened.
“Got it?” he asks.
“Yep.”
He releases the beam, taking out a bandanna and wiping down his face. People work below, the walls rising quickly while Dallas pulls up with a truckload of Sheetrock.
“Five extra bedrooms, huh?” Santos laughs. “You making plans?”
“Just making room for the unexpected.”
“Yeah, that’s usually how babies happen.”
He laughs again, and I let him. The new addition onto the house will fill up faster than we know, and I want it to be ready. Iron will get out of prison, and I don’t want the lack of space to be an excuse for Army to leave. Or Dallas or Trace. Liv will always have her room here, but at least I can count on that one not to give me any surprise nieces or nephews until she’s absolutely ready.
“You know,” Santos tells me, “my wife’s sister does interior painting. When it’s time to drywall and decorate, I could have her stop by to meet you.”
I rotate the wrench, tightening the bolt.
“She’s pretty. And a good girl.”
I stare at the beam.
“It wouldn’t be a date,” he assures me. “Just one night y’all happen to work late and then you take it from there. I’m sure you remember how.”
I shift my gaze up, seeing him grin. I think everyone in the Bay is under some impression that I’m fun now because I’m speaking more and getting air once in a while. I even fucking smiled at a kid yesterday. He looked like I was about to eat him.
Santos laughs when I don’t play along, and we move on to the next beam.
But just then, I see Jasmine walk Dex past the house.
I climb down.
“Hey, is Army home yet?” she asks.
“Soon.” I sweep the kid up into my arms. “Leave him with me.”
She hands me his bag.
“You’ve been paid?” I ask.
“He took care of it this morning.” She rubs Dex’s cheeks, giving him a big smile. “Have a good weekend,” she singsongs.
He giggles, and I take him inside, hearing the grandfather clock chime four o’clock. I stop in front of it to let him listen. He stares at the face, knowing that’s what’s making the sound, and I watch him, because it’s cute. He loves it so much. I already decided to try to find him a cuckoo clock for Christmas. One with beer-guzzling dancers. He’ll go apeshit for that.
Dropping his bag, I take us into the kitchen, set him down on the counter, and turn on the water, checking the temperature. Pumping soap into his hands, I give myself some and show him, like we do every time, how to lather and wash his fingers.
He tries to stick his hand in his mouth, and I take it back, helping him rinse.
“Da-da, da-da.”
“Soon, man,” I tell him.
It’s funny how he has his dad’s hair and mom’s eyes. I have my mom’s, too. Dallas, Trace, and Iron better reproduce with brown-eyed women. I’m tired of being a minority in this house.
We dry off, and I sit him in his high chair, taking out the steamed broccoli, chopped avocado, and bites of grilled chicken mixed with mayo and ranch dressing that Army left this morning. I spread it out on his tray, and he starts eating, while I make him a cup of water.
Walking over, I raise every window in the kitchen and move to the living room, doing the same in there. I close my eyes and inhale, my shoulders relaxing a little.
But my eyes stay closed. It’s good she stayed away. She ghosted Mariette and hasn’t come back for her toothbrush, her paycheck, or her dress.
Gone. Nice and clean. That’s the best way.
I shake my head, opening my eyes. Starting some music on my phone, I head back into the kitchen, seeing Dex kick his feet and eat as I start to slice the loaf of bread.
The front door opens and closes, and Trace enters the kitchen.
“You’re done early,” I say.
“What’s this?” He lifts the lid on the pot on the stove, sniffing the chili. “Mmm.”
“Tech Advantage called.” I place the bread on the table as Army and Dallas stroll in, everyone making themselves a bowl. “They wanted a cleanup tomorrow for an event next week.”
“I have a…” Trace starts to make an excuse but then stops. “Nothing.”
I study him for a second, and then pull Dex’s high chair up to the corner of the table between me and Army. We all sit, Dallas digging his spoon into the chili.
“There’s shit going on at the beach,” he explains to me. “Trace wants to be there.”
But Trace interjects. “It’s fine. I’ll do the job.”
He stares down at his food, and I’m not sure what the hell is going on. I mean, I know I’ve been yelling at him to grow up for years, but now that he is…I dig in my eyebrows.
Dallas chimes in again. “I’ll fill in for him.”
Trace gapes at his brother. I dig in my eyebrows deeper. What. The. Fuck.
“Are you sure?” Trace asks him.
Dallas shrugs, shoveling food in. “I’m not doing anything else.”
“Thanks.” Trace finally puts on a happy face. “I’ll get you back.”
“What the hell happened while I was gone?” someone says.
We all look up as Liv leans in the doorway with her hands in her pockets.
“Hey!” Trace shoots up, grabbing her in a hug like she wasn’t just home three weeks ago.
He sits, and she whips off her black jacket, heading to the stove for a bowl. “I leave for college and y’all turn sweet?”
“What are you doing home?” Army asks her.
“Christmas.”
“That’s this month?” Dallas looks around the table. “Shit.”
She scoops chili into a bowl, sniffing it as she puts the lid back on the pot. “Ugh, what did you do to my recipe?”
“I taught you how to make that, you little shit,” I mumble.
“You tried to,” she fires back.
She swings her leg over the chair at the end of the table like she’s climbing on a horse and sits. I glance up briefly.
“Table is feeling empty without you and Iron.” Trace hands her some bread. “And Krisjen.”
“Thanks.” She takes a slice and then looks around. “Where is Krisjen? At Mariette’s?”
I chew, the table falling quiet. No one has mentioned her since I came home that morning. They knew to leave it alone.
“We saw her in town today,” Dallas finally says. “She looked different.”
“Gorgeous, actually,” Army adds.
“Like glass,” Trace mumbles over his food. “Beautiful, shiny, fucking glass.”
He sounds angry.
“All the Saints look like that,” Dallas tells him.
I push my spoon through the chili, feeling eyes on me. When I look up, Liv is watching me.
“But when they love you,” she muses, “you’ve never had anything softer in your arms.”
My heart stops.
“Like they’re so grateful when someone is gentle with them,” she almost whispers.
I feel my pulse in my stomach, seeing Krisjen in my head. In my house, in the tub next to me that day, in my restaurant…
“Yeah, well.” Army rises. “Fuck it.”
He carries his bowl to the sink, and like Trace and Dallas, he hasn’t asked me what happened with Krisjen, but unlike Trace and Dallas, I’m not sure he cares. And I deserve it. He liked her. Even if he did offer to fucking share her.
“I was thinking we could all go for a ride tonight,” Liv says. “We all have bikes. They have the food trucks at Delgando Beach, and the weather’s pretty perfect.”
Trace perks up, but I feel his eyes on me as if waiting for me to allow it.
I finish chewing and stand up. “That’s a good idea.”
Trace slaps the table. “Hell yeah.”
