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I sigh. “It’s not that simple, James. You know that.”
He pulls a pair of sweats on. “No, I don’t know that. What happened to all the things we talked about? You can do this. You don’t have to let your father hold your leash.”
“Excuse me?” I turn on him, my cheeks going hot. “Hold my leash?”
I can see that he’s gritting his teeth. “That’s not what I meant—”
“No, it is. You mean that I’m my father’s little puppet and I’ll do whatever he says.”
“No,” James says, folding his arms across his chest, “that’s not what I meant. I meant that what you do really has nothing to do with him. You don’t have to choose this.”
I shove the rest of my things into my suitcase. “I don’t see any alternative. I have no means of my own. Maybe in a couple years after I have some real savings I can leave. There isn’t a choice.”
His voice is softer. “I thought, after last night…”
I finish zipping up the suitcase. “What? What did you think?”
“I—you felt it last night, didn’t you?”
I can’t pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about, no matter how upset I am right now. “Yeah, I did.”
“And?” he asks.
“And…I don’t have the words to describe it. It was perfect. But it doesn’t change what’s happening in my life.”
The look on his face is suddenly desperate. “You can do this, Vera. I can help you with whatever you need. You can choose me.”
I freeze, a shot of cold going through me. “Are you saying that if I go to work for my father, we’re finished?”
His face hardens. “I don’t know. I do know that working for your father is the last thing you want. Everything I’ve learned about you tells me that you’re passionate—that you are fierce, and brilliant, and independent. But making this choice? Out of fear? It’s going to eat away at you, and all of that passion will be crushed. Along with everything that makes you ‘you.’ I don’t know if I want to see that happen.”
I feel hot tears behind my eyes but I blink them back. “I don’t have a choice, James.”
I take my suitcase to the front of the house, and I see the cab pull up outside. I don’t want to leave. It feels too final, too real. But it will be okay. He’ll be okay. I’ll fix it later. We’ll be okay. We have to be.
“Vera.” I turn, finding James in the middle of the living room. There’s no hint of a smile or softness on his face. I do see sadness though. “I know what it’s like to not have any choices. You’re choosing this.”
Outside, I hear the cab driver honk their horn. I shake my head and leave the house before I can say anything else to make this worse.
17
Vera
My security photo is awful, but I suppose that’s to be expected. I feel like I’ve been through every office in this building filling out paperwork and getting an ID. I have an office already set up for me and it’s big for someone at my level. I suppose it’s meant to be a peace offering of sorts, but I still hate it. I hate everything. I hate the suit that I’m wearing, and I hate the color of these walls. I hate how I left things with James this morning. I hate that my suitcase is sitting in the corner and I hate the note sitting on my desk. I hate that it’s telling me to meet my father in his office at ten a.m.
I hate the fact that I’m here at all, and he’s the cause. He’s not in his office when I go, but he steps in right at ten. I have to control my glare.
“Good morning, Vera,” he says, sounding for all the world as if this were a normal day. It strikes me that he never questioned whether I would be here. He assumed that I would make a fuss, but do what he said—and he was right. I think I might throw up.
“Good morning,” I say, making a point of keeping my voice utterly neutral.
“Everything settled with your office and your pass?”
I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you.”
“Good. We’re going to meet some clients today. They want to show us the property they’ve bought and walk us through their preferences.”
He leads the way out of his office, and I follow. We’re met by my father’s driver in a sleek black sedan. The thought of spending a car ride in awkward silence makes me cringe, but I get in the car. The driver takes us across L.A. toward the coast. Traffic is horrible, and about an hour later we pull up to an empty lot at the beach. The couple from dinner the other night is waiting for us. I don’t remember their names.
My father greets them as Sharon and Alan. How did I miss their terrible names? They walk us across the property to where they want the house to sit. It’s on the top of a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and I can’t deny it’s beautiful. Sharon describes in detail what she’d like, and as much as I find her annoying she has good architectural taste. We walk along the grounds to the north and she describes the kinds of grounds she wants.
Her ideas include a significant guesthouse and a tennis court, among other things. Eventually we reach some houses, smaller than the typical mansion. They don’t seem to be abandoned, but Sharon and Alan keep walking. “Down here, there’s a lovely little cove where I think a boat house would be just lovely,” she says.
“How far does your property extend?”
“Oh, another few acres or so.”
Setting aside how rich they must be to afford this much beachfront, the houses bother me. “Who lives here?” I ask as we walk by. My father clears his throat in warning, but I ignore him.
Sharon waves a hand. “Oh, doesn’t matter. They sold the land years ago. Couldn’t afford not to, I think. People who inherited some money and then lost it all, probably. I’m sure they had it coming. We’ll evict them as soon as construction starts.”
My mouth falls open, and in that moment, I know that I can’t do it—I can’t be a part of this—not just this project, but my father’s company. These are the kind of people he deals with every day, and I don’t want to do it. I want to help people who need it. I have no interest in people who think the poor had it coming.
James was right. I can choose.
And I will not choose this.
I walk away. I just turn and start walking.
My father calls after me. “Vera, come back here please.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m done.” I keep walking.
“Vera,” he says, warning in his tone. “We talked about this.”
I turn around and look him straight in the eye, defiantly. “No. You talked and you didn’t listen. I’m done. I’m not doing this.”
He stalks toward me, lowering his voice. “You live in my house.”
I laugh. “That’s your threat? I don’t need your house.”
“If you walk away from this, don’t bother coming home.”
Those words settle in my gut with a heavy finality, but also a relief. I feel like I always knew this moment would come. I just didn’t know what I would choose. I do now.
“Okay. I’m sorry, Dad. But I need to do this my way.”
I don’t look back, and on the way toward the road I call another cab.
I go straight to the construction site, and I feel light as air. I have nothing. And it’s totally fine. I know that I’m going to be okay. Because even though I’m scared, I know that I have somewhere to go.
I pay the cab driver and go into the house, listening for the telltale sounds of a power drill or hammering. There’s nothing though. I walk my way through but there’s still nothing. No one is here, and my heart sinks. I was sure that this is where he would be. He’s not working at my house anymore. Did he have another contract? I don’t know. I didn’t ask.
I don’t even have his phone number because our relationship was a secret at first, and then we were together so much we never even asked. Even if I did have his number, though, I know that this cannot be fixed with a phone call. I sit down on the steps outside the house. It’s early, maybe he just hasn’t gotten here. After an ho
ur of waiting, my anxiety rises. After two, I know that I can’t stay anymore.
Where would he go? I don’t know his favorite places. I don’t know where he goes when he wants to be alone. I don’t know where he goes when he’s blowing off work. But I have an idea. I do a quick internet search for our caretaker company and give them a call. It’s not hard to get them to give me Mike’s phone number when I tell them who I am, and in just a few minutes his line is ringing.
“Mike Willis,” he answers.
“Hey, Mike. This is Vera Caldwell.”
There’s clear surprise in his voice. “Hi, Ms. Caldwell.”
“Please call me Vera,” I say.
“Sure.”
“I was actually wondering if you had heard from James today?”
“Yeah, earlier this morning,” he says. “He told me not to bother going to the Masterson house today, said he was taking the day off. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, far too enthusiastically. “We just never exchanged phone numbers. You know how we met—well. I’d like to give him a call. We…had a little disagreement this morning and I want to apologize.” That’s minimizing it, but I don’t really feel like baring my soul to Mike.
“Sure thing,” he says, giving me James’s number.
“Did he say where he was going by any chance?”
“No, sorry,” Mike says. “Sometimes he goes to the beach. Surfing. Walking. Other than that though…”
“Thanks, Mike,” I say. “I hope I see you and your father soon.”
He laughs. “You too. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I can’t dial James’s number fast enough, and my heart plummets as it goes directly to voicemail. Shit. I can’t even ask him where he is. I call another cab. I search James’s address on the internet, pulling up a map to look for the beachfront closest to his house.
I walk up and down that stretch of shore for a long time, hoping to see him. But he’s not there. I try to let the ocean soothe me, the waves tickling my bare feet. Even that doesn’t calm the anxiety in my heart. I need to fix this. I need to tell him what I chose. The sun is beginning to sink in the sky when I make my way back to his house.
