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CHAPTER ONE
Families are complicated. Mine, maybe a little extra.
I’m trying to figure out what to wear to my grandmother’s funeral. Step-grandma, I guess she’d be, the old Mrs. Caulter of the very rich side of the family. She died a few days ago of a heart attack. I can’t say I’m sad, even a little, because I barely knew the woman—I only met her once, at my parents’ wedding.
What a mistake that marriage has turned out to be. But that’s a whole other story. I’ll tell you though? I’m never, ever getting married. It’s like a straight road to hell, is how it looks to me.
I don’t know why getting dressed is taking so long, it’s not like I have a lot to choose from. Well, anything to choose from, actually. If I’m wearing black, I’ve got one dress. It’s an expensive Little Black Dress that my stepfather Randy gave me for Christmas last year. I’ve never worn it, because I don’t go to fancy places where something like this dress would be appropriate. I’m a coffee-shop kind of girl, not a champagne girl, if you see what I mean.
And plus? The dress is really sexy. The fabric is slinky and it sticks to me like a second skin. It’s not low-cut but it’s really short. I mean when I think of how the nuns at Catholic school would react to this dress, I shiver. And laugh a little, I admit. Sweet Mary forgive me.
It’s not a dress that a stepfather should give to his daughter. In my opinion. Or a dress to wear to a funeral, for that matter.
But it’s all I’ve got, so it’s what I’m wearing. Maybe I can find an excuse not to take off my coat through the entire thing.
So I get the dress on and avoid looking in a mirror because I’ve got no time for second thoughts. My mother is waiting downstairs to drive us to the cemetery.
It will be the first time I’ve seen the family in years. I am not looking forward to it.
“I hope you and Scott can patch things up,” my mother says, before she’s even pulled away from the curb. “You used to be so close.”
“Mother? There’s nothing to patch. We were never close. Not for five minutes. I don’t know how you’ve cooked up this fantasy, but just…just stop.”
“Now, Ainsley,” she says, and oh how I hate when she says that, the tone saying you’re always doing the wrong thing.
My mother’s driving a navy-blue BMW. To her, I think becoming Mrs. Caulter has been worth it. She’s gone from dead broke and not being able to pay the rent half the time to driving this late-model indulgence with leather seats and a moonroof. Of course, she has to put up with bullshit of epic proportions from this new family she chose, and there’s other fallout like my leaving home for good—but I guess to her, that moonroof makes it all worthwhile.
Do I sound bitter? I hope not. Because I’ve worked all that shit out long ago. I’ m grateful for the way things turned out, actually, because I learned how to make my own way in the world without any help from jerks. I’m independent and I like it that way.
If only coming home didn’t feel like all the weight of the past was dragging me down into the crazy.
“So Scott’s definitely coming to the funeral? I thought maybe with his business empire and all, he wouldn’t have time.”
“You say ‘business empire’ like the idea makes you want to throw up. Ainsley, there is nothing wrong with financial success. Do you know the stock in his main company has split again? I can’t begin to tell you what he’s done for my stock portfolio.”
“I never pictured a day when my mother would say the words ‘my stock portfolio.’”
“I know,” says my mother with a chuckle. “Those days when the electricity got turned off and we ate cold beans out of a can? Seems like another life.”
Well, it does to me too. But I still wouldn’t make the deal she’s made. Sure, she’s got electricity now, and a beamer, but she’s also married to a class-A asshole. And my stepbrother? He was a prick four years ago and I don’t see why a shitload of money would change that. Make it worse, probably.
The cemetery is green and beautiful. It’s weird, all this beauty in a place full of dead people. It’s not like they’re enjoying it, you know? And how many people visit their loved ones once they’re underground? Maybe that happens in other families, but in mine, the ties are too weak for that kind of thing. I don’t even know where my real father is, or if he’s even alive.
“Look, there’s Scott! And my gracious, who’s that with him?”
“If real life is a TV show, I’d say that looks like a security detail.” I try to get a good look without seeming to stare. Yep, there’s Scott all right, tall and broad-shouldered and looking super fit. I can tell from a hundred feet away that his suit is the best of the best, nothing off the rack for our family tycoon. And there are two guys with him, big fellas, in considerably less expensive suits, and they’re wearing those earpieces like the FBI guys protecting the President wear.
Give me a fucking break.
“Well,” says my mother, hurriedly parking the car. I can tell she’s anxious to get over there to see Scott and listen to some of his crap. “I’m sure with all his money, he must have to be on his guard all the time. When you’re that rich and famous, you’re a target for all the crazies.”
I roll my eyes and get out of the car, trying and failing to pull the short dress down to a respectable length. I’m wishing I’d had a little more selection in the shoe department as well, because my heels aren’t handling the cobblestones of the cemetery walkway very well.
My grandmother apparently did not have a lot of friends, which is no surprise given the personalities of the rest of her family. The group assembled to hear the service is small. When I approach, I look in Scott’s direction, planning at least to nod, to be polite. But when our eyes meet, he looks away coldly.
What a jerk. The man looks good in a suit, and Lord knows he’s made more money than God, but what a fucking jerk.
The funeral service was blessedly short. It was obvious the priest had never met my grandmother, and no one shed any tears, including her son. I was hoping maybe I’d hear some entertaining stories about her once we got to the reception, and keep my trip back home from being a complete waste.
In true Caulter fashion, making even a funeral into a bigger-than-life spectacle, the reception is held at the country club and there’s an ice swan and at least two tables with chocolate fondue. No expense spared even though only about twenty people show up. I’d hoped for a bigger crowd, making it easier to avoid both Caulters, father and son.
My mother goes straight for the Cristal even though it isn’t yet noon. I guess
maybe the moonroof isn’t quite enough to make her happy after all.
I sidle over to one of the buffet tables and help myself to an obscene amount of caviar on a little round of toast.
“It is heated in here, you know,” says a deep voice, too close to my ear. I whirl around to face Scott, who’s smirking at me, his hands in his pockets.
“Yeah, whatever, hello to you, too,” I say, pulling my coat higher around me.
We stand there trapped in uncomfortable silence.
I notice his shoes are maybe the best-looking pair of shoes I’ve ever seen in my life. I can tell the leather is so buttery you could put it on an English muffin.
“It must be nice to be rich,” I blurt out, not even remotely what I meant to say. Good Lord, where is my filter?
Scott cocks his head at me. “You didn’t mean to say that,” he says, grinning at me.
“Oh, shut up,” I say. “And I did mean to say that.” I scoop up some more caviar and skedaddle to the ladies’ room, which at the country club is so sumptuous it’s actually embarrassing to be in it. There are chaise longues dressed in ruffled chintz, expensive lotions and hair spray to use for free, and stuff to do your nails. It’s practically like going to a spa, not that I’ve ever set foot in a spa so I’m just guessing.
