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“You and your fucking lists, Tina,” my grandfather’s deep rumble voice fills the room as he ambles into the kitchen.
“Oh, Liam. Your language,” she admonishes, but with an air of respect she never shows anyone but him. I used to think it was because he was our benefactor. We’ve lived in his home since my father died. But it’s not that, at all. He and my mother have been partners in the explosive growth Wilde World has experienced over the last fifteen years.
The respect they have for each other, and what they’ve built together, is soul deep. And he’s the only person she’s always nice to. Well, as nice as she’s capable of being, anyway.
“Morning, Pops,” I greet him with a smile and start to stand up and help him over when Regan beats me to it.
“I don’t need help,” he scowls at her when she takes ahold of his arm. His sky-blue eyes, a trait none of his grandchildren share, are clear and focused this morning.
“I know, Popsy, I just want to hold your hand.” She smiles sweetly at him. Regan doesn’t smile sweetly at anyone. In that way, she’s like my mother. But that’s where the similarities end. She’s got what I fondly call a Resting Fuck Off Face. Her lack of a smile is in complete contradiction to her sweet, affable nature.
My grandfather smiles warmly down at Regan, only she gets that smile from him, and lets her lead him to the chair at the head of the table. He lowers himself slowly into the chair and folds his still straight, big hands in front of him. “To what pleasure do I owe the company of all of my grandchildren this morning?”
“I suppose I should tell you, too. You’re out in the garden so much these days.” My mother walks back over to the table, this time sitting in her normal seat, beside him.
He had a minor stroke a month ago. His recovery has been slow, and he’s turned a lot of the day-to-day running of Wilde World to his executive team. He’s been outside, sitting and reading and sleeping in the chair we placed near the butterfly garden for him.
“Well, spit it out. I’m too old for suspense.” He glowers at my mother from under his heavy brow.
“There’s a gang of criminals living in Rivers Wilde. A bookstore owner and her eighteen-year-old girl,” I say and waggle a brow at him.
“Is she robbing people in their gardens?” my grandfather says, his eyebrows raised with dry mock horror.
“It’s not funny,” my mother, never one to allow light to be made of anything, says. “You all have grown up in the lap of luxury. But trust me, I know what it’s like when unsavory elements start moving in. It’s just them now, but next thing you know their friends from Third Ward will start visiting. And there goes the neighborhood.”
“Third Ward is a historically significant neighborhood and home to many of our stores,” my grandfather reminds her in that stern, disapproving way that only he can.
“Isn’t Beyoncé from Third Ward?” Regan asks.
“Yes, she is. And you can tell… Money doesn’t buy class. Breeding is important. Remember that you are Wildes. Stay away from that girl.”
“Well, this is more excitement than I can remember having in a long time. I might walk down to the town square just to catch a glimpse of our very own Thelma and Louise.”
“Liam, it’s not exciting, or funny, and I don’t want you encouraging the kids. It’s bad enough that Remi has to deliver things to that store every day,” my mother says with agitation.
“Nothing encourages a kid like telling them no
t to do something. Sounds like you got the encouraging covered. And, Remi and Regan are both old enough to drive. They aren’t kids.” My grandfather’s voice is stern and full of warning.
“They’re my kids,” she pushes back with that thread of steel she always gets when he challenges her like this.
“Funny how she remembers that, now,” Regan whispers to me, and I give her a warning glance.
“What was that?” My mother’s voice is cold and lets Regan know that she heard her and is daring her to repeat it.
Regan’s never been good at playing chicken. “Nothing. I’m going back to bed,” she says as she snags an apple from the huge bowl of fruit in the center of the too big table and shuffles out.
“That girl has the worst attitude,” my mother says and shakes her head disapprovingly.
“I thought you were leaving for work,” Ty says and walks over to her and puts an arm around her. She leans into him for a second and pulls out of his grasp. She’s always been uncomfortable with affection. Tyson, with his endless optimism, keeps trying with her.
“I am. I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page before I leave. I mean it. Keep contact to a minimum.”
“Remi, I think that’s her.” My brother nods at the window that overlooks the entire main street of Rivers Wilde. Our house was the very first home built in the neighborhood and my grandfather put it on one of the artificial hills they erected.
From the second-story family room that also serves as our study area, you can see straight into the square, even though it’s a good quarter of a mile away. It’s a perfectly designed grid, and from here, I can see how well-thought-out it is. It’s small-town America in the middle of the urban sprawl of Houston. The minute you drive through the majestic iron gates that mark the entrance, it feels like a different world.
I follow Tyson’s gaze over the pristine treelined street until I see what caught his eye. A young woman is making her way up the street that serves as the main artery of the town square.
