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BETH LONGMERE
BREAKING NEWS
Rumors are swirling that Baltimore’s poster boy billionaire, Harrison Rothschild, will be announcing his run for Governor of Maryland.
Harrison, well known across the East Coast for his stance on economic reform, is Harvard Law educated and heir of the Rothschild dynasty, along with his three brothers. Often nicknamed “The Charmer” for his dazzling smile and like for the ladies, his lavish lifestyle and connections puts him as the main contender for the top spot.
But will the boy from Baltimore, born with a silver spoon, receive the votes he needs from the general public? Many of whom say he is out of touch with what therealpeople want?
Affordable housing, advanced infrastructure, and investment in jobs are not something our poster boy has ever had to worry about before.
More to come.
“You know I spilled a tray of champagne on him once,” I mumble to my dad as we both relax in the living room, watching the nightly news.
“Hmph?” His eyes remain focused on the TV, even though the picture is slightly black in spots from where I accidently hit it with the vacuum the other day.
“We had a charity event for his mother, the one where Issy was kidnapped.” I continue as I scoop out a spoonful of ice cream from the tub of chocolate chip sitting on my lap. It is my Sunday night reprieve after a hectic week, the only luxury I give myself and, even then, only on pay weeks.
Dad side-eyes me. He doesn’t like me working in the city at all hours for my job managing events for the rich and famous of D.C. Even less so after Issy was kidnapped. But it is our only income and I get medical, so he can’t complain. Besides, Issy is fine now. She got her happily ever after with Jake and is loving life in the country. It all worked out.
“I turned and crashed into a waiter. The drinks went flying straight onto his Italian loafers. His mother was ropeable. I’ve never felt more insignificant than in that moment when I dove onto the floor to mop up his shoes while he and his mother looked down their noses at me.” I continue the story, the image still vivid in my mind despite that night taking a different turn. The ice cream drips onto my jumper from the spoon, creating a big brown splotch, and I quickly scrape off the remnants, internally cursing myself.This is why I can’t have good things, my mother’s voice, although distant, rings in my mind.
I work with many of the elite, yet in reality, I couldn’t be further from them if I tried. I struggle to make ends meet to look after dad and me. The opulence I see and create on a daily basis is in complete contrast to our bland, mismatched living room. Where the carpet is so worn there are dents in the floor from my dad’s wheelchair tires. The marks around our home are lovingly referred to as his racetrack.
But there is no racing. Our home is so small, we struggle to navigate his chair. We have only what we need and nothing more.
“Those pompous idiots have no idea how the real people live. He will run for governor, and he will win too because of his name, because of his connections. Not because of the difference he can make to the community,” Dad says, clearly unimpressed with the boy from Baltimore despite everyone else loving him endlessly.
As I see images flash across the TV screen of him with a stunning brunette on his arm, the wind outside picks up and I hear the roof lifting a little, the air howling through the rafters. My eyes immediately focus on the dampness seeping through the ceiling in the corner of the room. Little black patches of mold have appeared, so I make a mental note to look into it.
My eyes flick back to the TV, which is now showing Harrison Rothschild shaking hands at some industry event, flashing his smile and I watch his commanding presence. Feeling it through the screen.
He didn’t say anything to me that night when the drinks stained his loafers. He didn’t have to. His mother was ranting at me and anyone else who would listen about my incompetence. Loudly reminding everyone within earshot of exactly how expensive her son’s shoes were. He, on the other hand, just looked at me. His eyes pierced mine. He had a little crease in between his eyebrows, and his jaw ticked, which made my cheeks flush and my hands shake. I am clumsy, yes, but not usually so flappable.
But he was something else. And I was glad to see the back of that event. I didn’t miss his gaze on me as he left, though.
“Are you coming to the center tomorrow?” Dad asks me as I scrape out the last remaining spoonful of ice cream from the tub.
“Yep, I’m doing yoga with Marci at 9 a.m. Do you want to catch the bus together?” I ask him, knowing that he wouldn’t miss a day at the center for anything. Especially the daily game of chess he plays with Larry. The two of them are trouble when they get together at the local community center where dad spends most of his days.
“That would be good,” he grumbles.
“Are you alright, Dad?” He looks a little more worn out than when I was here last Sunday.
“Fine. Don’t worry about me.” I am used to his grumpy old man attitude by now, but it does make it difficult to tell when there’s actually something wrong. That is why I am so upbeat. I have to be. We both can’t be sad day after day. We both can’t live in the past and have our hearts filled with worries.
“Have you been working with Jeff this week?” I ask, trying to dig a little deeper.
Jeff is the new community manager at the center. He arrived six months ago and has gotten everyone in order and has built new programs. He is even assisting dad with trying to secure additional support and financial aid because of his disability, even offering to drive him to appointments.
“Yes. But Larry and I can see straight through him,” Dad mumbles, raising a brow as he glances my way.
“What do you mean?” My head tilts at the look on his face.
“Jeff is sweet on you.”
