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“Uh . . .” I stop to think, but she interrupts.
“I could clean up this stuff?” She crosses over to the ottoman between the two couches that face each other. She slides a finger over the roof of the wooden dollhouse, taking in the clutter next to it: sandpaper, a screwdriver, tubes of paint, and instruction sheets.
“No,” I say. “I’m working on a project and I need things left alone.” I rake a hand through my hair and blow out a breath. That probably came out a little gruff. “If you want to help, you can make comments and ‘like’ customer comments on our resort social media accounts, okay?” I pluck a small iPad off my desk, unlock it, and then hand it to her. “Here’s a dossier that Britta came up with. You can even copy and paste these exact responses. Please don’t try to go rogue and do your own thing on here. It needs to be one of these responses.”
She brightens and takes the iPad. “On it,” she says with a firm nod. She sits at her new desk and begins.
I take a deep breath and massage the spot in between my eyebrows, where lately I’ve either had a headache brewing or a nervous tick, jumping and skittering at the first sign of stress. Which, these days, has been happening a lot.
We’re all overworked around here, with the fourth quarter looming and Britta gone. I need to walk while I think, so I leave my office and the tornado that is Ethan’s little sister, and head down the hall towards The Summit, our five-star, full-service restaurant. It’s not open until noon, but I’ll go see how things are shaping up today. If I feel like I’m walking with purpose, my mind can wander and sort itself out. My footsteps echo on the tile floor.
I’ve had one goal since I was a teen. One. And every decision since then has led me to this moment.
It’s the reason I work so hard.
It’s why I don’t date much, why the thought of marriage and a family feels about as possible as flying to Mars. Because doing anything other than things that will get me on the Deca Arete list is telling myself I don’t want it enough.
My father. This is about proving myself to him. Does he deserve the courtesy? No. But I also have to do this for myself.
I stop at a window and look out over the lake—a deep blue edged in slate gray. I was in high school when the bragging got the best of me one night over dinner. It was rare that he was even home for dinner at all, so my mother fussed over the food and the place settings. My father was in rare form, he actually smiled a couple of times and he called my mother “Princess,” the nickname he barely used anymore.
“Today’s a big day for the Tate family,” he’d said as the meal was winding down. “I did it, boys. The Foundations Financial Company has hit the list.” I might have been mistaken, but I thought I saw his eyes glisten with tears. “The Deca Arete—more prestigious than the Fortune 500. I just got the letter today. They’ll publish it in next month’sFortunemagazine.”
Mom squealed and clapped her hands. My brothers started talking excitedly. I mumbled a congratulations, since I rarely said much at all those days, especially at the dinner table.
I was just about to finish my junior year of high school, and I had too much to do to worry about my dad’s business ventures. In a few days, baseball season would be over, and we’d be spending the summer in Longdale with our aunt Stella.
That’s when the dinner took a turn I’ll never forget. And I made up my mind, then and there, that I would beat him at his own game.
“So? That’s all you can say, Sebastian? ‘Congratulations’?” A vein in my father’s forehead bulged. “This is a big deal. Who knows what will happen when you take things over, though. You think you can keep up the momentum, son?”
Never mind that he’d never asked me if I even wanted to work at his company, let alone take it over.
I didn’t. I didn’t want anything to do with Foundations Financial or anything that belonged to him.
When I only stared at my plate, he became impatient. “I asked you a question and I expect an answer. I have the right to ask my son if he thinks he has what it takes to not run my company into the ground someday.”
“Thomas,” my mother hissed. “We’ll let Sebastian choose what he wants to do. We’ve talked about this.”
Dad grew somber, his face red. “A grateful son will accept the gift he’s been given. We own a Deca Arete company, Celine. And there’s no way I’m going to allow my son to walk away from that.”
“He’s not justyourson; he’sourson,” Mom said, balling the napkin in her hands. “And he has the right to choose his own career path. Maybe if you weren’t this way, Sebastian would want to work for you.”
“He does.” Dad scowled. “He may not always think he does, but he does. He won’t find anything better, that’s a guarantee.”
I met my father’s gaze. “I don’t want to work for Foundations Financial, Dad. I want to build my own company.”
My father said a few choice words in between the berating and false laughter. Then he stood from his unfinished food and left.
And I, in turn, left the table with one thought, something I’ve never deviated from since.
I will build my own company. Not in the financial realm. Something different. And I will make the Deca Arete list in my tenth year.
I’m jostled out of my memories by a phone call from River in the Human Resource department, reminding me about the interviews I’m conducting today for a position in our finance department.
I should have a bunch of strings tied around each finger. If I was at all good at keeping the balls in my life in the air before Britta came along, that went out the window after all these years. Some days it seems like I can barely tie my own shoes without Britta’s help.
I force a tight breath from my lungs as I leave my wandering around the resort and return to my office. River is already there, talking with a tall brunette. Elianna is not at her desk. Maybe she’s decided she’s not cut out for the position and is on her way back to California.
