Stay(10)

“The zipper on your dress needs to be replaced. The woman in charge said to ask.”

“I have no idea. Metal, I guess. Why doesn’t Rudolfo tell me these things?”

“I’ll let her know.” She starts to speak, but I finish for her. “I’ll pick up your dress.”

“And you’re coming to my competition?”

“I’m pretty sure I have to be out of town.”

“Stephen.” Impatience enters her tone. “We’re the only family we have left. We have to look out for each other.”

“Of course, I’ll be there. I’m only teasing.”

“That’s good. Have a good night, darling.” She pats my arm and turns, leaving me in the doorway to see myself out.



* * *



Standing in my third-floor study, I look out the floor to ceiling windows over the treetops of Central Park. I didn’t move far from the neighborhood. I’m in Midtown. Not like Emmy, who if my aunt is correct, went much further south, both financially and geographically.

Why can’t I get her off my mind? She’s rude. She married that fucking dick. She’s working some low-rent job, probably living in a walk-up… So her plans didn’t work. It’s not my problem.

I just can’t figure it out. Aren’t all women supposed to be searching for their fathers? Burt is nothing like Edward Barton. The Dick is as far from honorable as you can get. He’s not even like her older brother Ethan.

Ethan should have punched him into last week before he let him near his sister. Isn’t that what older brothers do?

Discussing Edward Barton dredged up another bit of the past I’d rather leave buried. Ximena died less than a month after I left for north Africa. I didn’t even make it to her funeral. Ramon took her ashes back to sprinkle over her family’s land. Then he stayed.

She’s like one of those lost ships, buried at sea, and I can never go to the gravesite or give her flowers. I can never tell her how much she meant to me…

I can only hope she knew.

Rubbing my hand over my stomach, I turn my back on the city. I use the mouse to wake my computer, and I see a message waiting from my partner and Naval buddy Remington Key. The healthcare app we’ve been developing is almost ready for testing. It won’t make a difference until real reform happens in the system, but we’ll be ready with the infrastructure when it does.

It’s my old struggle to make life fair. Money has the power to level the playing field. Or not. Edward Barton knew this. Pirates knew this. My father used his money to stay rich.

Emmy is strong, but can she survive? I don’t know why I should give a fuck.

Slipping off my suit coat, I drop it on a stack of suits waiting in a chair, contemplating my next move.





3





Emmy


I’m staring at myself in the mirror, two stripes of translucent powder are on the tops of my cheeks just below my temples. Two more are along my jawline.

“Does this even work?” I lean in for a closer look.

The bed bounces, and I squeal, scooping up the pot of loose powder before it spills everywhere.

“What are you doing?” Eli’s brow scrunches just like a little old man’s. “Why do you have that white stuff on your face?”

“I’m baking.” Twisting the cap on tightly, I drop it on the comforter beside me. “Now stop bouncing on the bed.”

“Like a potato?”

“Like a face.”

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s supposed to set the concealer and foundation and eliminate fine lines.”

Tapping the play triangle on the YouTube video, the recording of LaSalle’s last fashion show continues. All the models are in long, straight sheaths, their hair is pulled sharply away from their faces in tiny buns on the tops of their heads, and their eyes are all you see.

Eli hugs Kona his stuffed killer whale and continues staring at my face. “Your eyes look really big.”

I’ve applied a full face, complete with deep bronze shadow, cat liner, and false lashes. “See the girls in this video? They’re the models from his last show.”

“Who’s he?”

“A rising designer. I’m helping Aunt Lou do hair and makeup for a fundraiser. I have to be sure I’m up with all the latest techniques.” Leaning forward, I speak without moving my eyes. “Don’t want to look like a dummy.”

Finally, I coat my lips with a warm pink liquid lipstick, then kiss them together a few times, making a face and winking at the mirror before turning to him.

“What do you think?”

His little nose curls. “I can’t see your freckles. You look like a Bratz doll.”

“How do you know about Bratz dolls?”

“I went to school, Mom.”

Picking up the large brush, I dust it across the line of the powder, blending it into my face. “You go to school now. It’s just different.”

I don’t mention how I think he’s learning a lot more as a homeschool student. I still want him to have the socialization of the academy, but I can’t argue with how fast he’s moving through his lessons.

Standing, I give the tip of his nose a light pinch. “I’ll take that as a positive. Most glamour girls look like Bratz dolls these days.”