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Chapter one
THE MILLION-DOLLAR GAMBLE.
LIAM
Our families have been feuding for the past fifteen years, ever since I was accused of killing her father.
The rain was coming down hard, and visibility was almost zero on the long-windy road leading up to the ranches.
The Volvo convertible we were driving hit the Nissan Versa hard, throwing me right out of the car as I wasn’t wearing a seat-belt, but my brother Noah was pretty banged up. We survived, but the driver of the other car didn’t make it. By the time the cops came, there was nothing to retrieve for burial—just mangled steel and pieces of burnt flesh.
Today is the Angels of Mercy Charity Ball and Auction—a charity auction to enable our local children’s hospital to buy much-needed equipment, like an MRI and a dialysis machine. I didn’texpect to see her here. She’s supposed to be in Texas. How come she is here?
My God . . . has she grown!!! The last time I saw her, she was still wearing braces and pigtails. I had to go away for a little while, and by the time I came back, she’d gone off to college.
A lot has happened in the last fifteen years. She looks heavenly. I wonder what she would think if I bid on her. Would she come on the “date” with me?
Knowing her and her big heart, and her philanthropic persuasions, I doubt she would let the family feud stop her from saving dying children.
I have always liked Tony ever since her mother appeared at our doorstep with a string of kids and a little bundle in her arms, wrapped up in what looked like a piece of an old curtain fabric. Abigail was looking for work, and she was desperate.
My grandmother had taken the entire family in, offering both Tony’s parents odd jobs and the 4 kids somewhere to stay. Tony was the youngest and the most fun to watch grow up. She was spirited, vivacious, resourceful, and kind.
She had moved to Texas to go to college—or so I’d heard, yet here she is. Will she recognize me . . . will she care?
She is up for auction now. I strategically wait till I sense no more takers are planning on raising their paddles, then I hear myself blurt . . . one million dollars, and there’s an audible gasp in the room like a distant thunder. I “win” her, and at first, she doesn’t recognize me . . . not until the auctioneer mentions my name; then so many things happen all at once.
She lets out a blood-curdling scream, then whips off a very pointy left shoe and flings it at me, then runs out of the room, making an exit that would have been comical (from the hobbling on one stiletto), save for the piercing echo of years of pain.
Fifteen years of family feuding and accusations of murder have not dimmed the fiery animosity. I’ve bought a date with theone woman who would gladly skewer my balls, place them on a grill, and press down hard while they are still attached to me.
I get up to leave . . . go after her, but Dr. Jacobs, sitting next to me, tags at my coattails and says,
“Son, sit back down. Let her be. It must have been a big shock seeing you here. Why did you come, anyway, knowing what this town thinks of you?
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I thought doing a little public service in the open might buy me some good graces.”
I take Dr. Jacobs’ good counsel, sit back down, and let the community get their pound of flesh. I already know that I am the most hated man in this community, but there are usually more than six degrees of separation between me and them.
Today, I walked right into the hornet’s nest and they are out for blood.
Someone very close to where I am sitting whispers,"Did you see that? Liam just bid a million dollars for Tony. How crass!"
A sympathizer or a friend answers back, “Look at him . . . Mr. Rich guy. He thinks he can just throw his money around, and that will fix everything."
I am tempted to turn around and face my accusers, but I better not. What good will that do?
The room is abuzz with disdainful murmurs and accusatory glares, and the auctioneer is frantically trying to restore order, saying,
“Ladies and gentlemen, please. We still have a lot to do here. Remember why you came.”
Quiet is beginning to settle in the room, but there are still a few strategic “whispers” meant to appear discreet but meant for my ears anyway.
"This is just a stunt. He's not fooling anyone. I hope Tony sees through this charade.”
"Poor Tony. She doesn’t deserve this. This is just awful; to live in the same community as your father’s killer.”
I have heard enough . . . I am going home.
