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“How’d Bruce the Sportswriter take the news?” I asked Mom on a whim.
She laughed. “He seemed pretty nervous once he realized who I married. Bruce apologized profusely for always asking me out.”
I took that to mean Stefon Vaulteneau was well known in Vegas circles. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
I knew nothing about planes but as the limo pulled alongside a sleek white jet, my jaw hit the floor. My mom exited the limo and spoke to the captain, who agreed to let everyone inspect the plane. Once we were on board, my feet found plush gray carpets, and I saw dove-gray leather seats with diamond-patterned seat backs with private tables at each one.
The flight attendant took pity on a group of curious teenagers, so she showed us the owner’s suite, with a full-size bed, two nightstands, and a large flat screen television. The latrine was nothing like in a normal plane, but an elegant restroom with a porcelain tile standing shower.
Back in the main cabin, Kinzy sat in one of the glorious chairs, which was replete with a dinnerware setup, and started taking selfies. “This is totally going up on Insta,” she gushed.
I chuckled when I spotted Rowen. He was filming a YouTube Shorts video highlighting the jet for his followers. From the cockpit, Raj and Brieana were peppering the co-captain with comments and questions. Not surprisingly, with Brieana’s parents being Air Force pilots, she asked excellent questions.
“Mrs. Vaulteneau,” the captain said, “we need to be airborne soon.”
“Of course, Captain Sosa,” Mom said. “Thanks for humoring my son and his friends.” She turned to us. “How about I take a group photo for you?”
We made our way to the long couch in the back of the plane so Mom could take a good dozen photos of us in various stages—from serious to flat-out goofy.
Out of all of us, Kinzy was the crier of the group, but I found my eyes wet. “I’ll try to come back as often as I can,” I told them. Hopefully I was telling the truth. Mom had mentioned that Stefon had regular business in Vegas.
“We’ll throw a belated birthday bash this summer,” Mom said, “and fly you all to Malibu.”
I hugged my friends goodbye and watched them pile back into the limo. The driver, whose stoic, withered face was straight out of a Hemingway novel, had agreed to take everyone back home. Moments later Mom and I were strapped in our seats and the glorious jet effortlessly lifted off the ground.
Over the intercom, the captain informed us that we’d land in LAX in just under an hour. Mr. Vaulteneau’s personal chauffeur would meet us at the airport and bring us to the Malibu estate.
“Does Stefon have more than one estate?” I asked.
Mom nodded. “Malibu is the primary residence, but as I understand it, he owns homes in Denver, New York City, London, Dubai, Sydney, and Singapore.” Mom was careful to say Stefon owned those properties. Mom was not a gold digger. She’d been given so many opportunities over the years that that was evident enough.
Worry gnawed in my brain. Would others think differently? Would they look down on the kindest woman on the West Coast?
“You don’t need to worry about me, Ciaran.” She’d been studying my face. “But, I will say this: we are entering a whole new world, honey. Stefon and his family have never known a moment of financial strife. Yes, they’ll have to get to know us better, but we’ll have to do that, too. I know you’ll miss your friends, your school, and Mr. Jones, too, but promise me that you’ll try to fit in.”
Internally, I jolted at hearing Mr. Jones’s name but didn’t let on that it bothered me. I could never deny my mom anything. As long as Stefon was good to her, I could withstand anything and get along with anyone.
“Of course, Mom.” I smiled at her.
Before we knew it, the flight was over and we were touching down at LAX and taxiing to one of the private terminals.
When the captain escorted us from the plane, a petite Black woman in all black directed us to the waiting dark town car with tinted windows. “My name is Davies, Mrs. Vaulteneau, Mr. Galbraith. I’ll drive you to the Vaulteneau cliffside estate.”
Mom murmured a gentle, “Thank you, Davies,” as we slid into the back seat. An attendant loaded our luggage in the trunk.
I shot Mom a pointed stare. I wanted to ask where her new husband was, why wasn’t he here to meet us, but I didn’t want to raise her hackles. I’m sure he had a good reason and honestly, Mom didn’t look upset.
Slipping on sunglasses, I took stock of my surroundings. I’d never been to Los Angeles before. The bright sun beat down just like it did in Vegas, but the breeze was salty and more humid.
Mom looked effortless in her light pink pantsuit and dusty rose silk blouse ensemble. A thin gold pendant necklace and small gold hoop earrings added to the elegance her figure already possessed. Stefon’s assistant had delivered several new pieces to get Mom through the next few days.
In my jeans, dark blue T-shirt, and frayed Chuck Taylors, I dressed more for comfort than style, because who was I trying to impress? The back of my shirt clung to my skin. I blamed the weather, not nerves.
The airport was right off the coast. My eyes met with the bright blue Pacific Ocean, choppy and glittery due to the waves. Behind us, tall skyscrapers touched the sky of downtown Los Angeles.
Once we were out of the city, the driver navigated to the Pacific Coast Highway at the Santa Monica Pier. As we continued, the wide spans of the ocean spread out on the lefthand side while rocky formations with low, craggy trees and brush rose up on the right. Restaurants and small surf and tackle businesses on one side provided a contrast to the ornate, wrought iron gates that led up into the mountainside estates.
It seemed like I was holding my breath when the driver exited the highway and made a series of winding turns. We maneuvered closer to cliffside. The houses got bigger and the cars more exotic.
