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I take a deep breath through my nose, not wanting to appear emotional, as accused. Although I do have a pretty big emotional need to stab Porn ’stache in his turkey neck with his gold fountain pen.
I stand up and turn to my attorney, whose narrow-eyed expression makes even me want to pee my pants a little. I figure it’s time to let her earn her salary. “Leslie, you want to finish this up?”
“With pleasure.” She doesn’t look at me, keeping her gaze on Porn ’stache, who now squirms in his seat, much to my satisfaction. He has no idea the whoop-ass he just rained down on himself and his client. I was being nice. Leslie doesn’t do nice. Best thing I ever did was hire her. Stupidest thing I ever did was hire John Dudley.
No, I take that back. Stupidest thing I ever did was eight years ago.
Elvis Presley once said, “Those people in New York are not gonna change me none.” Even now, with all my current success, I wish I’d had more of the King’s wisdom with me in my youth.
Fifteen years ago, I’d trekked clear across the country to the Big Apple, to one of the best business schools in the country. In my six years there, I made my parents proud, earning scholarships, winning competitive internships, and graduating at the top of my class. I’d foolishly thought all of that had prepared me for the real world.
It took only a few months at my first real job in a major marketing firm to prove me wrong.
I’d felt a lot of things at the time—shame, humiliation, disbelief, hurt. But the one that got me through it, that got me to my current level of success, was anger. I like to think I hadn’t come home to Houston with my tail between my legs, but rather with a fire under my ass.
Throwing Porn ’stache a withering look, I gather my briefcase and stride out of the room. Once I clear the conference area, I spot my weasel of an ex-employee flirting with one of ’stache’s secretaries. Guy would rather chase tail than show up to his own lawsuit mediation.
I slow my steps as I pass her desk, drawing a questioning glance from the secretary and an arrogant sneer from him. I lean in toward her and say in a whisper that’s loud enough for the whole room to hear, “Make sure you’re stocked up on penicillin. Otherwise it takes forever for it to go away.”
Both of their mouths drop open in unison as I continue on to the elevator, humming a happy Elvis tune.
2
CHASE
Okay, surprise of the century. The golden boy, the family savior, my brother Thomas (not Tom or Tommy, but Thomas), is a total douche.
My sister, Liz, leans back in her chair and sighs. “God, what a douche.”
See, I told you.
“Liz, manners.” Even in the face of financial ruin, my mom can admonish with flair.
“Sorry, Mom, but, I mean, I thought he was the one groomed to run the business, and now he just wants to sell?” Liz looks genuinely bewildered, like a kid on the cusp of discovering Santa isn’t real. Which pisses me off, as I spent the larger part of my high school years perpetuating that fantasy of Santa for her. She’d been the only kid in middle school who’d gotten into a fistfight defending Santa’s honor.
I’d been so proud.
Stan makes a strangled sort of noise, and I wonder if my next step is 911. Mom pours herself another mimosa from the sideboard before sitting back down in the high-back dining chair. And by mimosa, I mean straight champagne. She usually doesn’t drink. Except when around my father. Seeing as we all wish our glasses contained vodka instead of champagne, we turn a blind eye to Mama’s happy juice.
A moment ago, Thomas sat down at the dining room table and disclosed that Moore’s is in financial trouble. He then dropped the bomb that he would not be taking over the company as previously planned. Furthermore, there’s an offer on the table from some retail conglomerate, and he wants to sell. Then he got up and left to the sounds of Stan sputtering, Liz cursing, and Mom tipping another back.
I should be enjoying this moment. But I’m not.
Growing up, Thomas always had the right grades, said the right things, joined the right clubs. He didn’t waste time on things like childhood and fun. After I’d had a particularly bad set-down/lecture from Stan in my middle school years, I’d stormed into Thomas’s room and asked, “Can’t you do anything wrong for a change?”
Thomas had simply quirked a superior eyebrow and replied, “Can’t you do anything right?”
Touché, Thomas. Touché.
So now that Thomas has finally gone against the family’s wishes, and in a big way, I should feel some sort of validation. But since Thomas’s fall from glory seems to be taking the family’s legacy with it, I can’t summon up any feelings of triumph. I grew up in Moore’s, which is way more than a store—it’s over a million square feet of prime Manhattan real estate.
Spending time at Moore’s was the highlight of my childhood, sad though that is. I played hide-and-seek with Liz in the clothing racks. Mrs. Gilman, the women’s floor manager, always snuck me sweets when my parents weren’t paying attention (which was often), and West, the men’s tailor, had taught me how to dress to kill. Both for the ladies and in business.
I may have been told, repeatedly, that running the store wasn’t in my future, but it still had always felt like mine.
Stan’s mouth is working, but no sound emerges. Probably still recovering from what must have been the blow of a lifetime. When words finally form, I’m not sure if he’s responding to Liz or just talking to himself when he starts babbling. “Sell… maybe. Downsize staff… could work…”
His words become a buzzing sound in my ears as I think of Mrs. Gilman, West, and the rest of the loyal staff who make Moore’s.
