The Inheritance (4 page)

“You too, huh?” someone says and for a moment I have no idea where it’s coming from. I whip my head around but none of the chefs are paying attention to me, their eyes on their tiny, edible pieces of art. I feel a hand wrap around my ankle and I jump. The same man laughs. “Down here,” he says.

On the kitchen floor, huddled in the corner near the fridge sits a startlingly handsome man. The kind of gorgeous that has you debating whether or not he’s real. His eyes are too blue, his hair’s the perfect shade of black, his grin’s blinding and his hands. Oh his hands. I have a thing for men with large hands. It doesn’t matter if they’re scuffed from constant use or pampered and smooth, but they must be large and thick. The perfect size to encompass my hips or my shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m just glad someone else seems to want to get away from the crowd.”

“How do you know I’m trying to get away?” I ask, flipping my hair over my shoulder. This is how you flirt, right?

He grins and a nib of satisfaction swims in my stomach. “I heard you tell Joshua that you couldn’t handle being out there.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Joshua?”

“Yeah. I’ve been in here for a while.”

A chef stumbles backward, a neat array of plates balanced in his hands and on his arms. He almost bumps into me but I shrink away, stepping closer to the man on the floor, my shoe bumping into his leg.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be,” he says. Then he stands. He’s tall but not freakishly so. Six one at least. The perfect height for a man. Without my heels my nose would be level with his chest, and his chin directly above my head. But I’m taller and only have to slightly tilt my head to look at him. “Neal,” he says, holding out one large hand.

I wrap my fingers around it. “Caitlin. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Caitlin,” he says, tasting my name on his tongue. “Caitlin Wheeler?”

My smile drops for a moment. “That’s the one.”

Neal takes a drink. “You’re much prettier than I thought you would be.”

My head tilts curiously to the side. “And how pretty did you think I was?”

He thinks for a moment. “I assumed you’d be a watery six. But you’re probably an eight on a bad day.”

I can’t contain my smile. “And on a good day?”

“Like right now? A solid eleven.”

I duck my head, my smile spreading wide across my mouth. “Are you hitting on me at my father’s repass?”

He laughs. “I don’t know. How would you react if I was?”

I lean against the fridge. “I’d be flattered.”

“Not offended?”

“No.” I look away. “I’m not my father’s biggest fan.”

Neal nods. “The Chicago Times.”

“What?”

“I read that article they ran on you and your dad like six years ago.”

My head tilts to the side.
Why am I in the kitchen again?
“Who are you?”

“Did you forget my name already?”

“Of course not. But are you one of my father’s employees or…”

He shakes his head. “No, I --” He raises an eyebrow, cocks his head, takes a drink. Seconds tick by like minutes.
He
?
He
? “I work for Lee Geon.”

My eyes widen. “Lee Geon? Of Turner Associates?”

Neal slowly nods.

Growing up I had no interest in learning the ins and outs of my father’s business but listening to him rant about Lee Geon and Turner Associates was unavoidable in this house. They were his professional and personal rivals, my father’s company and Lee’s always battling for the top financial spot. As if there wasn’t enough money to go around. They played games that were meant to be in good fun, but involved the FBI raiding my father’s business and, in turn, the DEA ransacking Lee’s home. The blood that ran between them wasn’t just bad, it was spoilt and black and spiked with poison.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. No malice, all curiosity.

If he’s anything like my father – which I assume most men in finance are – he’s here to soak up the morbidity of it all and the finality of my father’s death, so he can run back and tell Lee with certainty,
ding-dong the witch is dead
.

“Lee always says you have to know you’re enemy if you’re going to be swimming in the same waters as the sharks.”

“So you came to gather Intel about my father?”

“Not exactly. I’m just trying to see what made him so great.” I smile and think,
absolutely nothing
. “Also it doesn’t hurt that his clients might be looking to switch teams.”

I laugh and for a split second, like a snap of the fingers, a wave of guilt swims in my stomach. Here I am, giggling in the kitchen at my father’s repass, with a handsome man who cares less about my father’s death than I do, and it feels…wrong.

“There you are,” Gina says, pushing her way through the chefs and wait staff. Like a flood of light my resentment comes rushing back. She glances between Neal and me, her eyes widening when they settle on Neal’s face, his shoulders, and his chest. Her eyes were on my father’s bank account when she married him, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know a good looking man when she sees one. She straightens her shoulders and says, “Hi,” before turning towards me. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“The condo isn’t that big,” I say. “How long did it really take you?”

Gina narrows her eyes, the way she used to when I was fourteen and defiant. “I can’t believe you’re taking that tone with me, today of all the days.” She throws a glance over her shoulder. “Are you even thinking about your father?”

I don’t respond.

She wraps her hand around my wrist and tugs me out of the kitchen. I throw a look back to Neal who shrugs with a smile, wrapping his mouth around his beer as he takes another drink.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she says. In the living room the crowd is still thick with people, the noise level considerably louder. Everyone’s a little tipsier, the smell of alcohol wafting through the room. The patio door’s slid open, a small group gathered around to smoke. Ashes dropping on the beige concrete and over the railing. Fitting for a post-cremation.

Gina stands on her toes, looking over the shoulders of the crowd. “I can’t…I can’t see him but...”

I snatch my arm back. “You can’t see who? Who’s looking for me?”

She parts the two men in front of her, stepping sideways with a smile. “There he is,” she says, waving me closer.

I step next to her, dreading her small reveal. Did my father have another child? Or have his parents (who kicked him out when he was sixteen so he could find his own way) travelled all the way from New York to meet me and beg for money?

The answer to both of those questions is: neither.

Standing almost in the center of the room, conversing with two equally well-dressed men – my breath hitches in my throat –
Justin
.

You play these types of moments in your head. Readying yourself for the unlikely occasion that you run into your ex at a supermarket or a bowling alley or standing in the cold as you wait for the train. You always imagine yourself looking effortless but beautiful, the lighting just right as it casts across your face, always pensive as if you spend your life immersed in deep thoughts, especially now that they’re gone. When really the majority of your time is spent ducking thoughts about them. Crossing the street so you won’t have to pass the bench where you first kissed. Taking the next train because this one – the nine-fifteen – well that was
their
train and you can’t stand taking
their
train, heading up
their
route, stepping off at
their
destination.

These planned conversations always go in your favor. You’re heading somewhere exciting and they’re trudging off to work.
You look good
, they’ll say, and you smile, the crisp air attractively flushing your cheeks as you say,
thanks, so do you
.

They spend the encounter staring at you wondrously. They can feel that something’s changed since you broke up but they can’t put their finger on it. It’s not your hair or the way you do your make up or how you carry yourself. It’s deeper. Internal. A whole new you.

But that’s never how it works out.

I spot Justin and I freeze up. Gina furrows her eyebrows as a man bumps into me and apologizes, but I can’t hear him. The sounds of the repass fizzle into silence, my ears consumed with the rhythm of my heart.
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump
.

What the hell is he doing here? When we were dating my father couldn’t stand him. He openly berated Justin for being born into a wealthy family, for that silver spoon stuck in his mouth at birth. Have things changed? Did our breakup allow my father to see him a new light? Have they grabbed drinks after work?

Someone else bumps into my shoulder. “Sorry,” she says. She doesn’t mean it. We lock eyes and, “Oh my god, Caitlin Wheeler.”

My eyes widen in recognition. “Suzanne?”

She laughs, open-mouthed, her glossy pink lips curling perfectly into her teeth. She pulls me into a hug. “Fuck me,” she says, pulling away. “Can I be honest? I wanna be honest. I didn’t think you were gonna show up.”

The short version of my relationship with Suzanne is that we were summertime best friends. The sorts of girls who didn’t see each other during the year but the moment the smell of summer was around the corner, we were on the phone with one another every night, giggling about the boys in our classes, dreaming of what we would do once I landed in Chicago.

The daughter of a pair of lawyers, Suzanne (never, ever “Susie” or “Suze”) grew up in boarding schools in Connecticut, her parents shipping her off every year with a wave and a chunk of money stashed in her bank account. She’s beautiful in the way most wealthy girls grow up to be, surrounded by an unblemished glow of privilege, constantly wearing an easy, breezy,
isn’t life grand
smile; her hair, perfect, nails, perfect, clothes, perfect. I loved her like a sister but there were long moments when I looked at her life and barrels of envy grew like weeds in the pit of my stomach.

“I wasn’t,” I say with a smile. “But Gina convinced me.”

Suzanne throws a look towards Gina, standing awkwardly beside us, grinning maniacally like she’s one of the girls, the same way she did whenever Suzanne visited the condo.

“Gina, hi,” Suzanne says, smiling tighter. She touches my shoulder. “Do you mind if I steal this one for a little bit?”

“Oh no,” Gina says, waving her hand. “Go right ahead. I’m just gonna be --”

Suzanne turns me away before Gina can continue. She bends her head towards mine, a laugh brewing in the pit of her stomach. “Oh my god,” she says, dramatically. “I can’t believe she’s still wearing that terrible eyeliner. Has anyone told her raccoon eyes are so 2003?” A waitress floats by with a tray of champagne, she grabs two glasses and hands one to me. “So what have you been up to besides avoiding the world of social media?”

“I told you when I graduated college I was done with Facebook and Twitter and,” I roll my eyes, “whatever else is out there.”

“Yeah but I didn’t actually believe you. I mean, are you like a spy or something?”

I laugh. “I teach English to middle school kids.”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A patronizing noise. An “aw” with a bite. “That’s so cute.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What do you do?”

“Oh you know, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.” The mantra of a bored little rich girl. “But mostly blogging now that I’m married.” She spreads and wiggles her five fingers, flashing the diamond ring that weighs heavy on her hand. It doesn’t surprise me. Suzanne’s had her wedding planned since she was nine, making construction paper cut outs of her handsome groom with sticks for legs and arms.

I go through the motions, the wide mouth gasp, the eager grabbing of her hand. “Congratulations,” I almost squeal, drawing the attention of the crowd around us. There’s something morbid about staring into a glittering ring, Suzanne blushing and grinning as I pull away, while the two of us stand in the middle of my father’s repass.

“Thank you,” she says, staring dreamily at her hand. “It’s the one thing I have over Natalie.” Her older, arguably prettier sister. “She’s still struggling to make it in New York, living in a shitty apartment with five roommates and not one boyfriend.” Suzanne cackles evilly before she swallows a gulp of champagne. “I mean, you do have a boyfriend, don’t you?” I don’t feel the need to lie until: “Justin! Justin, honey, get over here and look who I found.”

Remember those over-dramatic moments in comedies? Where a hilarious twist of events are sprung on the protagonist, and for a moment, they’re stricken dead-eyed and immobile? The audience laughs – the applause sign flickering on and off – but the protagonist is always seconds away from passing out. I imagine this moment to be a lot like that. Me, unaware, that there’s a studio audience full of people, lapping up the sight of Justin, scurrying over to Suzanne, one arm thrown around her waist, the other reaching for her champagne glass. She pulls it out of his reach and he smiles before he drops a kiss to her lips.

I’m going to be sick.

Justin was never handsome but his boyish looks remain, blond hair sweeping across his forehead, not a speck of facial hair to be found. Next to Suzanne he looks like her brother, the two of them sporting the same shade of blue eyes, round faces and a similar shade of hair. Two exuberant siblings dressed in designer clothing and way too close.

“Caitlin.” He holds out his hand. “It’s been way too long.”

In an instant my romantic image of Justin is shattered and replaced with a boiling pit of anger that brews in my stomach.
You asshole. You utter, insufferable asshole
. Grinning as if the last time we saw each other didn’t end in me rushing out of his house in tears.

I nod and smile tightly, limply shaking his hand, my skin crawling at his touch. “It has. I didn’t even know you and Suzanne were dating, nevertheless married.”

“It just sort of happened,” Suzanne interjects. “You know how it is. We were home for the summer after our first year of college, feeling cooped up and antsy and,” she laughs, “one thing led to another and soon we were in love.”