Holt, Her Ruthless Billionairee_50 Loving States-Connecticut Page 19

  This has officially become a business meeting. I lean back and let her peter out and stew under my hard stare for a good, uncomfortable minute before I ask, “Would you rather call whoever offered you this job and turn it down politely, or be embarrassed when you are fired? Again.”

  Sylvie shakes her head. “Even if you get me fired from this job, I am not coming back. This is my two weeks notice. I will starve on the street while Barron attends CIT if I have to. But I am leaving this house in two weeks and I will not be coming back.”

  She is calling my bluff. All too well. I change tactics. “Look, this doesn’t have to be a big fight. You want to go to college. Stay on with Wes while you do and I’ll give you the money to pay for your degree.”

  She doesn’t even think about my offer before she hits back with a hard, “No.”

  I blink. “Why not?”

  “Because I am not taking any more Calson money,” she answers. “For anything. And because I want to do this on my own. I want to be in charge of my education and finally achieve my dream. Even if it is too late for my mother to forgive me or my father to see it.”

  Several seconds tick by. Tense and fraught. “Do you really hate me now?”

  Sylvie jolts. I guess she wasn’t expecting this turn in the conversation. But isn’t that what we’re really talking about? What every conversation has been about since we first met? The past. The present. Our future.

  “No, Holt. I do not really hate you,” she answers quietly. “But I do not like this. I do not like who either of us becomes when we are with each other. And I wonder if we both misunderstood that summer. We thought we were a great love story, but I failed you in more ways than I can count. I do not hate you. But I understand why you hate me. Why you want to punish me again and again for what I did. Understanding this will not change what happened. And no sexual arrangement will ever be enough to erase the bitterness from our minds. I believe it is better for us to part ways…”

  Part ways…

  It makes sense. All too well.

  But when I open my mouth to reply, the words, “One weekend,” fall out.

  “One weekend,” she repeats, scrunching her face in that adorably confused way I used to love.

  “You say this new nanny you’ve selected is up for the job. Let’s test her. I have my Arkansas board meeting next Friday, then a fundraiser for the local botanical gardens afterwards.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw it in the schedule Allie sent over for this month. Of course, I will take care of Wes this weekend. And I will have Mika there, too.”

  “No, you won’t. You will come with me to Arkansas. Mika will stay here. One weekend,” I repeat with a significant look.

  Then in case she is still not getting it, I say, “Come to Arkansas with me for the weekend. If you still want to quit, I will let you go with a recommendation letter and severance pay. Just give me the weekend, and then I swear on my mother’s grave I will leave you alone.”

  One weekend…

  My hunger…my need…it has to be written clear across my face because her eyes drop away like they used to when we were young. So young. Too young. I am finally beginning to see that now.

  She lets out a shuddering breath and asks, “Will I have my own room?”

  “No,” I say. Final answer clear in my tone. And just so she’s clear, I add, “You’ll be sharing a room—and a bed—with me.”

  I tell her my terms. Then I wait to see how she will respond to my proposal.

  Arkansas

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  SYLVIE

  One weekend. It is only one weekend. This is what I tell myself over and over as I board Holt’s private jet at the Westchester County airport.

  But as I walk down the aisle, I realize I have only ever been on five planes in my life. The plane from Jamaica to Connecticut. The plane back to Jamaica when Lydia died. The plane to Mexico. The plane from Mexico to here. And now, I am on the first leg of a roundtrip flight to Little Rock, Arkansas, the state where Cal-Mart has its official headquarters. This mean by the time this weekend is over, half of my flights will have been on board a private jet.

  Look at the poor Jamaican girl now, I think with a wry chuckle as I sit in one of the plane’s sumptuous leather seats. It’s the same one I sat in for the flight from Mexico to Connecticut.

  “Something funny?” Holt asks.

  He takes the seat across from me. Again. But this time, I don’t think he will let me stay quiet. He expects things from me this weekend. More hate-fucking, I’m sure. And what else? I don’t know.

  But a frisson of fear uncurls inside my stomach as I shake my head at him. Because suddenly, there is nothing funny about this trip. Nothing at all.

  I squirm under Holt’s suspicious eyes. And to think I did not believe it was possible to feel any less comfortable than I had on the flight to Connecticut back in August.

  Now I know…

  “Can I get you anything today, Ms. Pinnock?” the flight attendant, an older woman with a grandmotherly demeanor, asks.

  “Yes, a glass of red wine please,” I answer even though I am not much of a drinker.

  “Excellent!” the flight attendant says with a bright smile. “And the usual for you, Mr. Calson?”

  Holt nods and leans toward me. “Did you eat lunch?”

  No, I haven’t. And if I am being truthful, my stomach feels too full of fear to eat anything. But I will need something to soak up the alcohol, so I listen attentively to the list of options rattled off by the flight attendant before deciding on the mushroom risotto.

  The woman nods and leaves only to return a few minutes later with our drinks. She pushes a button that extends a tabletop between us and places a carafe of deep red wine in front of me. But to my surprise, she also opens a large bottle of Veen, a high-end Finnish water I only recognize because we used to offer it to our VIP guest families at The Tourmaline Ixtapa.

  “You don’t drink on flights?” I ask Holt after the flight attendant pours some water into his glass and then makes her way to the back of the plane.

  “No, not on flights,” he answers with a wry twist of his lips. “Or anywhere else.”

  It takes me a second to process his words. “Hold on, you mean you do not drink at all?”

  He shakes his head. “Not anymore. Last August marked ten years.”

  My eyes widen, but then I recall what his father told me he had planned for Holt. A rehab clinic that would turn him back into the son he had so carefully groomed.

  A huge smile spreads across my face. “Good for you! You went to rehab and it stuck.”

  “No,” he replies taking a sip of his expensive water. “I decided against rehab.”

  My smile wobbles because I do not understand what he is saying. But then my heart nearly stops because we broke up ten years ago last August.

  “I’ve changed,” he says quietly. “I hope you believe that.”

  My chest hiccups. Not because I don’t believe him. But because I do.

  “It…ah…” He shifts in his seat, looking even more uncomfortable than I feel. “It must have been hard for you to be with me when I was like that. Difficult. I never really gave much thought to how that must have been for you. Not until our… conversation… in the bathroom. Can you tell me what it was like for you? I want to understand.”

  I carefully set down my glass of wine. As what I once heard described as a “natural empath,” I am unused to being on this side of the conversation. With him or anyone else. I’m usually the one who checks in with my staff and friends, and I seriously cannot remember the last time anyone asked me to talk about my feelings. “You really—you really want me to tell you about this?”

  “Yeah, I do,” he says. “How was it for you to live with me when I was like that?”

  I think about lying but decide not to for reasons I can’t quite name. “Ah… I guess… inconsistent is the best way to describe it. Sometimes, I would come home and you would be happy to see me. Like, the mos
t romantic boyfriend ever. Sometimes you would be completely passed out. You didn’t seem to track time like most people. I can remember you pulling the blackout curtains and being surprised when it was time for me to go to work. And it was hard to sleep with you because you were always getting up in the middle of the night once the high wore off. It was as if you didn’t live your life in days, like me, but from high to high. Those playlists you were always making for me? Sometimes, they would have songs on them that you’d already given me. But you would ask about them as if we hadn’t already had a whole conversation about them before. I was never sure what you would remember. Like the day you came down to meet my bus and asked me to marry you…”

  “I definitely remember that,” he quickly assures me.

  I nod at him sympathetically. “Yeah, I know. But I was surprised because you had no memory of having said it to me twice before.”

  Holt freezes, his expression stricken in a way I have never seen on him. “I asked you to marry me three times?”

  I nod.

  “And…how many times did you say yes?”

  I clamp my lips, not wanting to answer. It is too embarrassing.

  But he digs anyway. Forever the predator chasing me down and pulling me out of whatever hole I am trying to hide in.

  “Just that once?” he demands to know.

  I shake my head.

  “Twice?”

  Again, I shake my head.

  “Every time?” he asks.

  I hesitate…then nod.

  “Jesus Christ.” He falls back in his seat, scraping a hand through his carefully coiffed hair. “Why didn’t you say anything to me? Why didn’t you ever complain?”

  Good question. “I believe…well, I think we both had issues. I have done a lot of thinking and studying since I left you. I believe maybe there was something in me that wasn’t good for you. I nurture children. I am a natural when it comes to that. But with adults, I find it hard to say no, to set boundaries. I mean, I can do this easily at work. But it is very difficult for me to do this in my personal life. I am always trying to be perfect for others and I do not expect them to be perfect for me. You weren’t always bad, you know. Sometimes you were perfect. You often spoke of wanting to be better. And though you only spoke of it, I wanted to believe in you. I thought if I took good care of you, you would get better. But then you overdosed…”

  Holt’s mouth works a few times, and I guiltily look away. It feels like I have sliced open his stomach and inserted a huge truth bomb when all he really wanted was a small dose of honesty.

  “I am sorry, Sylvie. I was raised to never apologize. But I am very sorry for not being a better boyfriend to you. And now I finally understand why you left me.”

  I shake my head. “Holt, please. Nobody deserves to be left like that.” I choose my words carefully, an image of Jack Calson’s hard blue eyes searing into my brain. “I am sorry, too,” I say for the thousandth time. But now I mean it more than I ever did before. “I am so sorry for the way things ended between us.”

  He nods. It is a small gesture, but very big to me because this is the first time he has ever accepted an apology from me.

  The flight attendant returns. “Can I offer you some fruit to enjoy while you wait for lunch?” She sets a beautifully-arranged platter of mixed berries, sliced pineapple, melon, kiwi, and mango in the middle of the table.

  I take a piece of mango. It reminds me of something Wes said a few days earlier. “Holt? Do you really not like bananas?”

  He pauses with a forked piece of pineapple halfway to his mouth…then grimaces and says, “Honestly? I fucking hate them.”

  My eyes widen, “Do you remember the—?”

  “Those banana fritters! Yeah… I do,” he assures me with an aggrieved look. “That was the last time I ate bananas. I promise you that.”

  I stare at him for a shocked moment, and then I am laughing, delighted in spite of myself by this long-delayed confession. At least we are being honest with each other now. Finally.

  Maybe this trip was a good idea after all, I think. A final farewell along with some healing neither of us could have achieved on our own. Or, maybe not…

  As we share the fruit platter, guilt rolls my stomach. Holt is finally being honest with me, but there is still so much I am not telling him. And here it comes again, the urge to blurt out everything—even though it will end with me being sued to kingdom come, and endanger the life I’ve built with Barron.

  You cannot tell him…I warn myself, my inner voice as stern and chiding as my mother’s.

  But how I want to. Dear mercy, how I want to.

  In the end, Holt and I stick to safe topics for the rest of the flight. His upcoming board presentation, Barron’s course work, and the chances of Mexico making it into the next World Football Cup. Anything and everything, except for the past.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As if I have entered a time machine, I step off Holt’s jet only to end up in a small, exclusive elevator a few hours later. The ornate box whizzes us upward to a penthouse apartment in the sky.

  But this apartment is nothing like the one in New Haven. Starting with the view. A river sparkles below with the reflection of neon lights from the cityscape.

  Holt’s Little Rock penthouse is understated. The living space is huge, but the walls are smooth and eggshell white without any art deco detailing or even a hint of crown molding. The dark wood floors are tastefully covered by silver-toned rugs only a few shades lighter than the modern slate gray furniture distributed throughout the front room. Also, this apartment doesn’t smell like a beer distillery and a weed dispensary decided to hook up. In fact, if someone were to ask me what fall smells like, I might point to the crisp air gently blowing through a partially open window in the living room.

  “Your place is very nice,” I tell Holt for reasons that go way beyond being polite.

  “Thank you,” he replies, coming to stand next to me by the room’s huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. “These days, I travel to Arkansas more than I used to, so I am glad I chose this place back when I was a junior executive. Once my CEO position becomes official, I’ll most likely buy a place downriver where I can stay with my family. Or, I might end up at Johnson Ranch. That’s where my father lives. We’ll see.”

  And by “we’ll,” he clearly means he and whoever he chooses to grow his family with. Someone who isn’t me, I remind myself.

  And maybe that’s why I ask, “Are you still afraid of turning into your father?”

  Holt stiffens, and I wonder if he doesn’t remember our conversation from all those years ago. But he says, “Being my father isn’t so bad. It means I won’t get hurt. Won’t get too emotional. Like my mom. Or Wes.”

  “Is Wes like your mom?” I ask.

  Another pause. This time it is so long, I wonder if he is going to answer. But he does eventually. “Yeah, yeah he is. He doesn’t look that much like her, but his ‘happy one moment, raging the next’ thing? That’s Mom, for sure.”

  “Is that why—?” I stop halfway through the question realizing I am dangerously close to breaking the cardinal rule of childcare workers everywhere. Never comment on how a parent is doing his or her job.

  But Holt insists. “Is that why what?” he asks.

  I clamp my lips tightly, not wanting to answer. Then again, this is one of the few areas where I can be completely honest with him. “Well, I notice you don’t spend much time with Wes. I know you were raised in much the same fashion. With nannies, a distant father, and an unreliable mother. But Wes…he’s in a difficult place right now, and I think he needs more time with you than you have been giving him.”

  Holt blinks as if I reached over and slapped him. “You expect me to drop everything at work? Put a multibillion-dollar corporation on hold so I can dispense hugs and tell my son I know he’s doing the best he can or some shit like that?”

  “No, Holt,” I answer with more patience than I feel. “It does not have to be an either
/or situation. You can be there for your son without losing your business.”

  “How?” he asks, biting out the word.

  My hackles rise…only to lower right back down when I see his hunched shoulders and pressed lips. It is a familiar expression. One I have seen on Wes and Barron—when they are feeling frustrated or embarrassed and on the verge of shutting down because they don’t know how to navigate their feelings…

  “Oh, you are serious!” I say out loud.

  “If by serious you mean not trying to be a dick to my son like my father was to me, then yeah,” he answers, tight-jawed. “I’m dead serious.”

  My heart melts because, “Wanting to be better is the first—really, the most important--step, Holt. You do not have to become the perfect parent overnight. In fact, I do not believe such a parent exists. But it is possible for you to become the parent your son needs you to be. Just start by talking to him about his mother’s death.”

  Holt grimaces. “Actually... her death wasn’t nearly as hard on me as it was on him. Tish and I—we weren’t exactly happy. In fact, we were never happy, but it was worse after Wes was born. I think motherhood wasn’t what Tish expected…or marriage. I was remote…I worked too much. She started drinking more. Too much. Once, she told me she was trying to wait out the ten-year clause on our pre-nup, but she couldn’t take it anymore. She was drunk at the time, but still…”

  Holt’s eyes shift back to the river as he trails off. I think about how I started to feel about the things he said to me when he was drunk or high or both over the course of our relationship. That there was some level of truth to everything he said. That he truly did love me. That he truly could not live without me. That I really was the best thing that had ever happened to him. That he really did want to marry me and be with me forever.