“Pardon me,” I apologize sincerely.
“I want you to promise me you’re going to try and have a good time. Don’t scowl so much. That face of yours is so handsome when you smile, honey,” she coos.
“Okay, sure thing. I promise,” I say.
“You’re lying, but I love you for humoring me,” she says airily.
“It’s what I live for,” I return dryly.
“Don’t be smart. I’m helping the movers sort boxes and they can’t find the box with your crockery.” She sounds distressed.
“What’s crockery?” I ask and lean against the door of my room and gaze out the window at the copse of pine trees that provide a natural border for the property and perfume the air all year round.
“Your plates, glasses, bowls,” she explains.
“Oh, that’s because there are none. I never eat at home. I didn’t see the need for them,” I answer honestly.
“Oh, Lord, Hayes. People will think you were raised in a barn,” she cries.
“No one will think I was raised in a barn,” I say dryly.
“I’m going to the Crate Barrel in Highland Village to place an order. I don’t know if they deliver, so you’ll need to pick it up when you get back. I’m just going to go over the list of things I’m getting,” she says.
“Thanks for doing this for me, Gigi,” I say.
“Well, it’s the least I can do since I won’t be here when you actually move in. And I should be thanking you for going to the wedding for me, honey. I know he’s a pretentious little shit, but his mother was my dearest friend in Positano. I would have hated to not have anyone there. And maybe,” she drawls conspiratorially, “you’ll meet the girl of your dreams,” she ends hopefully.
“Have you seen Thomas?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No.” She sniffs like she smells something bad. “He and I haven’t been in touch at all. I just shudder to think what the foundation would look like if he had even one more year with it. I’m so glad you’re moving back here,” she says.
“Nice to know you’ll miss me,” I say dryly.
“Of course, I will, baby. But I’m glad you’re getting on with your life,” she says. But I can tell there’s something on the tip of her tongue by the way she catches her breath at the end of that last sentence.
“What’s going on?” I ask and brace myself. My aunt is the most direct human being on the planet. The only thing she’s ever been hesitant to talk about is Renee. “What did she do this time?”
“She accepted your offer,” she says.
“How do you know that?” I ask. I put her on speaker and open my email application.
“Well, I was at that lovely restaurant in your new neighborhood … oh, Hayes, I love it here,” she says dreamily.
“You were about to tell me how you know about Renee,” I say impatiently.
“Oh, sorry, I just get so carried away talking about this place. The Wildes have done such a good job—”
“Gigi …”
“Okay, sorry,” she says like she’s being put upon.
“Just tell me about Renee,” I say with feigned patience. She doesn’t like to be rushed. And slows down purposely sometimes when she is.
She clears her throat, and I can just see her, tucking her feet underneath her and sweeping her dark, salt-and-pepper hair off her shoulders before she speaks. “Well, like I said, I was at a restaurant. Her lawyer was sitting at the table right behind me!” she says triumphantly.
“How did you know he was her lawyer? I don’t think I’d know him on sight, and I’ve sat across the table from him at least a dozen times in the last two months,” I say.
“Hayes, you know I never forget a face. Also, I heard him say her name. It’s why my interest was piqued in the first place and then I realized who he was and what he was talking about,” she explains. “Stop interrupting and listen,” she says impatiently.
“Excuse me, go on,” I say sarcastically.
“Of course, he had no clue who I was. He was celebrating. His thirty percent is more than you should have given that disloyal little bitch all together,” my aunt says in her most severe voice.
“I’m just glad it’s done.” My voice is toneless. Renee, my ex-wife and my biggest regret, sued me two weeks ago. Gigi introduced us. We were all in Carmel for an annual party one of her friends throws every Fourth of July. I had just finished my MBA at Wharton and was working for a KPMG in Rome. I’d come out for the party because I was turning twenty-five and had somehow managed to let Gigi convince me that I needed to find a wife. This party she said would be crawling with women who would be suitable. Suitable meant she’d be from a wealthy family and a well-trained socialite who never put a foot out of place publicly.
Renee—on paper— was perfect. That she was sexy was icing on the cake.
I learned early on one of the hazards of having a lot of money. Your worst impulses have all the fuel they need to turn into your biggest regret. We were married within weeks of meeting each other. Our alcohol and sex-fueled dash down the altar had lasted a grand total of twenty-two days. Once the booze wore off, the sex got boring. Once that was gone, we realized we didn’t even like each other very much.
When we divorced, everything I’d earned during our marriage was half hers. That was barely anything considering we were officially separated less than thirty days after we found each other.
Our divorce finalized on my twenty-fifth birthday. The same day my inheritance from the Rivers Trust, and what Swish had been setting aside for me for the last ten years, all vested. She’d never known the details of it. There was never any need for her to.
I gave her enough money to get settled in a new place by herself and to give her breathing room until she could find a job.
She found a new husband before she found employment, and I was off the hook for alimony.
Then, a year before my thirtieth birthday, coincidence created a set of circumstances that set us on a course for a much-less-than-amicable reunion. A job took her and her new husband to Houston. Less than six months later, he’d left her for another woman, and her divorce was being formalized.
The Houston press was in a tizzy about my impending return. Would I be able to navigate the treacherous swamp of Houston’s upper-class society when I spent my formative years in Europe? Did I even still speak English? How had becoming one of the wealthiest men in the country—practically overnight—change me?
It was that last question that got Renee’s attention. Though she’d never married without a prenup again, none of her husbands were green enough to let her walk away with more than enough to satisfy that “the lifestyle to which she was accustomed” clause in their prenups. So, when she heard that I’d gone from successful accountant to the new “Rivers King,” as they called me in the press, she pounced.
She sued me for a share of my inheritance. She argued that it should have been included in our community property because I concealed its existence from her and because it matured while we were still legally married.
I pushed back. She was asking for thirty percent of my estate. I wasn’t willing to give her thirty cents. The day after our first court hearing, she showed up at my house with a bottle of wine and an offer for settling. I slammed the door in her face.