Dad’s been at the golf course for over an hour already, so when we arrive, his caddy is driving him back in the golf cart to kick off a second round of nine holes. I’m at a loss on how he managed not to lose a limb from hypothermia out here. There are patches of ice and snow drifts everywhere. Fuck, the turf crunches under my feet as we start walking to the golf cart. There’s no way I’ll make it through a full round, nor do I want to.
“Pops,” I call to him. “Any chance we can make this a driving range visit instead?”
Dad gives me a hard look. “It’s not that cold, son. See, this kind of weather will toughen you up for winter rounds.” I’m hardened enough, but I keep my commentary to myself and wait for him to mull it over. He looks over at Jace. “What about you? Did I raise one wuss, or two?”
Jace knows not to play into Dad’s ribbing. He raises his eyebrows and presses his lips into a thin line. “None, Pops. Can you feel that wind? It’s like the Arctic out here. I’d actually prefer racquetball right about now. Or a hot breakfast inside. And coffee. The driving range sounds like a happy medium. How about it?”
“That would be two wusses,” Dad deadpans. “Driving range it is, then.”
Jace and I don’t agree on everything, but we stick together without exception when it comes to facing off with Dad. Not that our old man is the enemy, but he’s old school, a self-made billionaire who made his mark on the cutthroat oil business in Texas. He’s as tough as they come, and won’t hesitate to bust our balls to get a point across.
His caddy sets us up at one end of the driving range, giving each of us a tee-off spot and a large bucket of balls. Dad is positioned between us, and he doesn’t waste a second. We watch as he picks his favorite club, sets himself on the patch of frost-covered turf, and makes the swing, hitting his first golf ball.
“Nice one,” Jace tells him.
Dad sets himself for another swing, but stops to glance over at each of us. “Cut the crap, boys. Which one of you is planning to tell me why you’re here?”
“We have a few questions,” I shout through the biting wind.
He makes his swing and hits a perfect drive. “About what?”
“Pretty general stuff. I’m curious, Dad, have you seen a lot of hedge fund firms that have a hundred percent stake in privately run companies?”
“Is this about Mont Blanc?” he asks with more interest.
“This is hypothetical for now, so let’s say, maybe. Are there a lot of cases like these that you’ve run into?” I repeat, if only to redirect him from the connection to Mont Blanc.
He switches clubs in favor of a nine-iron, and resets. “Only if the subsidiary has an IPO in the works, but the parent company would have to divest itself of all ownership at least a couple of years before the subsidiary goes public. Otherwise, the SEC will get involved, and once they crawl up your ass, don’t expect them to leave empty handed.”
“Nice visual, Pop, but that does make sense. What if they aren’t going public?”
“Then you can bet your last dollar the hedge fund firm has plans to chop up the subsidiary and sell it for parts. Think about it, kid. Firms like ours have no business sticking our noses in the day to day operations of assets in our ledger. It’s counterproductive.”
I nod over at Jace who, like me, hasn’t hit a single drive yet. “Got it. IPO or liquidation.”
Dad stops practicing his swing and turns squarely to me. “Do you boys need to tell me something?” I don’t say a word, so he turns to Jace. “Anything?”
“No,” Jace lies, setting his golf club back in the case.
“Do you take me for a fool, boy? You two haven’t been up this early in years, let alone come to the golf course to see your old man. What the hell’s going on?”
“It’s way too early in the game to tell, Pops, but you’ll be the first person we talk to once we verify some information.”
“Make sure you don’t go getting yourselves in so deep that you need me to bail your sorry asses out.”
Jace backs away from his lane and gives Dad the thumbs up. “We won’t.”
“Hang on. Will I see you both at that charity gala your Aunt Jenna organized?”
“When?” I ask, getting ready to leave.
“Tonight.”
“Yeah, uh, sure.”
“Good. Bring dates. A lot of my important connections will be there. For men your age, having a woman on your arm is just as crucial as your net worth. These people want to know you’re stable,” he mutters in true southern form.
“Dates. Female. Got it,” I tell him.
Jace adds, “I didn’t plan to bring anyone, Pops. I may have to ask a last minute...friend.”
I smile at that one. His ‘friend’ is Cherry, Dad’s assistant. And they’re a hell of a lot more than friends. I can’t wait to see my father’s reaction when he finds out.
Dad hits another drive. “Hopefully your friend is of the female persuasion. I’ll get Cherry to resend your invites by email. Don’t be late.”
Jace swallows hard as we head back to our cars. “Think he’ll notice if I don’t show?”
“He will. Just bring her.”
He clicks the remote of his red Maserati parked beside my baby, a silver Limited Edition Bugatti Veyron. “Yeah, whatever.”
“He’ll deal with it.”
“Easy for you to fucking say. Who are you bringing?”
I can call several women in my contact list, most of whom can easily navigate a formal event with a group of wealthy socialites. But I don’t want that. I have one person on my mind.
“You’ll find out,” I tell him, and jump into my driver seat. “See you tonight.”
10
Dahlia
I discover that my weekend, and possibly my entire life, is about to change during the process of giving Sheba his regularly scheduled bath.
Emily sticks her head in the doorway, showing me the locked screen of my phone. “Hey, I’m going to wrap up in a few minutes, but your cell was just buzzing. A text message just came in.”
“Who is it from?” I ask, without looking away from Sheba, who will pounce out of his bath and track suds and water all through the condo if I get distracted.
“Not sure. The number’s not in your contact list.”
“What does it say?”
“One second. I’ll check.” She unlocks the screen and opens the message. “Oh, interesting! Who do you know that would send you a text that says, ‘Hi, doll. Got plans for the evening?’”
I know exactly who it is. “Give me a second,” I tell her, avoiding her question. “I’ll check it out and reply when I’m done here.”
“Hot date from vet school?”
“Not exactly.”
“Can I just reply to them? I promise I won’t be too over the top.”
“Ask him who he is first,” I instruct her, just in case it’s not Jackson.
She keys in a short message, and a minute later she shrieks. “The reply says that he’s your hot neighbor!”