I nod and bite down on my bottom lip. Harley helped with the move, if I can even call it that. It was only my clothes, and most of it was taken care of by the moving company.
We spent most of the day lounging on the private terrace, soaking up the sun and views of the Manhattan skyline. Now we’re eating pizza on the carpet in the media room.
“You don’t have to leave New York.”
“I don’t want to, but Whitney’s doing her best to get me blacklisted.”
“Oh my God, seriously?”
“She’s talking. I made a few calls to mutual business connections, just to see what opportunities might be available, and let’s just say she hasn’t been nice.”
Whitney Carmichael can be vindictive and scary, and for some reason, I threaten her. She got me fired, and her husband, Ross, was no help in shedding any light on why his wife has it out for me.
“What are you going to do?”
“Outside of the obvious careers, I applied to the United Nations.” With a business degree and fluency in multiple languages, there are several possibilities like translations for the UN. According to my mother, that’s a real career.
“Great.”
“Maybe.” I glance at the open manicure kit, housing a mere fraction of my nail polish collection, and pick a few colors, trying to decide which to wear for my first day of work. “It’s competitive, and if they hire me, training is long and there’s no guarantee they’ll place me here. I could be stationed at one of their international offices.”
“Don’t make any decisions just yet.” She squeezes my knee. “Something will work out. Maybe you could work for Nash and me?”
“Nope,” I say a little too quickly, and her eyes widen. “I really appreciate it, but I want to do this on my own.”
I’m not good at accepting help or leaning on other people. It’s part of how I grew up—on my own.
My phone rings. Mother. Again.
My friend offers a sympathetic smile. “I should go and you should talk to her.”
“I’ll call her once you’re gone.” I lead the way down the spiral staircase to the elevator where we say goodbye.
Then, reluctantly, I trudge up several flights of stairs, stalling on each floor of the penthouse, which my family has owned since it was built in nineteen thirty-one. Anything to delay calling my mother.
My great-grandfather made his money in steel and aluminum, which in turn my grandfather expanded into real estate and finance. Today, my uncle runs our family empire, and at twenty-one, I came into a profanely healthy trust fund that could power a small nation for generations.
I grab my phone from the carpet and steel my spine. My mother answers on the first ring. “Prudence, why didn’t you answer my call?”
“Hi, Mom. Harley was here and just left.”
“You’re at the penthouse?”
“Uh-huh.”
She blathers on about the thermostat, air conditioning, and something about the housekeeper, but I tune her out, selecting a vibrant pink polish for my nails.
“Prudence?” Her annoyed tone suggests she asked me something.
“Relax, Mom, I’ll hardly be here. I won’t damage anything.”
“If you do, repairs will come from your trust.”
“Fine.” I wasn’t a difficult child or an unruly teenager, not that my mother was ever around to know.
During high school, we lived in Switzerland and then Paris, leaving little chance for me to make any lasting friendships, let alone throw parties or go to many. Yet Priscilla acts like I’m planning a huge rager and all of Manhattan is invited.
“Pris, stop.” The abbreviated use of her name shuts her up. It always does.
She hates it but instead of railing on me, she gets her own dig in. “This Carmichael business is an utter disaster. You shouldn’t have gone to NYU.”
Yes, Mother, my choice of university is the cause of all my failings.
Like anything I want, she was against NYU. Her choice was the Sorbonne. Not because she was in Paris and we’d be together. Ah, no. At the time, she was moving to Chile for work.
No. She insisted on Paris simply because she could. And while she’d never admit it, she also hated I’d be close to my grandmother, a woman I so desperately wanted to know.
My grandfather had passed away several years before, and throughout my life, I’d seen my grandparents and my uncle’s family only a handful of times. I ached for my mother’s family. For a connection. My family.
But Priscilla avoided them with the precision of a well-executed military operation. No room for error. Visits were timed down to the millisecond, and we never stayed longer than was necessary.
I never understood it. From the way I saw things, my mother was adored by her family, and a child out of wedlock didn’t matter to them.
And no surprise, no matter how much I asked, she never offered any answers. I wondered if she felt pressured to marry and have more kids, so it was easier to stay away than disappoint them.
“Mom, I’ve got to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day.”
“Why? Because you’re pounding the pavement, looking for a job?” Her sarcasm causes me to grimace.
She doesn’t know about the dialect coach position, and I intend to keep it that way.
“Something like that. Bye.” I end the call.
Once my nails are dry, I scroll through my contacts, looking for Hugh Wilby’s number, and hit call. He’s a friend and at one time, a business partner with CE.
Now he’s got a few companies up and running, and before the CE catastrophe, not even two weeks ago, he’d approached me about a business venture. He’d wanted me to go out on my own, and I’d told him I’d think about it.
“Wilby.” Despite our two years apart in age, his stiff tone makes him sound decades older than me.
“Hey, Hugh. It’s Pru Edwards. How are you?”
“Uh, Pru. I’m fine.” There’s an odd pause as he hems and haws. “Ah, um, why are you calling?”
“Oh, well, we usually talk once a week, and last we spoke, I said I’d get back to you. Are you still looking for investors for your spin-off company? If so, I’d love to hear more about the business model. From what you’d said, it sounds interesting, and I’ve got some questions about its projected growth.”
“Um, ah, well, I’m no. That’s all good. No longer needed.” It’s as if he’s making it up on the fly, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
This conversation sounds a lot like the other calls I’ve made to other business contacts over the past week.
“Okay. Well, I’d also love to take you through some ideas I have for the straight through processing issue you’d mentioned one of your bank clients was having.”
“Pru…ah, this isn’t easy to say given our history. I appreciate the call, but we can’t do business with you.”
“Pardon?” Suddenly I’m filled with a mix of anger and betrayal, reminiscent of the day Ross kicked me out of our company.
Why won’t he let me move on? No, this isn’t him. He likes people to think he’s got a backbone, big man on campus, but he doesn’t have any balls. This is all his wife.
“How you conduct yourself is your call, but it goes against our code of conduct. Pru, I can’t…sorry.”