***
A half dozen people were already sitting on the dock in front of Leilani when I parked at the marina. It was four thirty, right on the nose. They must’ve been early.
A familiar-looking redheaded woman smiled as I approached.
“Mr. Lexington. Amanda Cadet.” She extended her hand to me. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
Again. Well, that explained why she looked familiar. Though I had no idea where we’d met. Probably some industry function. “You, too. Please, call me Grant.”
“Alright. And please call me Amanda.”
I looked around at a shitload of equipment. “Are you moving in?”
She laughed. “We brought a lot of camera and video equipment, because we weren’t sure of the setting. To be safe, we even packed some props and a few canvas backgrounds. Though we can obviously put that all back in the truck.” She turned to eye my boat. “This sailboat is stunning, and the scenery is better than any movie set.”
“Thank you. It was my grandfather’s. First sailboat he ever built in 1965.”
“Well, you could have told me it was brand new.”
I nodded my head toward the Leilani May. “Why don’t I show you around, and you can decide where your crew wants to set up.”
I gave Amanda a quick tour. The sixty-foot ketch was eye candy, even to non-boaters. Navy hull, satin finish teak wood, cream upholstery, stainless steel galley, an owner’s stateroom more luxurious than most apartments, and three guest cabins made it look more like a Vineyard Vines ad than a sixty-year-old sailboat.
“So…what do you think? Where should we do this?”
“Honestly, anywhere would make for a great shoot. The boat is beautiful.” She lifted a painted nail to her bottom lip, calling my attention to it. “And the subject is flawless. This cover is going to pull big numbers.”
Amanda Cadet was attractive, and she knew it. She also knew how to use it to get what she wanted. Though whatever she thought she was getting from me—a story with some major revelation or my mouth between her legs—she wouldn’t be. Because business and pleasure don’t mix. I almost laughed at that thought after the way I’d been acting around Ms. Aruba Tits.
I held out my hand to indicate she should exit the cabin first. “Why don’t we go out on the rear deck and set up on the left side with the marina in the background?”
“That sounds perfect.”
I posed for pictures for the better part of an hour, hating every moment of it, but keeping my contempt to myself. When they had enough shots to plaster the walls of my office, Amanda told everyone to pack it up.
“Do you want me to video the interview?” her cameraman asked.
The piece she was putting together was for print, but it wasn’t uncommon to record a session so the reporter could go back later and listen for things they’d missed in their notes.
Amanda’s eyes swept over me. “No, that’s okay. I think I’m good taking care of this one all by myself.”
After the crew left, we sat alone on the back deck.
“So how often do you get down here to go boating? My brother is an orthopedic surgeon with a fifty-foot Carver down in San Diego Bay. I think he used it twice last year.”
The truthful response to that question was every damn day. But I preferred to keep my private life private. The fact that I lived on the Leilani May was none of her business, and definitely not something I intended to share with her readers.
I nodded like I could relate to her brother. “Not often enough.”
“I love that you still have your grandfather’s first boat. I think the things a man holds on to say a lot about him.”
If she only knew the half of it. “This boat built my family’s company.”
“How so?”
“This was his first model, and he used it to take the initial orders for Lexington Craft Yachts. Thirty years later, Lexington Craft went public, and my family used the proceeds to expand into different entertainment-related businesses. My dad had started a sports magazine, and my grandfather bought a few more publications. Eventually that led to buying a news station and chain of movie theaters. So without this boat, you wouldn’t be interested in interviewing me today.”
She flaunted a flirtatious smile. “Something tells me I’d be interested in interviewing you whether you were the CEO of one of the top 100 growing companies in America or your job was to clean this boat.”
“I’m not that interesting.”
“Humble, too, huh? I like it.” She winked. “Tell me about your family’s foundation. Your mother started it, correct?”
“That’s right. It’s called Pia’s Place. My mother was put into the foster care system because of abuse when she was five. She moved around a lot, so it was difficult for her to keep the same therapist for too long. She had a different counselor every year at Child Protective Services, because those people are underpaid and overworked, so they tend to have a revolving door. She always felt different than the other kids in school, most of whom didn’t know what foster care was. So it was difficult to connect with someone who understood what she was going through. Pia’s Place is sort of like a big brother program for foster kids, except all of the big brothers and sisters are former foster children themselves, so they can really connect with the kids they’re assigned to. The foundation trains the volunteers and covers the cost of all of their outings, meals, and entertainment when they spend time with their Little Sister or Brother. It also pays down a chunk of any student loans the volunteers have or helps them pay for a college education.”
“That’s amazing.”
It was amazing, and that’s because my mother was a very special person. But all this shit was readily available online. So if this was news to Amanda, she hadn’t done her homework.
I smiled. “My mother never forgot where she came from.”
“And you and your two sisters were adopted from foster care, right?”
I nodded. More shit anyone with access to Google could find in two minutes. “That’s right. My parents became foster parents when I was five. I was first, and then my sister Kate, then Jillian. We were all originally foster placements. My mother continued to take in children until she became sick.”
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“And do you have a Little Brother? I mean, in the program. I know you don’t have an actual one.”
“I do. He’s eleven, going on twenty. My sisters are paired up, too.”
She smiled. “What’s his name?”
Finally, one probing question. Though I wasn’t about to give her Leo’s name. The relationships between a Big and a Little were private—especially mine and Leo’s tangled one. “I prefer not to divulge anything about kids who are part of the program.”
“Oh. Sure. Yeah. I understand. They’re minors. I wasn’t thinking.”
Over the next half hour we talked about more things that would find their way into the puff piece she’d write—who runs what at Lexington Industries, how well the company is doing, and the direction I’d like to take things in the next few years. Then she attempted to get some personal questions in.