La Vie en Rose {Life in Pink} (44 page)

Last time he was in this office he was about nine. It hadn’t changed.

Muttering a thank you to the secretary who left him at the door, he stepped into his father’s office.

His dad stood. “Riley.”

“Dad.”

“Your sister’s all right?”

“Rarity’s fine.”

He nodded and waved out a hand for him to enter. “Have a seat. I’m interested to hear what this visit’s about.”

He cleared his throat and continued to do so as some sort of nervous tic. As he settled on the blue chair he focused on not clearing his throat again, so he licked his lips and incessantly swallowed instead.

“How are things?” his father asked, most likely in an attempt to be polite and pretend they shared a normal interest in each other’s lives.

“Good.” This should be the moment he announced he was engaged, but he stowed that information for now. “I came to talk to you about the incentive trust.”

His father tipped his head, giving no impression that this surprised him. “I suspected. You’re familiar with your grandparents’ expectations. Are you still tending bar?”

“Yes, but that’s going to change.”

“Something’s inspired you. I’m curious to hear what it is.”

“Rarity and I are starting a new company.” There was no point in asking. They were doing it with or without his support, because once he’d laid out the plans on paper, it seemed stupid not to follow through. But without the trust, he’d have to downsize a lot of their ideals.

“And what sort of company do you have in mind? Is Rarity struggling with her photography hobby?”

It pissed him off they never gave his sister the credit she deserved regarding her talent behind a lens. Her work had been featured in
Time,
but never garnered the slightest acknowledgement from their parents. But he wasn’t here to have the same old arguments.

“It’ll be green based and located in New York. A little seed money would help. We’d rather own than rent and our startup costs are substantial for the products we’ll be producing.”

“Define green.”

“We want to produce holistic, organic merchandise for home, health, and hygiene.”

His father nodded, keeping his expression blank. “A cosmetics store.”

“No. This won’t be anything like that. Our products are non-toxic, lacking all the unpronounceable ingredients. We’ll be selling peace of mind.”

“And you think there’s a market for this?”

“I know there is. We have the means to make it affordable without selling our morals. People want to clean their homes with products that aren’t harmful to their families, but they’ve lost sight of how easy that is because we’re accustomed to buying products ready-made. Mass production’s polluted ordinary products with chemicals and preservatives. We aren’t interested in preserving our products. It’s about freshness. Everything we sell will be made raw, organic, and specific to each customer’s need. Nothing processed
in
a plant, but
from
plants. Over time, we’d like to incorporate produce as well, but that depends on our budget.”

His father eased back in his chair and faced the window. His head shook and Riley recognized a flash of disenchantment in his eyes. “What the hell happened to this generation? When I was a boy, we drank out of garden hoses and only washed our hands when our mothers made us. I’ve never seen such a group of whiny, paranoid doves.”

Riley stiffened. “You can thank yourself for that. All the urgency your generation demanded, meals in a minute, genetically modified seeds that bugs won’t eat but people are expected to, hormone treated cattle that will never know what it is to graze a pasture, your greed came with a price and we’re the ones picking up the bill. This is the first generation that isn’t expected to outlive its parents. All this rushing to get ahead and mass-produce, there’s no quality anymore, no security. The science your generation used to speed up nature’s natural course is literally killing us.”

He pointed to his father’s coffee. “I’m betting the ingredients to your creamer look more like plasma than anything from a cow, and if you saw those chemicals in their raw form the last thing you’d do is swallow them. But they pretty it up with a label, inject some thickening serum and flavor in it, and no one’s the wiser. You got your quick cup of Joe. All this instant satisfaction is costing us. We’re racing to a faster death and somehow we’ve been convinced that’s living.”

He chuckled. “You’re a kid, Riley. One little pink packet isn’t going to kill us. People don’t give a shit if a few whales die. They want the perfume the hottest pop star made.”

“They care. People care, they just don’t know how bad it’s gotten.”

His father laughed. “Like I said, delicate little doves. In my day men thought about wars and made products out of steel.”

His shoulders drooped. They’d never see eye-to-eye.

“However,” his father continued, “it is a generation of shadow fearing, riskless, crybabies out there and you may be on to something.” He sighed. “I suppose it comes down to how many people think like you and how many think like me. I intend to keep my coffee the way I’ve been drinking it for the past forty years.”

He didn’t waste his breath trying to educate someone as bullheaded and ignorant as his father. Should he ever get sick, he’d justify it with some remote genetic strain traced back to his great uncle. Men like Oliver Lockhart didn’t believe in powerlessness. Admitting there was something greater than him out there would be a gross show of vulnerability.

Tapping into his father’s business sense, he said, “The market’s there. You can take my word on it or send one of your drones to do the research for you.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a short printout of their expected product list, estimated overhead, and other relevant details he knew his father would be interested in. “If you read the fine print of the trust, you’ll see your opinion doesn’t play into the equation. Everything’s outlined here. You have my number once you’ve thought it over.” He stood.

“Riley. Why didn’t your sister come with you?”

“The scent of the financial carrot only reaches so far, Dad. You can wave it in front of her all your life. She’ll never bite. My advice is to stop trying to decide who Rarity should be and take a good look at the woman she is. She’s awesome, and you’re missing it.”

With nothing more to say, he showed himself out.

****

J
oey Vanguard owned an interesting enterprise and the moment Emma discovered him in a magazine, Riley agreed his services were absolutely in their best interests. He found the man, gave him money, and hoped to avoid as many discussions about linens as possible—which led them to their current expedition, the Gapstow Bridge in Central Park.

“Notice the lush green ivy here,” Joey pointed out, as Emma dutifully followed with a notepad in hand. “In autumn it changes to a fiery red. I know we discussed September as a possible date for the wedding, but the season change is something to keep in mind when you’re selecting your color scheme.”

The wedding was definitely going to be in Central Park. It made perfect sense to him, being that the park was where he first wanted to kiss his future wife. It was a shame Marla was being left out, since she sort of orchestrated that fated day. “Can we train Marla to carry the rings?”

“No,” both Emma and Joey answered at once.

He stroked the dog’s ear. “Sorry, girl. I tried.”

“Now, most couples say their vows here at the end, but I’ve done smaller weddings at the center of the bridge.”

She glanced at him and he scurried over, sensing he was in the wrong place and should be paying attention.

“Where do you think, Riley?”

He scanned the bridge. “I like the middle.”

“The middle,” she told the planner.

“You guys are so easy.” He made a note in his binder.

“When do we leave for the cake tasting?” Riley asked, cutting to the important issues.

“First we have to discuss color schemes. Let’s find a bench.”

He followed them to a bench and situated Marla with a treat. By the time he sat multiple decisions were already made. The wedding would be at night under the stars. Trees would be draped with twinkle lights and the bridge would be lined with luminaries to guide their way. He wasn’t exactly sure what a luminary was, but he imagined a light saber.

“What do you envision for the reception?” Joey asked, taking rapid notes.

“The reception’s going to be simple, small, just our immediate family and closest friends.”

“Might I suggest your first dance be here, then? We could coordinate with the ceremony musicians and do something spectacularly wonderful like set off eco-friendly paper lanterns.”

Emma’s smile was precious, as her eyes turned dreamy, imagining everything the wedding planner described. Riley nodded and pointed at his tablet. “Yes, put us down for that.”

Emma selected dark amethyst for the accent color, which he learned was a fancy word for purple. When they reached the bakery—heaven in the shape of a store—Riley sampled every single concoction offered.

“Did you know about grooms’ cakes?” he asked, as they walked home.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know,” he said, still processing the incredible news. “Do I have to share it?”

She laughed. “They’re traditionally rich. I doubt you’d be able to eat the whole thing on your own.”

“Well, not in one sitting, but I’d bring a doggy bag. I’m the groom. I shouldn’t have to share.”

“Fine. You can have the groom’s cake all to yourself.”

They took the elevator up and continued discussing the details. “I have to see if that date’s okay with my parents. What are you going to do about your mom and dad?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”

“Well, the wedding’s in three months, Riley. Invitations have to be ordered.”

“Cakes, we’re inviting a few friends and your parents. I think we can afford a spare invite if I decide to ask them at the last minute.”

“True.” She changed the subject. “Rarity will be happy there’s no pink in the color scheme.”

He laughed. “She’s still going to fight you about making her wear a dress.”

“No, she won’t. I’m letting her wear a tux.” She grinned over her shoulder and snatched a bag of corn chips from the cabinet.

“You are?”

“Yeah. I want my best friend there as my best friend. Why should she have to be someone she’s not for the day? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be a runway bride. I’m working with minimal bumpage and Will Ferrell’s hairdo. Besides, she’s your best-
wo
-man too. It seems appropriate she wear a tux.”

He pulled her to his side and kissed her temple. “You’re my best woman. And I love your Will Ferrell curls. You’re going to be a stunning bride.”

“As long as I end up your wife, I’m good with whatever.”

“We could wait until after the reconstruction if that’s what you want?” he offered again. The last thing he wanted was for her to regret rushing things.

“I told you I don’t want to do that. I’d have to wait until I completely healed to even get sized for a dress. I don’t wanna wait that long.”

Leaning close, he whispered, “It’s called a
gown
.”

She smirked. “Smartass.”

The door opened and Marla barked. “Get a room,” Rarity called catching them mid-kiss.

“Hey, how was the shoot?” Emma asked.

“Good.” She sifted through the mail. “Riley...” He glanced at his sister and stilled as she held up an envelope. “You have mail from the corporate branch of Lockhart.” She frowned. “Did you talk to Dad?”

He’d been meaning to tell them about that, but then he didn’t want them getting upset if his objective turned out to be an epic fail. “Uhh...”

She tossed the letter to him. “Open it.”

“You don’t have to open it now,” Emma said.

“Yes, he does. Did you ask him about the trust?”

“Yeah.”

Rarity shook her head. “If this is going to be a partnership, you have to tell us when you do stuff like that.” She had an awful lot to say for someone who refused to face the benefactor of their finances. He tore open the letter.

The thick letterhead trembled in his hand as he stared blankly. “Holy shit.”

“What did it say?” Rarity demanded.

He shook his head. “He gave it to me.” He laughed, never expecting to actually get through to the man. “He freaking gave it to me.”

“You guys can open the store now!” Emma cheered. “This is wonderful! Maybe, after this, you and your parents can work things out.”

“Doubtful,” Rarity answered. He silently agreed.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, still in shock. Looking at Emma he chuckled. She had no concept of how much money they were actually talking about. It was beyond what even he could comprehend, but she loved him with or without that money and that made her awesome.

The options for investments and charities were endless. They could make countless differences with this sort of wealth, hire and fund their own team of researchers. His palms moistened with sweat. This was a lot of responsibility and he could easily screw it up. Severely.

“Okay, first, we’re going to invest it somewhere that will accumulate interest, but nothing high risk.” People with money used words like high risk so that sounded good. “Then, we’re going to look into charities. I want to do something worthwhile. We can’t go giving it away willy-nilly.”

He pointed at the future missus.  “Emma, I want you to ask around and find out where we can get a list that details which cancer organizations dedicate the most money to researching the cause. I don’t want to waste time on nonprofits with an overhead because the CEO makes millions a year. We have to know where every dollar goes. Maybe we should hire a financial advisor and our own environmentalists. We’re definitely going to need an accountant we trust. I cheated my entire way through twelfth grade calculus, so I’m out.”