Cocky Choices: Zoe Cocker (Cocker Brothers #30)

10. Caleb

TEN

Caleb

C handeliers cast their warm light over a polished mahogany table by the entrance adorned with a large flower arrangement not nearly as beautiful as the one Zoe made for our hotel lobby. Perhaps I could persuade the owners of Le Papillon, one the city’s most exclusive restaurants, to hire her design services. I slide a glance around the elegant décor — white tablecloths, flickering candles, sparkling view of Atlanta — and bend my ear to the gentle murmur of refined conversations. Boring, boring and more boring.

My parents sit across from me, both impeccably dressed as am I. My father’s tailored suit and cufflinks speak of status, while Mother’s diamond earrings catch the light, drawing attention to her poised smile above a dress fitting for a woman of her age and position. I’m also in a suit, as usual, but it feels a little tight tonight. “Le Papillon,” I mutter, bringing water to my lips and finding comfort in its icy clarity. “It means The Butterfly.”

Mother lifts an eyebrow. “We know, dear. We all speak French.”

“I was pointing it out for a reason.”

“And what reason could that be?”

“Because I would think with a name like that, this restaurant would be more colorful. Not so much…beige.”

“Caleb,” my father begins, as though he didn’t hear or care what I had to say, “…you know the retirement dinner is just around the corner. Five hundred guests, all of them important.” He emphasizes the last word as if it carries the weight of the world. And it does. His.

Not my world.

I couldn’t care less.

“All of them business relations,” I dryly comment, adding the question, “Why even have the dinner when you plan to still reside over the corporation, and subsequently, the companies?” I allow distraction to pull my focus to a nearby table where a couple is holding hands.

“With a new CEO in charge,” Father clarifies, “I will be less hands-on.”

“You still own the majority of shares. I doubt you’ll loosen your control.”

“It will remain my company until it’s passed down to you.” He takes a sip of bourbon with a sneer. “If you’re able to stay sober and show your worth.”

We stare at each other a moment, and I look away first, pretending I’m bored of his insults, although in truth I’m secretly hiding my anger. Show your worth? This is the ‘love’ I was brought up with? Ever since I began going to Alcoholics Anonymous, I’ve uncovered the disfunction in my family’s foundation. In A.A.’s steps, tools, and fellowship, I’m learning what healthy relationships really are. It used to be ‘normal’ to me but now I’m learning that continued belittling, disinterest, and disdain isn’t the way to raise your son. Not if you want him to love you. I’m thinking this when my mother raises her voice to be heard, catching my attention and dare I say…hope?

“Leave him alone,” my mother says. Wait. Did she just come to my aide? She sighs, “You’ll make me lose my appetite if you two start arguing.”

Ah.

No.

She did not.

Is it better to have no parents than to have parents like these?

A snort escapes my nostrils, one she doesn’t address or perhaps even notice, and I sip my water once more before setting it down with a firm grip that will remain on the glass until our second course arrives.

“Camilla,” Caleb Astor II grumbles. “You couldn’t lose your appetite even if the other half of this establishment blew up and people were screaming while you ate.”

She seethes, but says nothing as Escargot is placed in the center of our tablecloth by a server pretending he didn’t hear what my father just said. His hint of shock tells me he did.

Despite their narcissism and determination to lack compassion and kindness, I plan to stay sober one day at a time, but running his corporation isn’t a dream of mine. Which he’d know if he ever paid attention to what I have repeatedly told him. Tonight I’m not in the mood to reiterate that my goal is to branch out and find my own purpose. Why waste my breath?

Mother reverts the conversation back to his event, her tone forced lighter. “We want this to be a celebration, Caleb,” she tells me. “A culmination of your father’s hard work. You know how much this means to him… and to our reputation.”

Reputation. The word hangs in the air like a noose.

I glance out a spotless window at the bustling street below, where ordinary lives unfold, far removed from the world of high society my parents and I inhabit. On the corner my gaze is caught be a man holding a cardboard sign, head tipped down as pedestrians pass him. A little girl tugs on her father’s suit and he stops to dig for change, dropping two bills into the man’s cup. A smile tugs on my lips as I see immense gratitude beaming off the man’s surprise. Must’ve been more than a couple of one dollar bills. Did he give him a couple of fives? Tens? Twenties?

Returning to stare at the escargot I’m not going to touch, I consider my life. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the opportunities wealth has provided. It’s just… it has shown no sign of making me happy. Glancing to my parents I realize that I’ve always felt like an accessory. Something created to make them look good.

“Isn’t the venue stunning?” Mother continues, her gaze drifting to her wine glass as she lifts it. “The ballroom will be transformed into an opulent space. Flowers galore, golden accents…” She trails off, lost in her own visions of grandeur. Or perhaps she noticed her husband wasn’t listening.

“Right,” I smile, trying to sound enthusiastic but my thoughts are clogged with anger at our patriarch and a wish to be anywhere but here. “It sounds amazing. And I’ve found and hired the perfect florist.”

“Have you?” She sips. “Good.”

My father is focused on his snail delicacy with the same expression he usually wears — disdain and disinterest. “Caleb, I want you to think about your future. This dinner could open doors for you. Now that you’re sober,” he says before muttering, “for however long that will last,” and adding in a louder voice, “networking is crucial.”

I take a deep breath, and echo, “Networking,” playing along. I’ve heard all of this before.

“Exactly,” he insists. “Just think of the connections you could make. The Cocker family will be attending. Elijah Cocker looks as if he’s headed for the White House. It’s a perfect opportunity. Don’t screw it up.”

The mention of the Cockers is new and sends a thrill through me. Zoe Cocker. Her name dances in my mind like a beacon. I’ve been thinking about her a lot today — her pretty face, laughter, innocent green eyes, odd way of thinking, the way she challenges me to be more playful. More optimistic? I’m not sure if that’s the right word. I’ve yet to get to know her, but from the little I’ve experienced I know it won’t be a chore. When we chased around her cat, I wasn’t Caleb Astor III, the son of a wealthy powerhouse. I was just a guy laughing harder than he has in a long time. I wonder what she’s doing right now?

With interest I lock eyes with my father. “I forgot about Elijah Cocker.”

“How many times have I told you that you should pay more attention to politics!”

Ignoring the barked reminder, I decide that now is as good a time as any to dive in. “Actually, there’s something I need to tell you both.”

My parents look at me, expressions shifting to wariness. Mother blinks three times. “What is it, son?”

I clear my throat. “I’m marrying Zoe Cocker.”

The words hang in the air, charged and electric. Father’s silver brows knit together as if he’s trying to process the implications. Mother’s mouth opens slightly, surprise evident in her wide eyes as she exclaims, “That was fast!”

“Zoe Cocker?” my father repeats, the name rolling off his tongue with a mix of skepticism and intrigue. “The Cocker family. They’re quite well-known.”

“Yes,” I say, heartbeat echoing in my ears. “Zoe’s incredible. She’s passionate, driven, and she made me laugh.” I add a statement I don’t even know is true, “She’s everything I want.”

Mother’s expression softens, though I detect a hint of apprehension. “Do you think they’ll approve, dear? The Cocker family is very prominent. They have a reputation to uphold, just like us.”

“Camilla!” Father barks. “There is no family more prominent than ours. Certainly not the Cockers.”

“In Atlanta,” Mother asserts, “we are not well known.”

“People know my companies.”

“But not who owns their umbrella corporation, and thereby who owns the companies .”

“Fiddlesticks.”

“It’s true, dear.”

Furious, with his pride bruised, he leans forward, “The Cockers may have prominent members but none of them — not one! — has the wealth of the Astors.”

“Ethan Cocker, the software genius,” Mother reminds him. “Remember we read the article in Time about him?”

I lean back in my chair, aware I need to read more about contemporary society. I had no idea about this famous Cocker. The others are more obvious — the quarterback and the rockstar. The politicians, too, now that I’m thinking about it. “How is Ethan Cocker related to Zoe?”

Mother looks at me, “I don’t know, dear.”

“Sibling?”

“No, not siblings. He had two, one of which is the Atlanta quarterback. I can’t remember the name of his sister but it wasn’t Zoe. I was going to name our daughter Zoe if we had another child so that name always stands out to me. Oh, yes! Emma! That was it.”

“I’ll bet I’m richer than Ethan Cocker,” my father grumbles, pushing away his small plate.

I stare at him, finding his boast boring, a repetition of a proclamation he’s given of the Astor wealth against countless families over the years. Money means everything to him. I would bet all of it that any one of those families is happier than ours. Deciding to poke the tiger I lazily announce, “I’m not just marrying into a family. I love Zoe for who she is, not for what her family represents. However, if they’re more loving than ours, which wouldn’t be a stretch, then I’m all for marrying into theirs.”

Silence envelops us, my parents exchanging glances of unspoken words which seethe between them. I brace myself for their reaction.

Dad chuckles from a dark place. “Love? You love her, you say? Is it love or your trust fund that made you propose to someone you just met?”

I blink. “How did you know?—”

“—You think I don’t have eyes in the hotel watching your every move?”

“Why would you have?” I snap.

“Ever since you stopped drinking I’ve been watching very closely to make sure you don’t do more to embarrass my brand.”

Sneering, I defend myself, “So they found me asleep in front of one of your buildings! So what?!”

“Passed out! That’s the only one that made the news! Clothes torn from a fight! Bruised! You looked like a beggar, and you’re an Astor! How many times did I have to pay for what you broke when you trashed hotels rooms? How many times did I have to pay off staff so they wouldn’t take money for leaking it to gossip columns? You think I want my son’s tantrums all over Page Six?”

Mother interjects, “Let’s just hope the Cockers don’t read that rag.”

“Zoe has agreed to marry me,” I growl. “It’s done.”