3. Mollie
CHAPTER 3
Mollie
SWEET-TALKING SACKS OF SHIT
“Mom? Did you hear me?”
Mom nods, even though she continues to look down at her phone, thumbs flying over the screen. “Yeah. Sorry, honey, you know that huge listing I’ve been chasing?—”
“The one in Highland Park?”
“Yep.” Mom smiles at her phone. “An email from the owner just came in. I think I got it!”
“That’s amazing. Congrats.”
She finally looks up at me, grabbing her unsweet tea. “Biggest listing in the firm’s history. Sixty million! Can you believe it?”
“Sixty? Wow. Who owns it?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I thought I told you.” She frowns when the server sets down her salad. “I’m sorry, but I asked for this with the dressing and the croutons on the side. The cheese too. Oh, look, Mollie, they also left everything on your salad.”
I manage a tight grin. “Pretty sure I ordered it that way.”
I returned to Dallas from Hartsville several days ago, but Mom’s been traveling and only arrived back in town this morning.
“Oh.” She turns back to the server. “Well, just to make it easy, why don’t you take both salads back and bring them with all that stuff on the side for us? Thank you.”
I watch, stomach grumbling, as the server whisks away our plates. “You know if you take off the croutons and the cheese and the dressing, all that’s left is lettuce and some radishes?”
“All that dairy and the wheat in the croutons—I’m sure that won’t do your tummy any favors,” Mom says.
I love my mom dearly. She raised me on her own, and even though she worked full-time, she still showed up to every dance recital, graduation, and tennis match—unlike Dad, who didn’t show up to anything. I have nothing but the utmost respect for her.
But goddamn, sometimes I wish she’d let loose a little. I wish she cared a little less about her looks. A little less about keeping up with the Joneses.
“Anyway,” she continues, “this guy owns one of the big oil and gas companies. He’s moving to the UK with his new wife. Apparently, they’re gutting a swanky place in Kensington, right near where Will and Kate live.”
“Ah. Good for them.” I reach for my tea.
“How’d the pop-up go at Georgana’s?” Mom asks, referring to the boutique that hosted Bellamy Brooks’s most recent pop-up here in Dallas.
“It went well—a step in the right direction for sure. We didn’t sell a ton, but I did make inroads with some big fashion influencers. Wheeler and I set up meetings with them.”
Mom grins. “Aren’t you glad Dallas is such a fashion-obsessed place?”
“Totally. I’m not sure Bellamy Brooks could really thrive anywhere else.”
I really do mean that. Pop-up shops like the one we just had at Georgana’s are the lifeblood of our business. Gaining access to their clientele is priceless, and the exposure we get on social media leads to the kind of invaluable brand recognition that will hopefully get Bellamy Brooks out of the red.
It also helps that tons of powerful influencers call Dallas home. These men and women have hundreds of thousands of followers on social media, and if they post about your products, it can significantly boost sales. But you have to get on their radar, and being able to meet them in person here in Dallas has been huge in that aspect.
“I’m proud of y’all,” Mom says.
“Thanks. But speaking of staying in Dallas?—”
“Ugh, your father and the ranch. Right. My lawyers are working on it, sweetheart. They agree that the stipulation is totally ridiculous, but we need to give them some time to get it in front of a judge. We’ll get there.” She reaches across the white tablecloth to pat my hand. “Be patient. Focus on Bellamy Brooks in the meantime. You’ll get the money.”
The restaurant, totally full, hums around us. It’s the kind of place where people like Mom do power lunches. And like Mom, everyone is dressed to impress. I love the fashion—lots of long skirts, paired with designer belts and cute tops—and my stomach flips when I think about how great it would all look paired with Bellamy Brooks boots.
That is, if Bellamy Brooks doesn’t go under before we release our next collection, which will only happen if we get a major— major —cash infusion.
Wheeler and I dreamed up the concept for a women’s cowboy boot company when we were seniors at the University of Texas. We wanted to make classic cowboy boots with a girlie, high-fashion twist. Building the company was our side gig for close to five years, until we saved enough money from our corporate jobs to give it a go full-time.
We poured our savings into Bellamy Brooks, and Wheeler contributed some additional money she borrowed from her grandparents.
Mom also made a sizable investment. She’s worked incredibly hard over the years to build her business, and it’s finally paying off: Brown Real Estate Brokerage (Mom went back to her maiden name of Brown after the divorce) is now one of Dallas’s top-tier firms with over twenty agents.
Her making the investment in Bellamy Brooks was amazing, even if she kindly but firmly said that was the extent of her financial involvement.
Altogether, it was enough to launch our first real collection last year. The collection, composed of two boot styles in five different colors, was exceptionally well received. But between manufacturing costs and the marketing campaign we did, Wheeler and I ended up not making a dime in profit.
Thankfully, we had enough extra cash to keep us afloat. That is, until recently, as our expenses continue to outrun our income. Our second collection, which we’ve been working on all year, has to do well if we want to stay in business.
Luckily, we’re obsessed with the collection, and we feel it really can soar. The designs we’ve been working on are classic with a bold, edgy twist. Think boots embroidered with hearts, stars, even diamond rings for a pair we’re calling The Bride.
We couldn’t stop screaming as we sketched everything out. Designing the collection was fun. But we’ve been burning through cash to pay our bills, to the point that I get a stomachache every time I receive an invoice from our (very expensive) web designer, or the email marketing service we use, or our accountant, or graphic designer, or payroll company…
The list goes on.
But then Dad dies suddenly of a heart attack at the age of fifty-six. It was a total shock. When Mom told me I was the sole heir to Dad’s estate, everything changed.
Our company is now getting the capital infusion we so desperately need. Just last week, I contacted our manufacturer to place a huge order. The kind of huge that made me want to go down several bottles of wine and cut up my corporate card. But knowing I was about to receive an inheritance meant I could breathe a little easier.
Placing the order is still a huge risk. One that makes me feel like I’m being repeatedly stabbed in the stomach, especially now that I’m not sure when I’ll be getting that inheritance. If I’ll be getting it at all.
Then again, I’ve had some stomach ailment or another for close to five years now. I’ve seen every gastroenterologist in the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area. And everyone says the same thing: they don’t know what’s wrong, but I should manage my stress better and try a few different diets to see if I have any food-based triggers.
I haven’t found any so far. As for managing my stress, well, that’s a work in progress.
“Let’s go big,” Wheeler said when I told her about getting my trust. “If we have the money, we go all out. You don’t want to feel like you left anything on the table, do you? Because if we do this right, I really do believe the sky’s the limit.”
Over the years, we’d eagerly watched other Texas-born brands hit the stratosphere. There was the pair of sisters whose line of hand-painted wallpaper and fabrics ended up on the cover of Elle Decor. A jewelry designer, Cate, has made millions, selling gold-plated chain necklaces and bracelets from her studio in Austin. Some guys from college banded together to make canned ranch waters. Now their products are sold in nearly every grocery store in nearly every state, and they just signed a deal to be the “official cocktail provider” for a very famous Dallas sports franchise.
“Why not us?” I’d replied to Wheeler.
She smiled. “Why not indeed?”
Although when I’m tossing and turning in bed, I sometimes wonder if my thirst for Bellamy Brooks’s success comes from a genuine love of the boots we make or if, as my therapist has suggested, there’s another reason I push myself so hard.
A reason that may or may not have something to do with finally getting my parents’ attention.
It’s not rocket science. My mom has a big, busy life, and Dad was so busy with his life, he was never really a part of mine after Mom and I left the ranch when I was six.
I think the lonely kid I was—maybe still am—believes that if I hit the stratosphere, Mom will finally look up from her phone with pride in her eyes. And Dad—well, he might finally want to be a part of my life, and I might finally have the courage to sit down with him and have the conversation we should’ve had years ago about righting everything we did wrong in our relationship.
Too late now.
It all started nearly twenty-eight years ago, when Mom met Dad at a honky-tonk in Austin. He was in town for the rodeo, and she was there for a friend’s bachelorette party. After a whirlwind courtship, they got married six months later and moved onto Dad’s family’s ranch in Hartsville.
A month after that, Mom got pregnant with me.
The way she tells it, ranch life was isolating and monotonous, especially after I was born. She was alone, caring for a colicky newborn, while Dad was out on the ranch, doing his cowboy thing. Mom is from Dallas, and like me, she’s a city girl through and through. She wasn’t used to the quiet or the loneliness of life in the country.
She tried her best to assimilate. She learned how to ride horses, and as I got older, we were able to roam around the ranch more often, sometimes with Dad.
Still, she found it difficult to meet people, and she missed the vibrancy of city life. She was depressed and unhappy. She also didn’t love the schools in Hartsville, so when it was time for me to go to kindergarten, she gave Dad an ultimatum: move to Dallas or get a divorce .
Really, she begged him to move to Dallas with us. For all her vitriol toward Dad—as long as I can remember, she’s never had a nice thing to say about him—I think she was genuinely heartbroken by his choice to stay on the ranch. I remember my grandmother telling me how crazy in love Mom was with Dad when they met.
But he chose to stay in Hartsville. To this day, I still don’t understand why. How could anyone choose to live alone in the middle of nowhere instead of being with his family?
How could Dad choose some cows and a desert over us?
Mom’s hurt fueled her growing rage. We moved into my grandparents’ house in Dallas, and not long after, Mom served Dad divorce papers. Their split was finalized the day I entered kindergarten.
While Mom and Dad shared custody of me, Dad pretty much disappeared from my life once I moved to Dallas. Granted, I was in school, so it’s not like I could visit him at Lucky Ranch whenever I wanted.
Still, he could have tried harder. I was supposed to spend every other weekend with him, but for some reason or another, it never happened. Dad never came to pick me up, and Mom never offered to drive me. She hated the idea of me going back to the ranch. I think she was worried I wouldn’t be safe there, as Dad wasn’t exactly a hands-on parent. He was always so busy working.
At first, I was crushed Dad didn’t push harder to bring me back to Hartsville. Unlike my mother, I didn’t hate life on the ranch. I enjoyed riding horses, and I liked being outside around all the animals there.
Dad would call every so often, and although I don’t remember what we talked about, I do remember feeling happy to hear his voice.
Eventually, though, I grew to love my new life in Dallas. As the years passed, Dad told me he didn’t want to take me away from the friends and family I had there. That tracked, especially as I got older. I didn’t want to miss my friends’ sleepovers. I didn’t want to miss middle school dances and my ballet classes.
I still missed my Dad, though, and I never stopped wondering why he didn’t try harder to see me. As an only child with parents who worked a lot, I was lonely. Once in a blue moon, Dad would show up in Dallas and take me out to lunch or dinner. But that was only when he was in town on ranch business—buying livestock in Fort Worth or meeting with his bankers downtown.
Once I hit my angsty teenage years, the loneliness and the hurt morphed into anger, just like Mom’s did. What was wrong with this man, never showing up to my recitals? My graduations? Why didn’t he help Mom more? Couldn’t he see how hard it was for her to raise me on her own?
I stopped answering Dad’s calls, hell-bent on sending him the silent message that I was pissed. He came to Dallas to try to talk things out, but I refused to see him. Mom didn’t push the issue. After that, he stopped calling altogether, and our only touch point was the money he’d send for whatever I needed: boarding school tuition, a car, textbooks for my college classes.
As fucked up as it sounds, I felt like money was something he owed me for not showing up more. Mom made it clear that Dad was a very, very wealthy man, so I knew he wouldn’t miss it.
He apparently didn’t miss me, either. I often felt like I was just another problem he would throw money at. Money was easy for him. Being a part of my life clearly wasn’t.
I would give anything to have Dad back. Truly anything to fix the way he and I fucked up our relationship. I have so many regrets and so much anger left over from the things we did and didn’t say to each other. He should’ve pushed to see me more. I should’ve had the courage to tell him how much I wanted to see him .
The fact that I lost the chance to ever make things right keeps me up at night. I haven’t slept well in…months. Since Dad’s funeral, really, which took place in a depressingly bland church near Mom’s office.
Dad offered to invest in Bellamy Brooks, but I was too angry—too determined to hold my grudge—to give him a chance. Once he became an investor, he and I would have to communicate again, which meant patching up our relationship. I wasn’t ready for that yet.
Add that to my growing tally of regrets, along with all the times he sent money for other things and I never called to thank him.
My throat swells. I take another long sip of tea, the bitter taste just making my throat feel worse. Mom is convinced sweet tea gives you kidney stones, so we order ours unsweetened. I should’ve asked for more lemons.
Really, I wish I’d asked for tequila.
“What if I don’t get the money, though?” I ask Mom. “Without living in bumfuck nowhere first?”
Yesterday, I received a packet from Goody, detailing the monthly stipend I’d get if I lived on the ranch. It is definitely generous. Generous enough to keep Bellamy Brooks afloat for several months.
Am I willing to actually live in Hartsville to get that stipend? With so much on the line…I mean, I could work remotely for a bit. Drive back to Dallas on the weekends. Goody didn’t mention anything about travel restrictions, right?
Honestly, I’d consider returning to Hartsville just for the satisfaction of firing that prick Cash. I’d love to see the look on his face when I tell him to get the fuck off my property. Who does he think he is, believing he’s entitled to my family’s ranch?
I’ve found myself wondering if part of me is proud Dad thought I was up to the task of running his beloved ranch. I didn’t know him all that well, but I suddenly can’t kick the desire to want to know him now that he’s gone.
Or maybe I just want to figure out why he never really wanted to know me.
“You’ll live on the ranch over my dead body.” Mom glances at her phone, which sits screen-up beside her silverware. “That place will chew you up and spit you out. I had to go through hell there, and I won’t see you go through it too.”
I frown. “I just wish I understood why Dad wants me there so badly.”
“Lord forgive me for speaking ill of the dead again”—Mom glances around, like Jesus might be eavesdropping at a nearby table—“but nothing could drag your father away from the ranch. I’m not surprised he wants to drag you there too.”
The server sets down our salads. Piles of lettuce truly is a more apt description.
“Did Dad ever mention the name Cash to you?” I ask.
Mom dips the tines of her fork into her light vinaigrette before she digs into her lettuce. “Sweetheart, it’s been a long time since I spoke to your dad. But Cash—wasn’t he one of the neighbors’ boys? The Rivers, I think. There were so many of those kids, I couldn’t keep track. They just kept having them.”
“Cash was at the reading of the will.”
“Really?” That gets Mom’s attention. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
I lift a shoulder, like my pulse isn’t thrumming at the memory of my run-in with the blue-eyed cowboy. “Your admin said you were booked solid this week.”
“Ah. Right. So what about this guy Cash?”
“He’s Dad’s foreman. Apparently, Dad told him he’d inherit the ranch.”
Mom laughs, rolling her eyes. “Of course a cowboy would say that. Your dad was an idiot, but not that much of an idiot. I’ll give you some advice, Mollie. Don’t listen to a word those cowboys say. They’re sweet-talking sacks of shit.”
My turn to laugh. “Not to put too fine a point on it. Trust me, I have zero interest in cowboys. Least of all Cash. He wasn’t a sweet talker anyway. He was an absolute dick.”
Mom harrumphs. “Their moods are the worst. I’m sorry you got to witness that firsthand. Trust me, sweet girl, my lawyers will have this all straightened out ASAP. You won’t ever have to deal with Cash again.”
That’s the hope .
But as I valiantly make my way through the roughage that is my lunch, I can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t seen the last of Cash Rivers.