4. All The Memories （Ethan） #2
“Amend away. Don’t let him take advantage of you,” Margot mutters in her ear.
“For fuck’s sake, Margot.” I grit my teeth again. “I’m being perfectly fair. I want this to work for us both. This is a shitty situation, all the way around.”
Hattie turns her clear green eyes on me. “What are your terms?”
Oh hell, she’s asking now ?
Fine.
“We’ll need to make a few public appearances,” I say. “I have a reputation and there’s no hiding this from prying eyes. It’s best if the general public doesn’t know the details of our marriage, only enough to keep them from talking. I’m not asking for anything showy, just for us to look normal.”
“I don’t want a big wedding,” Hattie says immediately.
“It can’t be too small.”
Margot claps her hands. “I’m in! You’re looking at your wedding planner.”
Give me patience.
“Shut up, Margot. This is none of your business.”
“Yes, it is.” She pouts. “Hattie’s my best friend and you’re my idiot brother. I’m going to be the maid of honor. Right, Hattie?”
Hattie blinks warily. “I mean, if you want…”
“ Yay! ” Margot claps her hands together like the deranged pixie she is and points one sharp nail at me. “You hear that, big brother? I’ll make your big day flawless.”
“Don’t give her free rein,” I whisper to Hattie. “It would be the biggest mistake of your life.”
“Hey, don’t talk to her like she’ll hate it—it’s your money I’m going to spend.” Margot shakes her head, offended.
I try not to wince.
“That’s why you’re banned from organizing the ceremony without professional advice. My wedding, my rules.” I aim my scowl at her. Trust Margot to make this whole process so much harder than it needs to be. “In fact, why don’t you head home now?”
“Nope. I’m having way too much fun.” She leans back lazily, smiling at us both. “It’s fascinating, seeing you treat your personal life like it’s just more work. Let’s talk about the budget, Ethan. I know you’re dying to.”
“Margot,” Hattie says, but the corner of her mouth pulls up before she can get it back under control. “But wedding budget aside, how much do I get paid?”
Damn.
I need to stop looking at her mouth anymore.
“Half a million dollars,” I grind out. “Half now, half on completion. Yours to do with as you wish, entirely unconnected with the marriage. Of course, we’ll be signing a prenup.”
“How romantic.” Hattie trades a heavy look with Margot. “Not that I’d expect anything else.”
No point asking what that means—it’s obvious.
“Good. Then we’re on the same page,” I say.
“Good,” she echoes sharply.
“I’ll have my lawyers draw up a contract and send it over for your review this week. If you have any additional requirements, requests, or concessions, put them in writing and I’ll have them incorporated.”
Margot leans in, her eyes still on me. “Ask for more, Hattie. He’s bilking you.”
Another delicate blush braises Hattie’s cheeks, and she swats Margot away.
“It’s cool. I don’t need more,” she says. “But I do want to know what sort of appearances you’re expecting me to make.”
“Hang on and I’ll tell you.”
I check my schedule on my phone even though I have the next week memorized.
“There’s a Developer’s Guild charity dinner later this week in Kennebunkport,” I say. “I was planning to attend, standing in for Gramps since he made a point to appear every year. This would be a perfect opportunity to make our introduction.”
Hattie’s throat moves as she swallows. “Our introduction. Like… as a couple?”
“Obviously. If it’s too much, you could just stay here and”—I look around at the piles of books—“read, I suppose.”
“Hold up. We need some ground rules first,” Hattie says, inhaling. “If I’m going there as your”—she chokes on the word—“your fiancée, you can’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I snort.
“Like you hate me. I don’t want people thinking I’m…”
She leaves the thought unfinished, but it’s clear what she means.
She wants to avoid the gossip mill.
And she has a point. Any hint that this marriage is some weird gold digger arrangement or something similarly scandalous.
“Yeah, that’s my point. The less reason they have to think we’re anything different from another boring couple, the better.”
Makes sense. Assumptions and whispers only cause more grief down the line, especially if we’re trying to make this look authentic.
That’s a damn struggle, guaranteed.
Gramps, I hope you’re laughing, wherever you are.
“All right.” I stand up to go, leaving the check on top of one of her books on the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow to hash this out. Don’t be late. I’ll have my assistant send you more details.”
She nods numbly, and I march out the door, leaving the two women to the frantic conversation they’re clearly holding in.
The plush leather sofa gives under me as I sink into it, a drink on a coaster by my side.
Irish whiskey, and no, I don’t give a fuck what Margot would say about indulging an old favorite today.
I know my demons.
I know I’ve conquered them.
On my lap, there’s a collection of photo albums I found from Gramps’ house. The thick books smell old, and I have to brush dust from the edges.
Ares stares at me like a stuffed animal from the rug. The basset hound’s big droopy eyes are all judgment, his ears trapped under his paws.
“Better get used to it, pal. You’re stuck with me now.”
He’s another unexpected part of this inheritance. Unlike the company, there was no wedding clause assigned to him.
What the hell will I do with this lazy old dog?
I think he can spend whole days without moving.
Even when Gramps first got him, he was a tortoise.
Not the kind of dog you take on runs or into the woods for tracking. He’s an ornamental beast, even if the roaring howl he lets out at any hint of an intruder doubles as an alarm system.
The women of the family adore him, of course, but that’s expected.
Women love big helpless lumps they can cuddle.
Only, I’m his caretaker now.
Crap.
I rake a hand over my face, sipping my whiskey.
Today hit me like a fucking Mack truck.
I still don’t know where any of this is going.
The alcohol burns like a rocket on its way down my throat.
I give myself a few seconds to appreciate the feel, the flavor, the reassuring warmth of the fire.
Then I open the first album.
Gramps’ familiar face grins out at me, the photo bleached of color with age. I estimate it’s from the 1950s, back when he was a young man, scrappy but infinitely confident.
When he was comfortable, but not yet wildly rich, fresh from the war and gallivanting around the Mediterranean like some kind of Mainer Indiana Jones before Indy was even a thing.
I take another sip before paging forward.
Gramps at the beach.
Gramps with my grandmother at their lake house upstate—I don’t know what the hell will become of that retreat, but it’s not my problem.
I barely knew her. She died when I was young and he never married again.
Time moves through the sixties and seventies and things start changing. He’s wearing more expensive suits, his hair slicked back.
There are a few photos at fancy events with Grammy dressed up. A slender, pretty figure with eyeliner and big brown hair, even into middle age.
Gramps fucking glows. It’s his eyes, I think, lit up like stars.
I never saw him look that happy when he was alive.
Mom and Dad, conspicuously absent, aside from a few photos of my mother as a little girl, standing awkwardly with her parents.
I page forward, watching him progress from stuffy old New England workhorse to modern and wealthy man of culture. Rich beyond his wildest dreams.
The old man made life look easy.
There are a few later shots of him relaxing on his yacht, holding a glass of bloodred wine up for the photographer with a mysterious half smile.
“Dammit, Gramps. Why’d you have to go and complicate my life?” I mutter. “I don’t need your sense of adventure.”
It’s not like he ever got hitched because someone else forced him to from the Great Beyond. I never really knew my grandmother, again, but it’s obvious he loved her.
It was a natural relationship, the kind of fairy-tale simplicity so many folks used to have. They lived, they fell in love, and then he missed her for the rest of his days.
So why me? And why Hattie?
I push the album aside and pull out another photo book, this one more recent.
He looks a lot older here, like he aged twenty years in the five or so since Grammy died.
Still, he looks good. Healthy and active.
If not happy, then at least confident, always in his element.
Mom’s absence hits me again, but they never seemed close.
For as long as I’ve known her, she’s only come ‘home’ to Portland a handful of times. Some old beef I’m not sure I care to understand.
Also, I don’t blame her.
When we finally hit the 2000s, I recognize myself. Plus, Margot and my cousins and me as kids—all old enough to spend summers with Gramps.
Sailing up and down the coast, bumping around bustling New York, occasionally horseback riding on Gramps’ ranch in Santa Fe. He taught me to appreciate the desert as much as the sea.
So did Gramps’ hardass bodyguard, Holden Verity, his tall, gruff figure leering over my shoulder in damn near every photo. The guy wound up like a glorified babysitter in the later years.
When he wasn’t keeping Margot and little Cleo out of trouble, he was always there every time I stepped out at night, ready to stop me from raiding the wine cellar or lighting up a contraband joint.
What a fucking pill.
Though now that I’m older, there’s a certain respect.
The man was dedicated, and I guess he’s still helping oversee Gramps’ properties until they’re sold off.
Those long summers were half a lifetime ago, but I still remember them like they were yesterday.
Especially the sailing trips.
Those continued well into my teens, the times when life made sense. When it was peaceful and innocent and stupid the way every young man likes.
Even if my bratty sister and her friend made my life hell.
Sometimes, I deserved it, punkass little prick that I was.
I always gave it right back to them, too.
Especially to Hattie.
She was a textbook dork back then with her frizzy hair, thick glasses, and round nose always stuffed in a book bigger than her head.
I’m back to being sixteen, a sandcastle-stomping dick, full of teenage angst and testosterone.
That summer was the first time I felt like I deserved a man’s respect, but the girls tattled on me to Holden for smoking.
Gramps put me under house arrest.
Fucking house arrest.
Marooned with his mute statue of a bodyguard. Hell, even Ares is livelier than Holden.
Even now, I can feel echoes of frustration.
I was supposed to go out on one of my many summer dates. Instead, I was stuck at home with nothing to do but play Xbox and text my friends.
So, being the little bastard I was, I decided to get revenge.
If the girls were intent on ruining my summer, I’d set theirs on fire like a flaming bag of dogshit.
From my prison in the house, I watched them on the warm beach, spending the afternoon building pyramids and sphinxes in the sand. Hattie had some book about Egypt for inspiration.
Their creations were impressive, honestly. At the time, I thought it was lame.
When they were finally done, I managed to sneak past bulldog Holden and crushed their little wonders.
Every last one.
Stomped them into the ground like King Kong on a bender.
Sweet revenge.
For all of five minutes.
After I was done, I hid behind the rocks, waiting for the girls’ reactions. I guess I thought they’d go into a wild rage or something.
I never expected the sadness.
Definitely not the way Hattie burst into tears.
She fucking cried her eyes out.
God.
Even as a teenage punk in perpetual victim mode, I knew I’d gone too far.
That’s why I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn the next morning so I could build them the grandest beach pyramid ever crafted.
Gramps and Holden caught me in the act.
The old man was always an early riser, starting his morning walks before sunup. But a squall came in and so did the tide, melting the pyramid before the girls ever saw it.
One more lesson I learned from Gramps—it’s a hell of a lot easier to unleash havoc than it is to set things right.
Sometimes, the universe itself is stacked against you.
If only that lesson could’ve sunk in.
I might’ve checked my attitude with no one getting hurt—nobody killed —blissfully ignorant to knowing this world doubles as Satan’s pop-up carnival.
I chuckle bitterly and finish my drink.
Over in the corner, Ares lets out a low, discontent woof.
“Yeah, okay, big guy. You’re right. What’s this trip down memory lane getting me?” I slam the album shut.
I wish my life lessons had been kinder, but Portland was a savage teacher.
When I fled this town, not long after the happy photos ended, I only knew two things.
No good deed goes unpunished.
And karma is a cruel motherfucker.
As I pour out a second whiskey, I think about the grown-up Hattie I met today, her frizzy hair tamed into brilliant wisps of gold. Even her glasses are more stylish and subdued with their turquoise frames.
I think about her fire, the attitude and backbone she’s sprouted, and I wonder what put it there.
Annoyingly, I think about her magnificent ass.
The way it felt when my hand swept across it, how soft and full she is, a feast of flesh for a man who moves through Instagram models and Central Park runners like eating chips.
They work like hell for their boyish, slender figures. They spend through the nose for a touch of glamor.
But Hattie had an undeniable vibe that feels natural, authentic.
From his perch on the floor, Ares gives me the lazy eye until I shake my head. I know what he’s asking.
What karmic hell am I in for now by making Hattie Sage my wife?
And what sandy marvel will melt under me this time, trying to play fair?