8 | Taylor
Taylor
Melina: this cake is the best cake to have ever caked
Melina: buttercream frosting is def the superior of the frostings
I’ve found Melina’s weakness. I usually just use money to bend someone to my will, but she’s stubbornly immune to that type of persuasion. Who knew my cooking would be the thing to incapacitate her? Although it’s not my cooking. It’s mom’s.
Melina: whats in here
Melina: lemon?
“What are you smiling at?” the voice over my shoulder asks.
I turn and find my brother squinting at the phone in my hand. His favorite hobby is sneaking up on me. This house has almost a hundred rooms, yet he always seems to be where I am. I just want to make my coffee in peace.
Vinnie jumps on my thigh and licks my hand like he’s accomplished something.
“Have you trained him to track me?” I ask, nudging him away.
Tom smiles. “I would never.”
Yeah sure. I wouldn’t put it past Tom to waste his time doing something that useless. He’s probably bored being back home.
“Who’s Melina Ramirez, and why are you texting her?” he asks while opening my fridge.
“No one you need to worry about.”
“Are you guys doing forehead kisses?”
“No,” I say more sternly. “Mind your own business.”
“Speaking of, uh, business, I can’t go to your thing.” Tom’s practically hiding behind the fridge door. He must have been putting off whatever he’s about to tell me for a while.
“What ‘thing’, I have many things.”
“The party for RCE.”
Classic Tom. Flaking on me when I need him most. The Royal Charity for Education has been holding this fundraiser for decades. It’s not a huge party by any means, but it’s celebrity-filled, pretentious, and horrible in every way.
“No, Thomas, don’t do this to me.”
“Something came up.” He bites into an apple loudly and annoyingly.
“What ‘something’ do you have in your life that’s more important than this? I told you, people donate more when we both go to events. I’ve done the math.”
My little brother might be aggravating, but I hate going to fundraisers alone.
Complaining is one of life’s simple pleasures, and doing it with Tom at the events we attend together is the only thing that gets me through them.
It was exhausting having to hold down the fort while he was in the Air Force.
Tom presents his back to me and picks up his phone off the counter. “You and your math. How about instead of everyone paying thousands of dollars for an Armani tux, they just use that money to donate to the charity instead?”
For once in his life, Tom makes a good point, but he’s oversimplifying things.
I circle around him to make eye contact. “You have to get people in the mood to donate. If you throw them a fancy party with high-profile guests, such as yourself, they feel more obligated to give.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he says while liking a picture of a woman on Instagram.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, I’ll be in Vegas. I’m playing in the Poker World Series.”
World Series? I know Tom plays poker with his friends at maybe-not-the-most-legal tables, but I didn’t know he was any good.
“So you’ll be skipping out on a charity event put on by your own family to gamble in Las Vegas? Do you realize how that will look? You’re already on the guest list.”
Vinnie whines. I must be speaking too loudly for his sensitive and comically large ears.
Tom scrolls through his phone like this is the least of his worries. He’s already made his ‘bad boy prince’ reputation. Why would he do anything else besides revel in it?
“I’ll donate the money if I win anything,” he says. “That’s what I always do. It’s a tiny party anyways.”
A tiny party with very prominent guests.
“That doesn’t matter. The press won’t care.” I lean toward him to make my point clear. “Thomas, I’m the one who’s been cursed with being the eldest. One day you’ll be free to fuck off and do whatever you want, whereas I don’t get that privilege. In the meantime, the least you can do is help out.”
His expression changes like I’ve maybe gotten through to him. “You know what?”
“What.”
He crosses his arms. “No.”
Or maybe I haven’t gotten through to him. “What do you mean ‘no’?”
“I’m not going. I am a grown adult. And I know how to fly a plane.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I’ve been sitting at celebrity tables for years, and they’re finally putting me in with actual players. Not because I’m a prince, but because I’m good at poker.” Tom points at me. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Vinnie barks as if he has any say in this argument.
“I didn’t know this was something you’re so passionate about.”
Tom rolls his eyes. “Of course, you didn’t,” he says sharply. “You’re a big boy, Taylor. You can survive the stupid fundraiser by yourself. I know you just want me there so you don’t have to do all the talking, but it shouldn’t be that fucking hard to be nice to people for a couple of hours.”
He ignores me calling his name, and storms out of the kitchen, his dog trailing behind.
I’m not sure what just happened, but Tom is too happy-go-lucky to stay mad for long. He’ll probably get over this by the end of the morning.
––––––––
It’s been four days since Tom has talked to me. I rephrase my text to him a couple times before sending it.
Me : its impossible to avoid me forever we live in the same house
Me: if I cant convince you this is a dumb idea I know who can
He types for a couple of seconds but doesn’t end up saying anything. I knew that would scare him.
I didn’t want to resort to this, but here I am outside the mahogany double doors at the palace.
That’s right.
I’m telling Dad.
His four staff members stand and quickly bow their heads when I enter. They know the gesture isn’t required, but the palace aides are staunch royalists and will do anything they can to suck up around my Dad.
Every time I see my father, his hair gets whiter, and ever since he’s lived here, I’ve been seeing him less and less.
My grandmother had a health scare about the time I got back from university, so he moved to the palace to prompt a shift in sovereign duties.
My dad took some of her jobs, I took to doing some more public speeches, and Tom, well, we just let Tom take care of the easy puff pieces none of us want to deal with, like adopting a floppy-eared senior dog from the local human society or wishing people a happy birthday when they turn a hundred.
It’s pointless, but so are a lot of things that regard this family.
“You said this was a good time,” I say, looking at all the papers everyone’s holding.
“You’re my son. You don’t need to schedule an appointment.”
He shoos his minions away, and they all but sprint out of his office. One accidentally brushes my shoulder and apologizes like he’s infected me with an incurable virus.
I sit in the chair across from him. “How tightly wound do you have them?”
“Any more, and they’d be a ball of twine.” He smiles like he’s proud of this fact.
My father runs his staff like he runs a ship.
Probably because he has run a ship. He was a naval officer for multiple tours.
By not doing the same, he and many others believe I haven’t fulfilled my ‘princely duty’ to the country.
Whatever the hell that means. The press can call me weak and unpatriotic, but I’m not fighting overseas in some unnecessary war just to get people to like me.
Dad sees me notice the pack of cigarettes on his desk. The gangrenous tongue has always been my least favorite image on St. Claire’s plain tobacco packaging. The pictures of rotten teeth and eye surgery look like Monet’s in comparison.
“You told me you quit last month,” I say.
Not sure why I believed him. I’ve been hearing those words since I was a child. He had a good sober bout after Mom, also a smoker, died of lung cancer, but he’s recently picked it back up despite my explicit instructions to his staff not to give him any.
“It’s only one a day.”
I raise a brow.
“Maybe two or three if I have a lot going on.”
I knew it. He always has a lot going on.
“Dad, you’re almost a hundred years old.
I need you alive, remember? I want your job for as few years as possible.
Don’t you read the labels on these?” I hold up the pack that reads SMOKING KILLS – FUMER TUE ten times larger than its brand name.
Not that he needs a piece of cardboard to remind him. He lost a wife over this shit.
“Happy to know you care so much for me, son,” he says blankly. “I’m glad you’re here, actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
He’s the master at changing subjects. I learn from the best.
He grabs a file from his desk drawer and puts it in front of me. As I scan through French legalese, I realize it’s the will of my maternal grandmother.
“I’m thinking about selling Char’s old house,” Dad says. “Your grandmother’s left the property to you and Tom, but I don’t think you’re using it for anything, right? It’s a waste the place is sitting empty.”
I shake my head. My mother’s childhood home is this secluded two-story mansion right on the water.
The differences between my two ‘grandma’s houses’ were night and day.
Christmas Eve at my mom’s side was chaotic, filled with running through the halls in our pajamas and snowball fights that would end in black eyes.
Christmas day at The Grandmother’s house was dreadfully uneventful, filled with mass and being on your best behavior.
The chefs at the palace are world class, but there’s something about spending the whole day grueling over Christmas Eve dinner that makes it taste way better than a prepared meal.
My dad’s side of the family is obviously too good to cook for themselves.
“I’ll have to tell your brother,” he says. “I think he tends to some horses there.”
“Yes, speaking of which, Tom got upset and says he’s not coming to the RCE fundraiser.”
“Have you tried waiting it out? That child is very wishy-washy.”
“I think he’s serious. He’s ghosted me for four days.”
“What’s ‘ghosted’?”
“He’s avoiding me,” I clarify because he’s ancient. “Instead, he’ll be in Vegas playing in the Poker World Series of all things.”
“World Series?” Dad sounds shocked.
I only shrug because I was shocked too.
He takes off his glasses and sets them on the desk. “So he’ll be gambling in a foreign country during an event that raises money for kids and schoolteachers. That won’t look good.”
“I need you to tell him he’s not thinking clearly. He’ll listen to you.”
Dad gets up from his chair and assumes the position to lecture me by standing in front of the window with his hands on his hips. He’s so dramatic.
“Taylor, when you asked me if you could head the Crown’s most prized charity, I had hesitation.” Here we fucking go. “But you may have proved me wrong. Do you know how many scholarships we’ve given out since you’ve taken over?”
“You’ll have to ask Alex for the exact numbers, but it’s certainly grown in the last four years.”
“Exponentially, I heard.”
Is he trying to compliment me? I’m not sure because I rarely get those from him.
The charity used to host two parties a year, but I cut one of them and put the money we saved into more meaningful endeavors.
I also reduced the number of people we invite to just the top donors.
Alex told me some were peeved about this, but I don’t care.
A lot of the new money we received came from smaller donors raising their pledges in fear of being cut from the ‘exclusive club’.
Never underestimate the power of rich people and their exclusive clubs.
He turns around. “What I’m saying is, I don’t run the charity anymore, and you seem to be doing more than all right. I’m not going to be available all the time to solve bumps in the road. You’ll have to learn to figure things out on your own.”
“I am figuring things out on my own. And I’ve figured that you need to text him. It’ll take two seconds.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone. I can do it for you.” I probably just need seven words. Tom, go to the party, or else.
My father doesn’t move, and my hand rests empty.
“Listen, I understand you want me to learn some Sesame-Street life lesson, but now is not the time.”
“I think it’s the perfect time. If you can’t solve this problem, how am I supposed to trust you with things that are more important.
” He gestures above him, meaning if you can’t handle this, how do you think you’re going to handle being the sovereign?
The leather of his chair groans as he sits back down.
“Tom likes you most days. I don’t think convincing him should be that difficult. ”
Great. More convincing I need to do. As I’ve learned from Melina, it’s not my forte.
“Well, if this blows up in our faces, it’ll be your fault.” I stand up and point at him. “Yours.”
I leave, but not before stealing the cigarettes from his desk. He doesn’t protest, probably because he has another pack stashed in a drawer.
Dad’s staff waits just outside the door. I hold up the contraband to their faces. “Which one of you is getting him these?”
Radio silence.
“Next time he asks for them, tell me. In the meantime, could you at least try to grow a backbone?” The older staff is all about protocol, but seriously, how can they bow to me when they’re active participants in the killing of my father?
They stare at me with faces that remind me of Vinnie’s, vacant and wrinkled.
“Our apologies, sir,” one of them pipes up. “But his word outranks yours.”
Meaning my father is going to die over bureaucracy invented by people who believed in bloodletting and a flat earth.
“Fucking robots,” I mumble while walking away.