12. My way,the Conways
CHAPTER 12
MY WAY, OR THE CONWAYS
EMMA
A quick internet search will tell you the facts. Abigail Conway (née Seymour) launched Conway Connects when she was just twenty-two years old. What started as a collective of a dozen accessory designers quickly grew into a luxury group best known for cultivating niche small goods.
The key was exclusivity. Nothing was franchised. Releases were limited in number, and every piece was handmade and astronomically priced.
Nana called it “hyper luxury.” By her fortieth birthday, she’d sold the company for one hundred million dollars and promptly retired.
On the face of it, her journey was impressive, yet simple enough. The entirety of it was barely enough of a story to take up my daily commute to work, let alone the weekly trek to my parents’ house.
She was never featured in a list, and her life wouldn’t warrant a biopic. While her success was grander than she expected, it was a combination of savvy and luck.
What the internet doesn’t say is that my father, Lawrence Conway, has never had need for money, and thus, has never worked a day in his life. Instead, he’s chosen to dedicate himself to family and lifelong retirement.
Similarly, my mother has limited work experience. Her career includes some modeling in her teen years before marrying young and becoming a mother.
Even though none of the family has been involved with the company in decades, the name has lived on. Within the upper classes, in the minds of my schoolteachers and classmates, and on the tongues of my coworkers.
But there’s only one tongue that kept me awake last night.
Charlie’s lips are softer than I imagined, full and insistent. I can’t stop thinking about the heat of his hands on me, in my hair, down my back, digging in, as unrelenting as his mouth.
Kissing him was a mistake.
One I can’t stop thinking about making again.
Just as the cab pulls up to my parents’ house, the front door opens, and Harvey Casemiro exits, looking ruffled. At the sight of him, my heart drops into my stomach. He’s been their accountant since I’ve been alive, and if he’s here, there’s trouble.
“Good afternoon, Emma,” he says, flattening his tie and buttoning his jacket. The man is built like a linebacker Ivy once dated, and he’s always in his Sunday best.
I’m afraid to ask how good it can be if he’s here. “Is this a social visit?” I ask, desperately hoping, even though his visits have never been social.
Harvey has a fantastic poker face. Though his eyes are kind, it’s difficult to get a read on the deep frown lines carved into his brow. “A small consultation. Nothing to worry about. Your father has been getting some new trading tips, but I was able to steer him away before he committed to anything. Everything else has been cleared away now, and you’ll be the first to know if anything changes.”
The relief makes my knees weak. Harvey has single-handedly saved us from impending doom, and at this point, I trust him with my life.
“It was Logan senior, wasn’t it?” I ask. Logan’s dad is always filling my father’s head with “finance tips.” The man hasn’t heard of a pyramid scheme he doesn’t admire.
Harvey tips his head. “Mr. Williamson Cross might have been mentioned. But he’s only a symptom of the larger issue.” He exhales, long and slow, his mouth pinched in the corners. “They need to be realistic in their situation, Emma. If they make a big move without my knowledge, even I won’t be able to save the house.”
The estate looms behind him, and my gut twists.
It’s exactly what I’m scared of.
He slides a hand into his pocket, his broad shoulders testing the stress limit of his jacket buttons. “Keep working to convince them to dissolve their investment in the foundation. It’s a good place to start. Though I really want to reiterate that moving?—”
“I know.” Downsizing is the only way to get my parents out of their circle of friends and far away from the peer pressure to keep up with them financially. More than ever, I wish I could convince them to sell. The price it would get could take care of them for two lifetimes, and it would save me a lot of sleepless nights. “I’ll talk to them again.”
His face softens so profoundly that I think that if I gave him a hug right now, it would throw him into a tailspin, so I pat his arm instead.
“Thank you, Harvey. We’re in your debt.”
There’s twice as much gray hair at his temples than there was the last time I saw him. My parents have probably taken years off his life. “It’s all part of the job. Don’t worry yourself too much. You pulled them out of the worst of it. We’ll make sure it works out. It’s under control.”
What a kind lie. “I don’t deserve you.”
He surprises me with a gentle smile. “I think you’ll find you do, and more importantly, it’s your parents who are indebted to you. Remember that.”
Once upon a time, I had designer clothes, front row tickets, first class flights, almost everything I could want.
It was wonderful.
It was also an illusion.
The first time my parents dipped into my inheritance, I was a freshman in college. By sophomore year, they had drained every last cent through bad investments and overspending.
Though it’s a constant fear, they haven’t had to file for bankruptcy. But that’s only due to Harvey’s smart accounting, along with two Renoirs, a Signac, two summer homes, an apartment in New York, and every other item I could convince my parents to give up.
We disguised it as retirement—as much as two people who hadn’t ever really worked could retire—downsizing from four houses to one, and ensuring all financial decisions had to be approved by Harvey or me first.
After all the stress and heartache, they refuse to give up their lifestyle or this house. Anything to keep up appearances, as though nothing has changed.
Walking through the house is like playing spot the difference, except the differences are glaringly obvious. That blank spot is where the Chagall hung. Over there, the Renoir. Two Ligne Roset sofas, the Hermes throw, a library’s worth of rare books and first editions (none of them read).
When I was a kid, every room was filled to the brim, either with things or people. Parties for the foundation were thrown in different rooms, each with its own theme, and no expense was spared.
Back then, my parents were magicians, capable of conjuring up every wish I imagined and more.
As an adult, I’ve learned the lie that hides behind the spectacle, and it’s written in every empty space in this house.
Despite Harvey’s reassurances, I’m dismayed to discover Mom in what’s left of the wine cellar. She’s holding a checklist in one hand and a ’95 P2 in the other.
I steel myself as I come down the stairs. “Where’s Dad?”
“Oh, hi, honey. In his office, last I saw. Something, something Ethereum, something, something Logan…” she says with a yada, yada, yada kind of wave of her clipboard. “He disappeared after breakfast, and I thought it would be an excellent time to tackle some administrative tasks before you arrived.”
With a nod at the P2, she makes the decision she’s clearly been pondering, and the foreboding churn in my gut sinks deeper.
“Whatever you’re planning, we can’t afford it,” I remind her.
She looks up at me, her sigh echoing in the dim space. “Next you’ll be asking me to serve box wine to our guests.”
Wrong. I don’t want her to serve anything at all.
My heart sinks. “Mom, you promised me.”
“I know, but?—”
“No. No buts. No ifs, buts, or maybes. You promised no more parties.” If I have to camp out in this wine cellar to stop her, I’ll do it.
She quietly slides the wine back into place, rotating it until she’s satisfied. “I always host the annual gala. We raise more funds in one day than we do the rest of the year.”
I hate bursting her bubble like this. The foundation has been her second child for years, and I wouldn’t ask her to give it up if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
But it’s become increasingly necessary.
“Let somebody else host,” I plead. Though she might never admit it, Logan’s mother has been angling to take over the foundation for years.
“Emma,” she says softly as she tucks my hair behind my ear. “And how would that look? I’ve been hosting since its inception. Everybody would think we can’t afford it.”
“We can’t.”
Every Sunday, I hop on a train, then into a cab so I can visit. And every Sunday, without fail, I’m reminded that the world of the rich does not exist on the same scale as the rest of the world.
If only I could make my parents accept that.
“Stop your stressing. Violet is taking care of everything this year.”
Oh, thank god for that. I let the relief settle as she returns to her notes. The cellar has always been cool and damp, a cavern of dark delights, but now half the racks are bare, and it’s another somber reminder of what used to be.
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “How is Violet?”
“Oh, you know Vi. There’s an issue with her house on the coast, but she’s glad to have Logan back. Have you heard that he’s been offered partner?”
I pretend to check my nails. “No, but that’s impressive.”
Though I’m surprised he didn’t mention it at lunch.
“I suppose he’ll be joining her at the fundraiser, now that he’s home.” I shoot for a casual tone.
The knowing look Mom gives me says I missed the mark. “Are you sure you’d be comfortable with that? I know how upset you were when it ended.”
I drop the act. “Logan and I are adults, and besides, we’ve already seen each other, and it was perfectly fine.”
“Oh?” she asks, eager for all the details I won’t be giving her.
Thankfully, Dad chooses the perfect moment to appear.
I swear if you saw him on the street—six foot six, long limbs extending from equally long khaki shorts and polo—you’d never know he once spent more than my annual salary on a garden gnome.
“Oh, perfect. I thought I heard you come in.” His thick mustache tickles when he kisses me on both cheeks. It’s remained black, even as his hair has grayed, and I’ve never seen him without it. “A case of GSM arrived from that new vineyard I was telling you about. The one that ferments in terracotta amphora rather than oak.”
He holds the bottle like a trophy in one hand, three glasses in the other. “Sulfate free, vegan, and a steal for the price.”
I don’t even want to know what my father considers “a steal.”
As he pours, I frown at him. “Dad, it’s barely one p.m.”
He pauses, looks up. “You’re right. We need nibbles.”
Mom perks up and is already moving toward the door. “I’ll cut up some cheeses.”
I should sell tickets to this show.
“Perfect,” he says, holding a glass out to me as she disappears. As always, his broad smile melts away the last of my concern. “Cheers, pumpkin.”
As out of touch as my parents are from the real world, there’s one responsibility they always came at with enthusiasm, and that’s me. There were times it was too much—when I was fourteen, I spent every weekend at a different friend’s house to get some peace—but I also know how lucky I am.
They’re stubborn and quirky, and I adore them.
“A little earthy,” he says, swirling his glass. “You can taste the richness of the minerals, but it’s still young. Open her up a little, and she’ll be a great aperitif. What do you think?”
I savor the first sip. It’s an extremely smooth blend, and soon, I’m reaching for the bottle to find out more. A second sip brings out the dark fruits, with a hint of spice. “I can see what you mean. There’s something almost rustic about it. Did you just open this?”
He nods.
“It’s lovely. Did you really need more wine, though?” I gesture around us. Three hundred bottles at his disposal, and he’s always showing me something new.
“We’re trying to secure the vineyard for an event. It seemed unseemly to not buy a case.”
Change has been difficult for all of us, but teaching my dad to be frugal is almost impossible.
I sigh. “Don’t you think it’s time to hand the foundation over to someone else? You could find a new hobby.” Something less likely to keep me up at night.
Mom returns carrying a platter overflowing with more cheese, nuts, and fruit than we could possibly eat in one sitting.
“If we didn’t have the foundation to keep us busy, what would we do with ourselves? I’d rather see you step in than hand it over to anyone else,” Dad says, causing Mom to look at me in triumph.
“No,” I remind them for the fiftieth time. I can’t imagine a task I want less. “I love my job”— mostly —“and I’m happy.” Again, mostly. “I’m not interested in running a nonprofit that makes your rich friends feel good about maintaining the wealth gap.”
They frown like they always do and drop it in favor of asking about work. Dad’s always been fascinated by my job, and maybe it’s ridiculous to still want his approval at twenty-seven, but when he looks at me with something akin to awe and tells me he’s proud of me, it makes up for all the times I’ve wanted to give Roberts the finger and storm out.
“This is exactly why you would be such an asset to the foundation. You’re a natural problem solver.”
“He’s right, honey,” Mom chimes in. “While I enjoy the social aspects, you’d be much better suited to keeping everything organized.”
At this point, I’m beginning to think taking over might be the only way to convince them to retire for good, and it terrifies me that one day, I might have to choose between my happiness and their livelihoods. Because I already know my answer.
Every kid considers the turning point where they need to care for their parents instead of vice versa, but I never thought it would happen so soon.
I love them more than life itself. I only wish I didn’t have to worry about them so much.
Dad’s refilling my glass for the third time when he eyes me with curiosity and asks the last question I’d ever expect from him. “Are you going to tell us about this new boyfriend of yours, or must we wait for the official newsletter?”
It takes everything I have not to choke on my wine.
“Who told you about that?”
“Violet was very curious,” Mom says.
One look at how happy the two of them are, and I almost regret lying to Logan.
Almost.
“There’s nothing to tell.” Literally, because he doesn’t exist.
“The most important thing is, does he make you happy?” Dad asks.
What do I even say to that? I only made him up in hopes of getting Logan back, but I can’t bring myself to disappoint them.
“He keeps life interesting” is what I land on.
They look like they just found out Santa is real, and my stomach churns. I hate lying to them.
“We expect to see him at the fundraiser, at least,” Mom says.
Uh… hell no.
“He’s not sure if he can make it,” I try.
It’s no use. Mom is already cupping my cheek and smiling, and I know I can’t take it back now.
“Then you’ll just have to bring him around to meet us when you visit next Sunday.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit.
I should have known the gossip mill would get back to them, but the flare of jealousy I caught in Logan’s eyes was too good to pass up. Too bad I now need to find myself a fake boyfriend for a night.
Mom clinks her glass to mine. “Don’t forget to tell him it’s black tie.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Once I have a him to invite.