Chapter 9
MICHELLE: DYNASTY
My father arrived on the scene later in the day, his trip to Italy cut short when the negotiations for a luxury property chain broke down and he had to return Stateside to secure the acquisition.
I requested a meeting with him only after I heard the deal was done.
He’d be in a good mood, and that would give me a better chance of getting him on my side.
I’d always been closer to my father than my mother.
He was more approachable and pliable, and I knew my father loved me.
But years of infidelity had fractured what little family unity we’d had, and over the years, I’d watched him slowly drift away.
When I stepped into the study, my father was in his leather wingback chair, his jacket tossed aside. He poured a measure of Louis XIII into a tulip glass and swirled the amber liquid like it was more valuable than the air we breathed.
“One hundred years in the making,” he said, lifting it to his nose. “A drink for men who build empires, not waste them.”
I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And what about the daughters of men who build empires? Do we get to build anything of our own, or are we meant only to be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?”
His eyes flicked to me, amused. “That’s option number two. Option number one is still available to you. There’s no need to fight it. Go back to Juilliard. You love music. And you’re a beautifully talented pianist.”
“But I’m not exceptional—like those who earned their spot. I don’t belong there.”
“You’re a Carver, my love. There is nowhere you don’t belong.”
I stepped farther into the room, finding my courage. “I don’t want to be a concert pianist, Daddy. I want to go to nursing school. Help people. Do something real. I want option number three.”
“At what point did nursing enter the conversation?”
“I’ve always been fascinated by it.”
“Have you?” His gaze lingered, assessing. “Since when?”
“Since the gardener collapsed. You remember—I helped him until the ambulance arrived. Mrs. Alvarez said I stayed calm. She said I should be a nurse.”
My father frowned, searching his memory. “When was this?”
“I was twelve.”
He lifted his glass, then stopped and set it back down with care.
“I don’t recall you ever mentioning an interest in nursing.”
“I didn’t think it was something I was allowed to say.”
The pause stretched. His fingers rested on the stem, unmoving.
“When I was your age,” he said at last, “I wanted to be an architect. Not hotels—buildings. Bridges. City skylines. I sketched blueprints in the margins of my textbooks. Your grandfather called them doodles. He told me I could draw all I wanted, as long as I drew for our properties.”
He took a sip, his gaze far-off, remembering. “So I went to business school. I did what was expected. And eventually, I came to see that he was right.”
“Right?” My voice cracked. “About crushing your dream?”
He turned toward me, his expression almost sad. “No. Right that duty outlasts passion. Passion fades. But duty—duty builds legacies.”
“And how is going to Juilliard building my legacy?”
“See, Michelle, you are looking at this all wrong. It’s not about you; it’s about the family.
Juilliard is prestigious. It’s what’s expected of a family like ours.
When you shine, we all shine. Now, no more discussion.
Enjoy your summer in California. Practice hard.
And then, come September, you will return to school with your head held high. That’s your duty, my dear.”
I felt the weight of the words pressing down on me like stones. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t even angry. He was just… immovable. And somehow, that was worse.
Melanie joined me at the pool later in the afternoon.
She didn’t greet me, of course. She made a whole production of laying out her towel, ordering a new margarita because the first one wasn’t blended to her liking, and working sunscreen into her skin, flattening the fine hairs on her arms with practiced, almost performative care.
Only once she was perfectly basted and arranged did she bother to look my way.
“Congratulations, you troublemaker, you,” she said, lowering her sunglasses. “You’re such a disappointment that Mother and Daddy are suddenly my fans.”
“Then they obviously haven’t met Gavin the Martian yet.”
“No, but this could be the right time to introduce him.”
“And they only know the half of it. If they found out what I did last night, they’d tack a poster of you on the wall.”
That got her attention. “What did you do?”
I hid my face with my hands, giggling. I still couldn’t believe it myself. But Melanie was my only friend; my only confidant. So I told her everything, every reckless detail of my night with Scott. Even the part about almost losing my virginity.
Technically, it wasn’t my first close call.
I’d had a brief Juilliard boyfriend: Corey, a sensitive flutist with delicate hands.
We dated for months without ever really kissing.
Not on the lips, anyway. The signs were all there.
I just didn’t see them, despite the fact we’d met in interpretive dance class.
One tipsy night we ended up in bed, and Corey declared he was gay mid-attempt, crying and thanking me for the clarity.
Anyway. Back to Scott.
By the time I finished my Shaggin’ Wagon story, Melanie was staring down at me open-mouthed.
“Michelle Carver, you little tramp!”
“I know!” I laughed. “Can’t believe it myself. He was so fun. I needed to blow off some steam, and Scott had no problem helping me out with that.”
“Of course he didn’t. It’s like the classic Beauty and the Stray.”
“Like you and Gavin?”
“No, Michelle. Mine’s an actor. Yours is just passing through.”
My smile faded. I wasn’t sure if I should take offense. Scott might not be on Mother’s approved list of suitors, but he wasn’t a stray. Hearing Melanie reduce him to nothing stung more than I expected.
“He’s a talented singer.”
“In a metal band.”
“You don’t know him.”
Melanie blinked, processing the information passing back and forth between us. “Wait—you’re not into him, are you?”
“No,” I replied, less than convincing.
“Oh, no. No, Michelle. Don’t you dare! These guys, like Gavin and Scott?
They’re fun, hot distractions. Good for a fling, not for a future.
You cannot—I repeat, cannot—fall for him.
You think the Juilliard thing was a disaster?
Imagine Mother finding out you humped a surf bum metalhead in the cab of his two-tone Chevy.
She’d resurrect the guillotine and sell tickets. ”
As much as I didn’t want to hear it, Melanie was right.
If I didn’t immediately cease and desist with Scott, this whole thing was going to blow up in my face.
He was a fling, not my future. But I couldn’t get him out of my head.
I’d gone to bed last night thinking about him and woken up this morning to more of the same.
Maybe once I returned his vest, and the last connection to him was gone, I could put this unproductive chapter behind me.
It wasn’t like he’d be hard to find. He worked at the beach a few miles away.
One more face-to-face, and then I’d get myself back on course.
As it turned out, Scott didn’t teach surf lessons on Sundays.
However, the front desk gave me the schedule of days he was on, and even offered me a discount if I bought a week’s worth of lessons.
No lie, I contemplated it. Scott and me in the surf for a week?
Oh, the fun to be had! But then I remembered: this was a ‘goodbye’ mission. Drop off the vest and be done.
Dejected, I walked back to my car, only to be hit by a cold ocean breeze. I shoved my hands into the front pockets of Scott’s vest for warmth. I felt something inside one of them and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t mine to see, but I unfolded it anyway.
Chapel service, Sunday 11AM. Tranquil Tides Cemetery