Scrooge

30. Alexander

30

ALEXANDER

T he chopper descends, and I’m not prepared for the feelings that come. After speaking briefly with Haylee, we were packed and on the rooftop at my penthouse within the hour, and now forty minutes later, I see my private helipad in view, sitting right outside my house.

Haylee’s hand squeezes mine as we come into a landing. I know she does it because she has never flown in a chopper before, and her stomach is probably floating, but I take it as a sign of comfort. Here was the last time I saw my father before he died.

“All here, sir,” the pilot says, as the blades start to slow and we unclip. My ground staff works overtime getting our bags and running everything inside as the door opens, and I step out.

“Thank you,” I yell to him as I grab Haylee from the helicopter and plant her on her feet.

“Wow,” she says, steadying herself, her hands digging into my arms as she sways a little. “That was insane.”

I give her a small smile, trying to appear okay, all the while my own anxiety builds.

Once she settles, I grab her hand, and we walk over my manicured lawn and straight inside. It’s cold, a chill in the air. It isn’t snowing, but it’s refreshing, her nose and cheeks already pinkened. The chopper leaves again as quick as it landed, my Hamptons team dispersing once we’re safely inside my home, having ensured it’s warm and inviting for our arrival.

“Wow,” Haylee says, standing still inside the door, looking up and around with wide eyes.

“Welcome to the Hamptons,” I tell her, watching her take it all in. It is a lot. Extravagant. The one place my father did spend money was here. It’s still lacking in decor and life, but with picture-perfect views of the beach, it’s a feast for the eyes.

“This is… like… actually insane.” She unravels the scarf from around her neck, shrugging off her jacket. As she walks around, I try to breathe as my eyes flick to the armchair, the one Dad always sat in to read his morning newspaper. I look behind me at the grand staircase that leads to all the bedrooms upstairs, automatically thinking he will walk down at any moment, just like he used to when I would arrive. But it’s empty. Quiet. He isn’t here.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, and I turn my head to look back at her, seeing her watching me.

I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay not to be. I know this place has some memories for you,” she says, and I take another breath, a big one, the first I feel like I have taken since we landed.

“It does.” I slowly walk toward the open fireplace that is now roaring, thanks to my team. “We used to sit in these chairs and talk about our growth plans,” I tell her, putting my hand on the back of one of the armchairs, imagining the two of us.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, stepping closer.

“There is a firepit outside. He would sit out on the outside lounge and smoke his cigars after dinner, and we would talk about the budgets. He always liked to have a cigar when talking numbers,” I say, smirking at the memory. “It feels good to remember. Like he is still here, almost.”

“As long as we remember, then they are still with us, right here.” Putting her hand to my chest, she taps me where my heart sits. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close and swallowing hard, gritting my teeth to keep my emotions at bay.

“The beach sounds so calming,” she says, and I look out the large floor-to-ceiling windows that act like a frame around a picturesque view of the white sandy beach and the blue water, the waves thumping heavily due to the winds.

“It can be therapeutic.” Now I am here, and over my initial trepidation, I actually feel relaxed. The faint smell of salty beach breeze fills my nose, and the rolling waves hit my ears as they crash onto the shore.

“I can imagine. I mean, I haven’t been to the beach much before. The Hamptons were never really in our vacation budget. Not that anything was. We grew up tied to the shop, so we’ve never really taken a vacation as a family before.”

I look back at her, and my brow crumples.

“Never taken a vacation? Ever?”

“No. That’s why my mom and dad want to retire, so they can take a few weekend trips and things. I think they may go down to Florida and spend some time in the sun,” she says, shrugging.

“What about the kids?” I ask. Her nephew and niece appear to be a handful. I’m sure they would love running up and down a beach.

“Oh, they would love it. Probably never come back,” she says on a laugh.

“Our bags will be upstairs in the main suite. I’m just going to go to the office to call Laurent and tell him we have arrived and get an update on things,” I tell her, wanting to get the work situation out of the way before we can fully relax.

“Sure, go. I might call Jillian and check in, then take a shower.”

“Up the stairs and to the right is the master wing. Go up. Make yourself at home,” I tell her, and she wiggles her eyebrows.

“Master wing… well… I shall.” She toys with me, before lifting onto her toes and kissing me too quickly, then sauntering off to explore. I watch her go, a stupid grin on my face before I turn and walk down the hall to my father’s office.

I open the door and immediately halt. It still smells like him. Like his cigars. The smell somewhat stale and barely there, but strong enough to have me questioning if coming here was the right move, after all. I grip on to the door handle, my grief hitting me in waves. I guess this is what happens when you bury yourself in work and not deal with it straightaway. It simmers under the skin, heating you up until you boil over. Closing the door, I stand in the silence. There are still papers on his desk, the newspaper folded, and I walk over and pick it up. I look at the business section that is open and see a photo of myself. It’s from the shot I did a while ago for New York Business magazine.

I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath, looking through the piles of paperwork to ensure there is nothing here that is urgent or important that I have ignored for the past twelve months. Then I put Laurent on speakerphone, trying to multitask.

“You got there?” he asks, no greeting necessary.

“We are here. What’s the latest?”

“Charges have been dropped. Police saw no evidence of assault on your part. They have put it down to self-defense, and he has been charged with a class-A misdemeanor. Assault on Haylee and creating a public disturbance,” Laurent says, and I grind my teeth as my eyes stay peeled to the various redundant paperwork in front of me.

“I want to bury him,” I grit out.

“Already on it. I have the security team digging into his position. I don’t think he has a lot for a Wall Street finance guy. Works for one of the big banks down there. I’ll gather some more intelligence, and then I can plant a few media stories. He’ll lose his job, will find it hard to get another one, and run away with his tail between his legs, another victim of the city. Getting chewed up and spit out like many people do who hit New York, expecting big things,” Laurent says.

“Good. Now what's our plan?” I ask, getting into the other issue—the media.

“Well, you both stay out there for a few days, let things die down a little, then hopefully everything will calm down so you can return and get back to normal. Although the media have really grabbed on to this.”

“I mean, we knew it would raise some interest, but this all seems pretty intense…” I question, as I start putting the paperwork into a pile, all destined for the shredder.

“You are a man of stature now. Saving a homeless woman, then stepping in to protect your fiancée. It all makes for a very compelling story. They might even make a romance movie out of it.” I hear the humor in his voice and I huff a laugh.

“She has changed you, you know,” he says, and I sigh.

“I know,” I admit, feeling a flutter I’ve never experienced before her move through my chest.

“You smile now. You even laugh. You haven't done that for over twelve months, when we were back in the European office. Even then, it’s not like you were very happy.”

I want to push back, but there’s no use. He’s right. I was a miserable asshole, and I’d be a stupid asshole to let the woman who’s brought me to life get away.

“I want to throw out the agreement. Void it, destroy it. Shred it. Have Sheridan aware of that fact,” I tell him. The whole decision feels better and better every time I say it.

“Really?” Laurent asks in a voice that sparks excitement and surprise. “So, you two are, like… really engaged, then?”

“It might be a long engagement, but I like the look of my ring on her finger and her head on my pillow.” I’m smiling like a fool as I think of her. Her beauty, her body, her mind, her heart.

“Well. Consider it null and void. Also, the holiday party is coming along well, just so you are aware. Food trucks are now all organized, Christmas carolers all confirmed, and we have had an overwhelming response to the RSVPs. Almost a hundred percent attendance from the staff, and we are sitting at a ninety percent attendance from outside stakeholders and suppliers,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows.

“That’s good. Jillian can help you with anything from Tucker Toys. I’m trying to keep Haylee away from the store for a little while. Give her a break.”

“All sorted. I spoke to Jillian just before. Did another media briefing with her and her family. They are great. Smart people, secure at home. The holiday party is giving them a financial injection for their seasonal trade, so being closed for a few days here and there because of the media hasn’t slowed them down.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. I finish sorting the papers and open the top drawer, seeing the usual stationery before I spot a yellow envelope tucked inside.

“Well, I will leave everything with you. I’ll have my cell on me, so call me if you need to. Otherwise, I plan for us to be here for two days or so, just to get over the majority of the craziness.”

We say a swift goodbye before I end the call, pulling out the envelope, intrigued.

I rip it open, the envelope sealed tight, nothing written on the outside, but I feel a thick pile of papers. I pull them out, assuming it is some financial statements or something. But what I find shocks me. My cell rings as I stare at the paperwork. It’s Logan, no doubt he’s heard and seen all the media articles and images online, but as I shuffle through what I am seeing, I ignore the call, not having the brain space to talk with him.

“What in the world?” I say out loud as I flick through the leasing agreement of Tucker Toys. A contract of sorts, signifying that the lease on Tucker Toys is to remain on a set fee for the future of the business until John Tucker deems it necessary for change. It is unusual. Our lease agreements are tighter than this, always have been. And to give full control over to the tenant is unheard of. I flick to the final page and see my father’s familiar signature, and it’s dated almost two decades ago, when I was merely a teenager, Haylee even younger. But if that isn’t shocking enough, I then look next to it and see another signature.

Haylee’s father has signed it as well.