Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 374(@200wpm)___ 299(@250wpm)___ 249(@300wpm)
My home in Palm Beach is … simpler.
Modern.
Cleaner.
Brighter.
Designed for both work and play.
“Campbell? Cedric?” Blythe calls out for her daughter and husband before taking my coat. “Slade’s here.”
The buttery, savory scent of beef Wellington fills the air and the sound of shuffling feet trails from one of the many recesses of the home.
“Hope you brought your appetite,” she says while we wait in the foyer. “I’ll have someone take your bag to your room while we eat. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Perfect timing.” Cedric makes his way through the tiled foyer, his right hand outstretched as if we’re about to make a business deal—which is essentially what this arranged marriage is: two powerful American dynasties becoming one.
“Mr. Wakemont, good to see you.” I meet his handshake.
Cedric squeezes my hand hard before covering it with his left—the same power move my father does … a little trick they learned back in their Yale days.
While it tends to make them come off like assholes, a person could argue that no one ever closed a multi-million-dollar business deal by being a nice guy.
“Oh, my. Campbell’s taking her sweet time, isn’t she?” Blythe toys at the strand of pearls affixed around her elegant neck, making zero effort to hide her annoyance. “Let me run and find her … why don’t you two go on ahead and meet us in the dining room?”
I follow Cedric to the old school country-club-esque dining room, where an elaborate setup is waiting for us. Crystal goblets, polished silver, ornate china plates with coordinating saucers, and more mahogany than should be allowed in one area at the same time.
“How’s old Tupper doing these days?” Cedric asks about my father, a gleam in his eye as he uses an old nickname from their college years and some insufferable story involving a Tupperware container and God only knows what else. As such, my father loathes being called Tupper, but if anything, that only motivates Cedric to call him that even more. The two of them are like brothers who bicker like an old married couple but have each other’s backs at the end of the day. “I’m sorry—it’s only funny when he’s here. How’s Victor? Recovering from that shoulder surgery still?”
“He’s anxious to get back on the golf course.” I take the seat to his left. “Doctor hasn’t cleared him yet.”
Cedric offers a sympathetic wince. “That’s what he gets for trying to best me at Pelican Bay last year. Serves him right. And your mother? The incomparable Delia Delacorte? Still tearing up the tennis courts at the Polo Palms Club?”
“When she can.”
Cedric acts like we didn’t just have this exact same conversation four weeks ago … and four weeks before that … and four weeks before that. For a while, I was worried there might be something going on with him neurologically, but I’ve recently deduced that he simply doesn’t know how to talk to me because we have nothing in common other than my father and his daughter, and what can be said about either of them that hasn’t already been said? That isn’t already known?
Still, I humor him by engaging in this brain-numbing small talk while we wait for my future wife to make her fashionably late appearance. But it isn’t long before our conversation reaches its inevitable lull.
I’ve never been a fan of silence.
It gives a person too much time to think, and too much of anything (with the exception of money) is never a good thing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. The urge to check it is overwhelming, but I push through it.
I’d rather be working.
I’d rather be in Florida.
I’d rather be anywhere but here, pretending I don’t hate every waking moment of this dog and pony show.
I’ll never forget the day my parents told me about this absurd arrangement. I’d finished second grade with top marks, so as a reward, my parents took me out for ice cream at this place on the pier. A few doors down, there was a bridal party taking photos. I watched them, my nose scrunched in disgust as the woman in white kissed the man in black. My mother laughed and nudged my father, who also seemed amused by my reaction.
“That’s going to be you someday, son,” he said.
“Never,” I told him between licks of Rocky Road. “Girls are disgusting.”
“You won’t always feel that way,” my mom chimed in.
The two of them exchanged looks before my father cleared his throat.
“What would you say if we told you we knew who you were going to marry?” he asked.
At the time, I didn’t understand what he was asking. It didn’t make sense. I thought everyone got to choose their partner—which meant they could also choose not to have one at all.
“There’s a girl,” my mother said, “and her name is Campbell.”
“Like the soup?” I laughed.
Mom smiled a soft smile. “Yes, I suppose. But it’s a family name.”