His longtime friend Jimmy Rothschild wore an amused expression as he watched the waitress walk away.
“That look might rock it in Aleppo or Cairo my friend, but you’re scaring the locals in the good old US of A,” Jimmy joked quietly, nodding at the back of the retreating waitress, and then Asher’s face. Asher knew Jimmy referred to his full-out beard and rough appearance. Or possibly he’d been frowning as he ordered from the blonde, thinking more about the meeting with his parents tomorrow morning than being civil and pleasant in front of a pretty woman?
Or maybe everyone really did notice how out of place he felt in his the city he’d once called home.
Rudy Fattore, his other friend, snorted. “The waitress wasn’t afraid of him,” Rudy told Jimmy with a wise air. “She was thinking about where to start in on him. With that beard and tan, Ash reeks of the desert and intrigue. Trust me, women love the smell of danger. He’s giving off that ‘most-interesting-man-alive’ aura. It’s concentrated testosterone, I’m telling you.” He grazed his fingers across his own clean shaven jaw. “I may not be up for a Pulitzer Prize or the Gazette’s new European bureau chief, but I’m still an award-winning photojournalist, aren’t I? I think I’ll give a beard a spin.”
“You’d only be overcompensating for the lack of hair on your head,” Jimmy said. He smiled calmly at Rudy’s glare.
“You tried to grow a beard in college and it sprouted in patches,” Asher reminded Rudy.
“Things are different now,” Rudy insisted. “I’ve got eleven years on that patchy kid.”
Asher grinned despite his bad mood. Rudy was always good for a laugh. Well, most of the time, anyway.
He slumped in the uncomfortable, sleek chair, searching the Lincoln Park, upscale French Bistro. It took him a moment to realize he was scanning for a potential threat amongst the loud, carefree crowd of diners. He halted the instinctive reaction with effort. He, along with a lot of other Western reporters, had been banned entry to Syria several few years ago. But working there, out of all his assignments, had especially created a constant hyper-alert state in him. It was weird being back in the States after spending most of the last eight years in various parts of the Middle East.
Not a lot had changed in the old Lincoln Park neighborhood. Even Petite Poulet, the French bistro, looked unchanged. Yet everything looked strangely gray and muted to him, like he was a sleepwalker in a dream world of the past that had remained strangely congealed in time while he—Asher—had transformed into something alien that didn’t fit into the scene anymore. Of course he’d been back in the States several times since becoming a foreign correspondent years ago. Maybe it was being in the familiar restaurant with his childhood buddies that made things especially surreal. He hadn’t been out with both of them in years. Jimmy still lived and worked here in Chicago, but Rudy had moved to L.A.
In fact, the three of them hadn’t been together in eight years. Not since those bittersweet days in Crescent Bay that had been, in many ways, the last, elusive hours of his youth.
“Are you actually going to meet Madeline in the morning wearing that beard?”
Asher forced his mind out his nostalgic musings at his friend’s question.
Jimmy was right to question his grooming choice, of course. Jimmy Rothschild had known Asher’s mother, Madeline Gaites-Granville, almost as long as Asher had. Their mothers had been friends forever, taking turns bragging or complaining about their sons, showing off their latest designer shoes or handbags at the latest high profile charity event, digging up gossip and hobnobbing at the Union or Cliff Dweller’s Clubs, or looking down their noses at social climbers at exclusive Winnetka dinner parties. His mom would probably have a stroke, seeing her only son’s swarthy skin and thick beard.
Maybe he’d shave before showing up for the dreaded brunch in Winnetka tomorrow. His full beard and one of his mom’s silver-and-crystal-gilded brunches definitely wouldn’t mix. Asher resented that it mattered, but what else was new?
“If what you told me is true,” Asher said to Jimmy as he lifted his glass of Chivas, “Mom’s going to have more to worry about than my beard.”
“What’s that mean?” Rudy demanded. When Asher remained brooding and silent, Rudy turned to Jimmy. “What’s going on?”
Jimmy exhaled slowly. “I told Asher earlier that according to my mother, Asher’s parents are under the impression that the prodigal son has returned home to Chicago to do his filial duty and finally take over the helm of the Gaites-Granville media empire,” Jimmy replied with attempted levity. Still, his dark eyes looked worried as he examined Asher. Asher frowned, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down his ever-present mixture of annoyance and guilt when it came to the topic of his parents.
“I didn’t have a clue that’s why they thought I was coming to Chicago. I have some rare time off between jobs, and I owe them a visit after being away for over two years. That’s all. It was purely coincidental, me being here close to my birthday,” Asher said.
“It’s not surprising that Clark and Madeline jumped to that conclusion, though. You know it’s the moment they’ve waited for now for thirty years,” Jimmy pointed out fairly.
Asher slouched his large body further down in the uncomfortable chair. Of course his mom and dad thought that was why he’d arrived in Chicago this autumn: to lay claim to the principal of his trust fund. How could he have been so stupid as to blunder blindly into a hornet’s nest?
If he accepted their money, he’d have to follow their plan for his life, wouldn’t he? Maybe that was never explicitly said, but it’d certainly been the depressing implication Asher had gotten since he was nine years old.
His parents couldn’t fathom that Asher rarely thought about his inheritance for the past ten years of his life. He willfully repressed the idea of that money, along with all the invisible strings attached to it. Strings? Try titanium steel chains. Those hundreds of millions of dollars had come to symbolize his parents’ hold on him. No, it better represented Asher’s refusal . . . no, his inability, to give them what they wanted. What they needed: a suitable, polished, biddable Gaites-Granville heir.
That inheritance, along with all the other privileges his parents offered, were the crown Asher cringed from accepting. But according to his parents, that symbolic crown was his privilege. His birthright.
His duty.
Bullshit.
He grimaced at the snarling voice in his head. Asher had ritualistically done whatever he wanted with his life, despite his parents’ rampant disapproval. Publicly, his mother and father had regularly made passive-aggressive comments and broadcast their disapproval of him with every glance and gesture. In private, they’d threatened dire circumstances in regard to his choices. When he’d remained steadfast in his plans, they’d stiffened their backbones and pursed their lips against their anger with such silent forcefulness that sometimes, Asher feared they’d shatter into a million pieces solely from concentrated disappointment. Despite all of their disapproval, he knew that his parents also smugly bragged about Asher’s career to their business acquaintances and friends as though he was doing exactly what they’d planned for him all along. And all the while, Grant and Madeline just waited for the day when Asher would return to toe the line.
They believed that day had finally come.
“Right, the big day is finally around the corner,” Rudy drawled presently, snapping his fingers in remembrance. “I’ve been waiting for you to turn thirty since we were at Stanford. I mean, you haven’t exactly been a pauper up until now, seeing as how your grandfather left you a nice little nest egg, and that’s more money than most of us will ever see in a lifetime. But that’s all petty cash compared to the big enchilada. It’s finally here: your thirtieth birthday and total control over your trust fund. Freedom, man. What are you going to buy first? Please say a race car. You’ll have to get me one, too, to have someone to practice against. Wait, no . . . a yacht. Hey, the three of us should plan a trip to climb Mt. Everest! Or what about a beach house like that one your parents have in Crescent Bay? The chicks love that. Damn you’re going to get laid morning, noon and night—”
“He’s not accepting it,” Jimmy interrupted Rudy’s fantasizing bluntly.
Rudy blinked. “Not accepting what?” He studied first Jimmy’s, then Asher’s stony faces. His blank expression turned incredulous. “You’re not accepting control of your trust fund? Are you crazy?”
“How can he accept Madeline and Clark’s money when he’s planning on leaving the country again? He’s going to London to become the New York Gazette’s European bureau chief. You know that,” Jimmy reminded Rudy.
Rudy set down his highball glass with a loud clunk. He looked floored. Asher was thankful to Jimmy for backing him up. Jimmy knew what it was like better than Rudy, to have that gilded cage hovering over you for most of your life, ready to crash down at any moment. Jimmy had finessed his parents a lot more gracefully than Asher ever had, though. He’d remained in Chicago after getting his law degree. He’d quickly earned a reputation for being a brilliant criminal prosecutor. Rudy and Asher were two of the few people on the planet allowed to call him Jimmy. Most people in his professional and social circles knew him as James Rothschild, Esq. Elite local power-brokers had already tagged him as a promising candidate for the state House of Representatives. But despite all his career success, Jimmy had quietly but steadfastly defied his parents’ designs for his life and determinedly carved out his own path. He routinely ignored or denied his parents’ little fantasy scenarios amongst their social circle about him being the most desirable stud in Chicago.
“Last I heard, money travels just fine overseas,” Rudy insisted heatedly. “There’s no stipulation on that trust fund that says Asher has to live in Chicago or Winnetka if he accepts his inheritance.”
“There’s stipulations, all right,” Asher replied grimly.
“But not legal ones,” Rudy protested, glancing over at Jimmy for assistance. “Clark can’t stop him from taking what’s his legally, can he Jimmy? He can’t force him to become an executive at GGM and become a WASP clone of himself, for Christ’s sake. Take the money and run, Ash.”
“I don’t want the money, Rudy,” Asher snarled.
“But they’ll probably just give it to that traitor, pretty-boy cousin of yours, Eric,” Rudy hissed as if he’d just said a venal word. He referred to Eric Gaites-Granville, who hailed from the New York faction of the family. Rudy had disliked Eric ever since they’d met eight years ago, in Crescent Bay. Because of Eric’s actions that summer, his dislike had quickly morphed to hate. Asher wasn’t in disagreement with Rudy’s assessment. Not in the slightest. He’d detested his cousin from the cradle.
“They gave Eric the position you were supposed to have at GGM a couple years ago when you went to Cairo, after the Syrian government kicked all the western reporters out. Your parents thought for sure you’d be returning home to Chicago after that, but you stayed in the Middle East. Why wouldn’t they give Eric your trust fund too, if you won’t take it now?” Rudy demanded.
Asher shut his eyes and grasped for patience. Jimmy groaned and shifted in his seat.
“Give it a rest, Rudy. It’s not up to you. If Ash doesn’t want to take his parents’ money, it’s his choice. Don’t you get it? That money may mean freedom to you, but it means the opposite to him.”
“But—”
“Can we please change the subject?” Asher bit out. “I asked you guys out tonight for a little R and R before this meeting with my parents tomorrow. You didn’t come all the way from L.A. just to lecture me, did you?” he asked Rudy.
Rudy opened his mouth to protest, but then noticed Asher’s expression. Air puffed out of his mouth. He shook his head resignedly.
“If only I could have your problems, Ash.”
“I’d give them to you in a second if I could.”
“Meaning you’d give me your parents?” Rudy asked wryly. “I doubt Clark and Madeline would ever claim me as a surrogate son. They’ve barely put up with me being your wild Italian friend from the East Bronx. They thought I was going to jump ’em the first time we met. The nerve of me, to get a scholarship to Stanford and picked as their precious son’s roommate. But no worries, I’ve charmed my way into their shriveled little blue-blood hearts since then.”
Asher laughed gruffly. Yeah, Rudy could be annoying at times, but there was no one truer. He hadn’t hesitated to say he’d fly into Chicago immediately when Asher told him he’d be in town, even though they hadn’t done anything but converse through email for the last two years.
The waitress returned, serving them their appetizer order of moules à la bière. This time, Asher did take notice of her warm smiles and cautious, but engrossed glances at him from beneath heavily mascaraed eyelashes. He tried to work up some returned interest, but failed. Maybe he’d lost the talent for casual flirting. He’d been seeing Claire Moines, a German television correspondent based out of Istanbul, for over three years before their relationship had finally fizzled out due the long distance romance, infrequent visits, and dwindling chemistry. Between a grueling work schedule, and Claire as a place filler girlfriend, he’d grown pitifully backward in the skills of wooing a woman. Rudy took over, smooth-talking the pretty waitress. His charming grin and rapid-fire one-liners were stale as old beer to Jimmy and Asher, but apparently fresh and appealing to the waitress.
“Hey, you know what might get your mind off your doomsday meeting with Clark and Madeline tomorrow?” Rudy asked. He pulled his gaze off the retreating waitress’s swaying ass with apparent effort. “Yesenia.”
“What’s a Yesenia?” Asher wondered, digging into the mussels they’d just been served.
“Oh, yeah. Yesenia,” Jimmy said, his usually somber expression growing animated. “The singer. She performs over at the State Room. They converted the old State Theatre into a nightclub, and Yesenia headlines there.”
“What’s so great about her?” Asher asked.
“She’s supposed to be incredibly talented, for one. I read about her in Inside Chicago recently. Apparently, she writes her own music: jazz, blues, pop, R&B. She just got a recording contract too, from an indie studio.”
“Forget all that. All you need to know is she’s supposed to be hotter than Hades,” Rudy interrupted. “I read a small article about her in the entertainment section of the Times. She’s starting to bust out of the local scene and is getting some national interest. I’m dying to see her perform. You’ll get what I’m saying when you see her, Asher. Or more accurately, when you don’t see her.”
Asher paused with is fork paused in midair and gave his friend a half-amused, half-exhausted glance. Rudy grinned slyly.
“See, that’s the whole thing that Jimmy failed to mention—”
“I thought her music was the most crucial thing,” Jimmy interrupted.
“Yesenia performs behind a curtain,” Rudy continued as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken. “It’s a sheer curtain, so you can make out her smoking body and the way she moves and everything. But you can’t really see the details of her face. The press has taken to calling her The Veiled Siren.”
“Why does she sing behind a curtain?” Asher asked, thinking the whole idea sounded ridiculous.
Rudy waggled his eyebrows. “No one really knows that, do they? That’s part of her mystic. Her allure. She makes people wild to tear down the curtain and get a good, hard look at her, if you know what I mean.” Asher rolled his eyes. Rudy’s grin widened. “There are rumors about why she does it. Supposedly, she has some pretty bad scarring. She doesn’t want anyone to see her face. But—” Rudy nodded down next to his chair where he’d set his camera case. As a talented freelance photographer specializing in celebrity photos, Rudy was rarely without the primary tool of his trade. “The Veiled Siren can’t stay under wraps for long, as popular as she’s becoming. What do you say we try and get a glimpse behind the curtain tonight?” he said. “She’s right on the cusp of becoming famous, it sounds like. I’ll probably get a good buck for an unmasked photo of her.”
“What’s your plan? Have Asher and me jump on the stage and jerk down the curtain while you snap photos?” Jimmy asked sarcastically. “We’re thirty, Fattore, not eighteen. You’re not putting me at risk of getting arrested. Again.”
“What are you complaining about? Tiger Woods never prosecuted, did he? Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go to Yesenia’s performance and we’ll see if any opportunities arise for a photo?” Rudy suggested with fake innocent casualness. He noticed Asher’s doubtful look. “I’m not gonna’ do anything illegal,” he defended. “Come on. Are you guys in?”
Asher shrugged. The woman’s performance sounded distracting. It might keep his mind off the dreaded morning meeting. For a few minutes, anyway.
“I’ll go for the show, but I’m with Jimmy. You’re not roping me in to any of your stupid schemes. I still haven’t forgiven you for that extremely personal case of poison oak you gave me when you insisted I hide with you in the woods to get that picture of Jennifer Lopez leaving that vacation house in Big Sur. I swear I feel a rash coming on every time I hear her name.”
“At least you weren’t arrested,” Jimmy muttered in a beleaguered fashion under his breath.
“Yeah, and it’s not my fault you exposed the little general because you had to pee,” Rudy told Asher.
“What was the logical outcome of that scenario? There was nothing else to do but drink that Jim Beam you brought while we were sitting there like idiots in the woods. I’m just saying: No. Stupid. Stunts,” Asher repeated succinctly.
“You better believe it,” Jimmy said sternly.
Asher smirked at Rudy’s wounded-puppy-dog expression of the falsely accused.