IT HAD BEEN A long time since I had an afternoon of meaningful conversation with a woman. When it came to family history, Heather was slightly closed off and with good reason. Family was a source of negativity for my ex-wife, and ended up driving her to drink or get high, sometimes both.
I’d listen as she told me horror stories of growing up in southern Missouri. Her family ran a local gas station, but when things got tough her brother started dealing and cooking meth among other drugs.
When she was eighteen, she skipped a local party that ended up getting busted. Heather had driven two hours to Branson to sing at an open mic night hoping that someone would recognize her talent. When she got home her best friend, Tish was waiting for her, said she was real proud of her and that they should celebrate. Heather found herself out in the woods with a rope around her neck being accused of being a snitch. Luckily the cops tailed some of the teens the rest of the weekend and had been able to save Heather’s life. That night, she packed a bag, bought a bus ticket and headed straight for Hollywood.
When her brother, Randy, showed up at our place in Manhattan demanding money, it sent Heather over the edge.
“I don’t understand why this motherfucker tells you how to spend yur money. I’m ‘er family—‘er kin. We are blood, Kandi . . . excuse me, Heather. I know you got the money livin’ up here in yur big fancy penthouse and we know you got a mansion out there in Hollywood too.”
“How the fuck did you find me?” Heather screeched.
“Money talks, even Missourah money in the Big Apple. I paid some guy selling celebrity maps five hundred dollars to tell me where you lived. Cuz even if I gave him half the money I had on me, it’s worth it to get my payday from you. You owe us, Kandi girl.”
I stood up, and my fingers carefully buttoned the jacket of my Burberry suit. Words formulated in my brain as I studied this jackass wearing khaki cargo shorts and a Psycho Circus concert t-shirt. And yes, I stood in judgement of him, and my problem was his entitlement and lack of respect for his sister.
“She’s my wife, my family. She doesn’t owe you a dime. You never gave a damn about Heather, and she left Missouri to get the hell away from you and your family. In between auditions, she put herself through acting classes by working at Vacancy. She did it all by herself without any help from any of you.”
“Fuck you, Hollywood! Why don’t you go fuck your sister or your cousin?”
“Randy, I’m going to breakdown my answer in simple terms so you’ll understand. That kind of shit isn’t legal where I come from. Now, maybe in your part of the world it’s okay to call your sister a fucking bitch in front of an Applebee’s on Mother’s Day and fuck your family members, but where I’m from that’s called being a fucking redneck.”
After security escorted him out, I left for a meeting. Heather said she was just fine, but she’d gone on a bender—pills, booze, and cocaine. Dazed and drunk she went to the Union Club and confronted Holliday during fashion week. I knew I had to get her to rehab and once I had her sobered up she agreed to check herself in.
Some celebrities embraced their roots as a source of strength. For a lot, it was a reminder of how far they’d come, but Heather’s past was a source of pain and embarrassment.
My heart ached for Heather. And as she slowly opened up to me about her life—the life that brought her shame and flooded her with pain. I wanted her to know that she’d come a long way, our past lives did not define us, they only strengthened us. But the demons never left her, they stayed and she dealt with it the only way she knew how to cope.
Where Heather tucked her emotional pain way down deep, Harlow spoke freely. Nervous of course, but she wore it like a badge of courage. Saying to the world, “This was where I’ve been and this is how far I’ve come.”
“We need to talk about our arrangement,” Harlow said, pointing her fork at me. This was the second . . . possibly third time she’d positioned a utensil in my direction. “For starters, why haven’t the details of Heather cheating on you circulated yet? I mean, what is Haven waiting for?”
I shrugged. “I’ll text her again.”
“Do better and call her,” she demanded, stabbing another chunk of chicken and pineapple on to her fork. “She works for us.”
The tone in her voice reminded me of earlier in my bedroom, and my dick seemed to be recalling that moment as well. I wanted to fuck her perfect mouth, and then fuck her.
“You don’t need to remind me of that.”
“Here’s what I do need to remind you of then, the press is sinking us. They’re not impressed with our ‘love story’ we need to do something bold.”
“What do you suggest? I’ve already done the Vegas celebrity wedding thing.”
She tossed a blueberry into her mouth. “I’m surprised that you’d consider marriage again after Heather.”
“Hey, first you marry for love then you marry for money—my next marriage will be all about the dolla dolla bills. I’m going to be a kept man.”
She eyed me as if I was serious, but before I could respond, Nancy Brooks, the owner of the diner where the two of us were currently stuffing our faces tapped her finger to the table.
“How is everything this evening?”
“Delicious as always, Nancy,” I answered, dipping another fry into the special spicy Cajun sauce. In addition to the best breakfast you’d ever had, Nancy was famous for mixing in some of her classic southern recipes with traditional east coast seafood dishes.
“I’m glad to hear that, sugar.” Her smile grew wider, and her gaze drifted to Harlow.
I leaned back into the booth, draping my arm across the back. “Nancy Brooks, I’d like you to meet Harlow Trembley.”
“Harlow, it’s lovely to meet you. Are you new to The Harbour?”
“Nice to meet you as well, I’ve visited The Harbour frequently over the years. By the way, this salad is delicious.”
“Thank you,” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “The summer salads are a customer favorite around here. Next week, it’s blacked chicken with fresh strawberries.”
Harlow’s eyes darted to mine. “Yum, I guess I’ll be coming back here soon.”
“Well, you two enjoy the rest of your meal. You better bring her back here, sugar.” Nancy patted my shoulder, and gave me a wry grin.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “I’m not bringing you back here for fucking salad, at least not until you’ve had the French toast with maple syrup as a sweet indulgence.”
“Is she sweet on you, sugar?”
“You jealous?”
She leaned forward. “Not even a little bit.”
“When her husband, Phil, was laid up and too sick to work, I’d help Nancy out by fixing things around this place and their house. I mowed their lawn and replaced the sink in their kitchen.”
“That’s really sweet. I bet the neighbors sat outside just to watch you push a lawnmower.”
That forced a deep laugh from me. A few of the patrons turned in our direction.
“See that booth over there?” I pointed to the one in the corner. “That is where I sat with my dad. We’d come here after my horse riding lessons. Nancy would bring us two slices of fresh peach cobbler, a vanilla milkshake for me and black coffee for my dad.” I leaned forward crossing my arms underneath my chest. “Nancy’s like a second mother to me. When I bought my place here, she and Phil brought me groceries. Nancy was afraid I’d wither away—she always tells me I’m much too thin.”
Harlow laughed. “My grandmother—my mom’s mom, she was the same way. They lived on a twenty-acre farm in northern Vermont, with an apple orchard and cherry trees. When we’d visit, she’d take Nicholas and me out to the orchard to pick our own apples and then she’d make pies, muffins, and doughnuts for days. She shoved food in front of us every chance she got.”
“I can’t picture you on a farm.”
“It happened. I may even have a few pictures to prove it.”
At the sound of chiming bells, I swung my head towards the front door. A couple of teenagers walked in grabbing seats at the counter. They started discussing milkshake flavors and for a moment I swore I saw my father sitting in the booth with his notepad.
I blinked up, pulled from my daze. The screen on my phone lit up, a message from Jennifer appeared: Buchanan Beauty photo shoot details have been emailed. You leave for Bermuda next week.
“Everything okay?” she asked, nodding towards the phone.
“No worries, it’s not Heather drama. Just work. Apparently, I’m going to Bermuda—Buchanan Beauty calls.”
“Oh my God, you are so lucky. I’ve been dying to go to Horseshoe Beach. I’ve got to see for myself that pink sand exists.”
I tapped my finger to the table. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll make that beach fantasy of yours a reality.”
Her brows rose. “Intriguing proposal, but in case you’ve forgotten I am launching a website in the next few days. I don’t think I can jet off to some Caribbean island with you.”
“Actually, Bermuda is in the Sargasso Sea not the Caribbean Sea, although it is often considered part of the Caribbean region. In 2003, Bermuda became an associate member of the Caribbean Community or CARICOM. I won’t bore you with the details of the organization, you can Google it sometime.”
“Wow, impressive. I’m glad that Ivy League education of yours is doing you some good.”
I chucked a fry into her salad. “I am a wealth of knowledge, and don’t you forget it.”
“Uh, huh,” she said, before popping the French fry into her mouth.
And my dick was back to thinking about her mouth being wrapped around it.
“So, what do you say?”
She shook her head, all that hair swirling around her shoulders. “I can’t, what if something goes awry with the site?”
“I’m pretty sure the hotel we’re staying at has Wi-Fi, if not we’ll find you a café and that way you can check in on things. It’s only three days.”
“In our original deal, you promised me a Caribbean vacation. My fantasy is specifically tied to a Caribbean romp. I’m standing firm on this.”
“Original deal? Have we renegotiated terms and I am unaware?”
She flashed me a wry grin. “If I go to Bermuda with you, then you and I are going to pop over to Aruba.”
“Pop over, huh? It’s at least an eight-hour flight.” At present I was plotting the perfect Caribbean escape in my head and I would be calling in a favor. “If it’s a Caribbean vacation you want, I’ll make it happen. Now, back to the matter at hand—our arrangement.”
“Have you been online since this morning?” she asked, before taking a sip of her iced tea.
I shook my head. “Why have there been some new developments?”
“Yeah, I learned that Harry is being coached by his PR team. He’s using our split to garner sympathy for the World Cup. Apparently, he has a plan of his own, and according to my friend, Zanita, he’s having the time of his life though—parties, women and golf.”
She swiped the screen on her phone, and then handed it to me. My eyes scrolled the headlines settling my focus on one with my name attached.
Harlow deserved better than this fucking guy allowing the press to drag her name through the mud.
England’s Brackman Hiding Secret Heartbreak
“Pussy.” A few of the teenagers turned in our direction. “Redirect, I think the Caribbean vacation will be a bold enough move. In the meantime, I have a few other ideas.”