She laughed, mulling over the pictures. “Take a look at this one,” she said, handing a picture to me.
I hesitated. Simon had never shown me anything about his family. Should he be the one to show me? Curiosity won out, and I took the picture.
First, we must be clear: The word farm means different things to different people. This was no vegetable patch. In this scenario it meant rolling hills, a three-story house, and a picture-perfect red barn peeking through the trees. This was a Pottery Barn farm. But it’s what was at the center of the picture that filled my eyes with tears and made me want to hug Simon for the rest of my days.
His father was tan, tall, and fantastic looking. His mother? Gorgeous. Healthy and vibrant, they stood with their son, just shy of his teenage years. He was at that age when everyone is all elbows and knees, but you could see that this guy was going to be devastating. As I scrutinized their faces, I could see that Simon got his incredible blue eyes from his father, his blinding smile from his mother.
Though I’d never meet them, I’d never have a conversation with the people who shaped Simon into the wonderfully perfect imperfect man that he was today, I knew I was looking at an extraordinary little family.
“Oh,” was all I could say.
“So tragic,” Mrs. White repeated, shaking her head and tsking in a comforting way.
I handed her back the picture, breathing deeply and making sure the tears that had sprung up were under control.
She took the picture, the album, and tucked it away. Taking a breath, she threw her shoulders back and the rest of her drink as well. “Now, what in the world are those boys up to? Arthur? Where have you taken Simon?” she called out, jumping to her feet. I asked if she would mind sending me a copy of that picture. She smiled and said she’d send me the original.
We headed into the library where we found another fireplace, with another crackling fire. Mr. White and Simon were sitting in leather chairs, with glasses next to both of them. Simon’s was empty, but Mr. White’s still had a trace of dark-colored liquor.
Simon’s face wasn’t pale anymore, but his eyes were the tiniest bit red. As were Mr. White’s. They both stood when they saw us, and Simon crossed to me. I mouthed, Okay? He nodded, and took my hand.
“I believe lunch is ready,” Mrs. White announced, and led the way to the dining room.
She disappeared for a moment while everyone settled around an enormous table, with yet another cozy fireplace behind us. As she took her place across from her husband, I asked her if there was anything I could do to help.
“Thank you, Caroline, but I’ve asked our housekeeper to assist us today,” she said.
It didn’t seem at all out of place that for lunch that day, I was served roasted sea bass with fennel and leeks on white china, by a housekeeper named Fran.
Old-ass money.
Very sweet people.
In the end, it was a really nice time. The Whites fawned over Simon and showed me pictures of him that were taken with their family growing up. They told stories, Simon told stories, and we all laughed a lot.
Simon asked about the family that lived in the house now.
“Very nice people, moved into town from Boston after they were married. They’re both physicians, had their children later in life. Two girls, eight and six. There are several new families in the neighborhood; it’s nice to have kids around again,” Mrs. White said.
“That’s good. It was a good house to be a kid in.” Simon cleared his throat and went to the window, his shoulders tight. The window faced his home.
The fire crackled and popped.
“We should get going. I wanted to drive Caroline around a bit before we get ready for the reunion tonight,” he said, his voice gruff. I started to go to him as he turned. “Thank you so much for having us here today, Mrs. White, Mr. White. I can’t tell you how much— Thank you.”
Time to go.
Mrs. White went to him and kissed him on the cheek. “You come back anytime you like, you promise?”
He nodded.
We left in a flurry of good-byes and number exchanges. I promised to send them pictures from San Francisco when we got back home, and as Arthur and Simon were saying their good-byes, Penny pulled me aside.
“You take care of him. He’s still got a ball of hurt in there that’s never come out, and when it does, it’s going to be hell.”
I nodded. “I’m on it.”
She studied me a moment. “I believe you are, Caroline.” She caught me into a surprise hug.
As we got settled in the car, they waved from the front steps before going back inside.
“They seem like very nice people,” I said.
“They’re the best,” he replied.
As we pulled down the driveway, the trees cleared and I could see the house next door. It was magnificent. Brick for days, circular drive, festive for the holidays. Trimmed hedges, wreathes in every window, even the attic windows under the eaves. An expansive lawn with what looked to be the original carriage house set back from the main house.
“Simon,” I breathed as he slowed down just a bit. “It’s a beautiful home.”
“It was, yes.”
He turned the car away.
Brain wanted to push it, Heart said leave it. I listened to Heart.
? ? ?
I wasn’t sure if Simon would still want to go to the reunion. He seemed so blue when we left the Whites, after having such a good visit with them. I think seeing the house had shaken him more than he thought it would. But once we got back into town, he seemed to rally. His spirits up, he drove me by his high school, the field where he played Little League, and the place down by the creek where everyone went to make out.
I offered. Can’t blame a girl . . .
But once we got back to the hotel, we did share a shower. To conserve water, obviously. And to make sure my Simon had a little extra pep in his step, I dropped to my knees and sucked him off right there in the shower. Because I’m thoughtful like that.
As Simon and I pep-stepped into the lobby of the Wainwright Hotel, he was cool, calm, and collected. With a touch of afterglow. Dressed in black pants, a white button-down, and a leather jacket, he was sophisticated but cool. A man about town, a globetrotter, a secret cat whisperer who would sell his soul for an apple pie. And he was mine.
We followed the signs for the Newbury High School Ten-Year Reunion, stopping outside the ballroom to check my coat. As he helped me slip the coat down my arms, he whistled.
“Babe,” he said in a low voice, “I realize I said this earlier, but you look fucking fantastic.”
I grinned, spinning around so he could see my dress. I went bombshell, as you do when you’re going to your boyfriend’s high school reunion. Red skirt, black leather boots, and wouldn’t he be surprised later on when he found out that’s all I had on. I figured, go big or go home. And if he needed some cheering up later on, I wasn’t opposed to sneaking his hand under my skirt and letting him get a little touch.
Now we were less than ten feet from the check-in desk, and as we neared the group that was gathered there, he stalled just the tiniest bit. I squeezed his hand, and his eyes met mine. Those sapphires were bright tonight.
“Come on, Wallbanger, show me off,” I teased, and he grinned.
We moved toward the desk, and when he told the lady his name, I heard a gasp behind us in line.
“No fucking way. Simon Parker’s here? He came?”
Word quickly spread, and by the time I had his name tag affixed to the front of his jacket, everyone was buzzing. Walking inside, I suddenly could appreciate the feeling movie stars must have when they get out of a limo at a premiere.
Everyone was staring at us.
chapter twelve
We walked into the ballroom amid whispers and darting glances. The place was packed, young professionals decked out in their finest junior partner/corporate raider/banking magnate’s kid check-me-out clothes. And the guys were impressive too.
High schools were the same across the country. This one happened to be set down in one of the wealthiest towns in America, but there are still universal truths. Every single one of the Breakfast Club archetypes was represented here, and a few hybrids as well. And they all had their eyes on Simon.
Who was oddly relaxed. Once we hit the room, his shoulders went back, his stride lengthened, and he cruised. Along the walls were blown-up pictures from yearbooks: cheerleaders, football players, someone in a wig from a play, and someone in a wig streaking the soccer field. And there was Simon, up on the wall with a crown on his head and a hottie on his arm. Homecoming king.
“I just got it,” I said, looking up at him a little starry-eyed.
“You just got what?”
“You were the shit in high school!”
His eyes crinkled, and he blushed the tiniest bit.
“Well, I’ll be goddamned. I wondered if you’d show,” I heard behind us, and as we turned, a strange look appeared on Simon’s face. Johnny Wall Street stood there, backed by the Billionaire Boys Club. All of them great looking. All of them bigger than life.
Simon looked at them all, narrowing down on the guy in the middle. “Henderson.”
“Parker.”
I watched the testosterone spark. If it had been a Western, tumbleweeds would have blown through. But since it was Wall Street . . .
Cue cocaine.
The tension only lasted as long as a chorus of Usher’s “Yeah” before—
“What the fuck, dude! I can’t believe you’re really here! Fucking A, man— Parker’s back in town!”
Wall Street backslapped a now-grinning Simon and pulled him into a giant, swarming man hug amid calls of, “Now, that’s what I’m talking about” and “So fucking stoked that you’re here, man” and “Dude, Tammy Watkins got new tits and they’re fucking huge, you gotta see ’em!”
I stood back and watched as he was swallowed whole by this group of guys. I’d never met them, never heard him mention any of them before, but they knew Simon in a way that I never could.
These guys were there when Simon was growing up, when his entire world was midterms and Jackass and getting some girl to take her sweater off. My money was on Tammy Watkins.
And into this privileged enclave of white-bread preppies came the death of Simon’s family. And Simon retreated, taking the first opportunity he had to remove himself entirely, moving as far across the country as one can for college, short of Hawaii. He went into a profession that took him all over the world, and chose to live in his adopted city of San Francisco. The only tie that he had to anyone in this world was Benjamin, for whom I was more grateful than ever.