The Arrangement

Alison paced her bedroom, the cell phone pressed to her ear as she listened to the incessant drone at the other end of the line. No one was answering. She’d been trying at various times of the day and night for the last two weeks, but no one had picked up, and that worried her terribly. She didn’t know what she would do if something had happened to the one person in Mirage Bay she actually cared about.

She couldn’t tell whether the phone was out of service, accidentally unplugged or no one was home, but she couldn’t wait any longer for the answer. None of Andrew’s arguments had been as powerful as this one, unanswered phone call.

For her, Mirage Bay was hell on earth, a watery graveyard where all her ghosts’ demons lay in wait. But like dream monsters, ghosts and demons had to be confronted or they would give you no peace. When you ran from them, they howled at your heels for eternity.

Like about ninety percent of the men in America under thirty with computers and Internet connections, Bret Fairmont had a special affinity for cyber porn. He preferred the video streaming sites, but unlike most other aficionados, he made no attempt to hide his dirty little habit. He liked to leave it on the screen for the whole world to see, and his mother in particular.

He had fantasies of her going as white as the diet pills she popped, and nearly choking on her own revulsion. Not that it was ever going to happen. She was a beady-eyed barracuda beneath the facade of perfect manners and designer clothing. But just once he wanted to see his mother fall to pieces. He could hardly imagine anything better.

Sad, Bret, sad. How old are you now? Twenty-five going on two?

He yawned and stretched, deeply encased in the belly of the backyard hammock. As he gazed up at the boughs of the giant sycamore overhead, boredom burned through him. Lethargy had its own special kind of ache. He’d been lying around all morning in a T-shirt and swim trunks, sipping iced lattes, and he had no plans to do anything else.

He knew how she hated sloth.

And speaking of Julia Fairmont, where was the prize bitch?

You’re a sick man, Bret. A sad, sick man. Why the hell do you hate her so much? She’s never done anything to you….

But when he closed his eyes he could see the disdain that hardened her beautiful face when she looked at him. It never left him, that look.

Except wish you didn’t exist. That’s all she’s ever done.

His laughter tasted like an old ashtray. It didn’t hurt anymore when she blew him off. He felt nothing. Maybe deep down there was a vestigial flicker of outrage, but on the surface, he was as cold and bitter as she was. He didn’t give a fuck what she thought. Why should he?

“Bret! Where are you?”

That was her, probably calling him from one of the balconies. Her shrill voice made him flinch. He hadn’t done that since he was a kid. Her tone told him she was pissed, but he’d expected that. He’d missed the job interview she’d arranged for him this morning, blown it off totally.

“Bret? Why don’t you answer me?”

He saw her coming, striding across the rolling green lawn in her crisp capris, sleeveless blouse and bejeweled sandals. He threw an arm over his eyes, pretending to be asleep, though he still could see her.

Apparently his silence got to her, because when she reached him, she did something totally unexpected. She grabbed the edge of the hammock with both hands and upended it, dumping him onto the ground.

He hit with a thud. “Hey! What the fuck? I’m never going to get these grass stains out of my trunks, Mom.”

She held up the letter in her hand. “I have important news, and it concerns you.”

“You’re dying, and I’m going to inherit everything?” He stood up and brushed himself off.

“Don’t be an ass,” she said. “Your sister’s coming to visit, and I need you to help me get ready.”

Her voice was shrill. It was shaking, but she wasn’t angry. She was nervous, he realized. Shit, this was a dream come true. Julia Fairmont was cracking.

As he stood there, taking in his mother’s agitation, it dawned on him what she’d said. “Alison? She’s coming here?”

“Yes, and I want to do something really special. I didn’t think she’d accept my invitation, or that he’d let her come. This is my chance to win her back, Bret.”

Bret’s legs went weak. He felt sick to his stomach, but somehow he managed to speak. “She’s married, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“He stole her. You know that as well as I do.”

“Stole her? She walked away from a damn fortune to be with him. What don’t you get about that? She chose Andrew.”

Julia’s expression was glacial. “He’s coming with her, and if you won’t help me get ready for their visit, you will at least be here. I just spoke with Andrew on the phone, and he assured me that she’s anxious to see you.”

It could not possibly be true that Alison was anxious to see him, but Julia had reverted to her polite mode, and Bret played along, even though inside he was still queasy enough to vomit.

“So, I assume she’s recovered?” he said.

Unconsciously, Julia used her thumb to center the large emerald-and-diamond wedding ring set she never took off, even though her husband had been dead for years. The ring wasn’t about marital devotion, however. She wanted the exquisite stones to show because they represented everything she wanted her life to be and wasn’t. Anyway, that was Bret’s theory.

“He said she’s shaky,” Julia said, “but that’s to be expected. She’s been through hell, and who knows what’s happened to her in the last six months. He’s never let me speak to her, the bastard.”

Bret didn’t doubt that his mother wanted Alison back in the family fold, but he questioned how deep her concern actually ran. She’d always favored his sister, even to the point of seeming obsessed, a stage mother’s fixation with her impossibly beautiful child. Sometimes Bret wondered if Alison was Julia’s second chance—but at what, he didn’t know.

But he was only guessing. This could also have something to do with the trust fund that was supposed to have gone to Alison. Julia never told her black sheep son anything, so he had no idea what her real motivation was.

“I’ll be here,” he said, more to get rid of her than for any other reason. “Now, can I get back to my nap?”

Bret had nothing more to say about his long-lost sister. This felt way too much like watching the sci-fi channel. His mother was coming unglued. He’d been waiting years for this moment, and it had nothing to do with him. It was all about his sister. That was fucked up.

Julia glanced at her watch. “Didn’t you have an interview this morning?”

His smile was quick and bitter. She never failed him. “It was a marketing job, Mother. I don’t do marketing.”

“You don’t do anything.” She was madly rubbing the ring with her thumb. “It’s embarrassing, Bret.”

“For who? I’m not embarrassed.” He had actually held down jobs, modeling mostly. Nothing that met her standards.

“No, obviously not,” she said.

Her face had already turned into a mask of indifference. Apparently she didn’t even care enough to hold him in contempt. He wanted to laugh, but the pain in his chest had the fiery heat of a twisting knife.

She stormed off, taking the letter with her, and he fished in the pocket of his trunks for his cigarettes.

He lit one, took a deep drag and held the smoke in his lungs. If he went through enough cigs, got black lung and started coughing up blood, would she notice?

He knew the answer to that. He could disembowel himself in the living room in front of her, and she wouldn’t flinch unless he dirtied the carpet. And he was probably as much to blame for that as she was. He’d been taunting her for so long she refused to take the bait anymore. He was the disease, and after years of exposure, she’d developed an immunity.

He sank down, sitting on the tipsy edge of the hammock with his bare feet on the ground. He gave his head a good shake, thinking it might make his curly blond hair look messy rather than adorable. He tried hard to look scruffy and unkempt, but sadly, he was as perfect as she was. Their family was a Ralph Lauren ad, and only he seemed to know how ugly the reality could be.

The hammock creaked under his weight. This really was absurd. He was a quarter of a century old. He needed to get some balls, pack his bags and get out of this place for good. He was rotting here. The flies were circling his head.

“Fuck.” He let out a moan as helpless as it was savage, and flopped back into the netting, staring through the tree branches at the cloudless blue sky. Yes, he ought to leave, but how could he now that his sister was making an appearance? He was as deeply suspicious of her motives as he was his mother’s. He and his sister shared some things in common besides their looks. There was always something they wanted, always an agenda. And then there was her husband. Bret had only defended Andrew Villard to annoy his mother.

He reached down for his iced latte glass and saw that it had tipped over. Either the grass would enjoy a growth spurt from all the caffeine, or it would be dead by tomorrow. As he picked the glass up and rolled it in his hand, he let his mind roll along with it. Yes, his mother could count on him to be here. The opportunities Alison’s visit presented were just too good to pass up.