The Pool Boy(30)

“Just let me know if you need anything, Vera.”

An idea forms, the very least I can do with this situation. “Actually, I have a request.”

“Name it,” she says.

“You have a contractor—James London?”

“Oh yes!” Her voice lights up. “We love James.”

“He’s a good friend, and I know he does good work. The homes you choose to build with the donation—schedule permitting, of course—would you consider giving those contracts to him?”

She laughs, “That seems simple enough. We’re always happy to have him on board.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I hope that we’ll be speaking soon!” And she signs off.

I sit on my bed, utterly unable to move. I’m at war with myself, wanting to destroy something and at the same time wanting to crawl into my bed and hide for days. Then a resolve forms. No. No hiding.

I pull on clothes, not bothering with makeup. I don’t have time for it. My anger won’t wait for it. I go across the house to my father’s office and throw open the door. I push it so hard I hear it slam against the wall with a very satisfying crack. My father is at his drafting table and I’m gratified by seeing his pen snag across the paper in his surprise.

“How much did it cost you?” I ask.

He finds his blotter and starts to work on the mistake I just made him make. “What are you talking about?” He isn’t even looking at me.

My voice is loud and I hear it echo as I shout—I don’t care, let everyone hear— “Bullshit! You know exactly what I’m talking about. The Harrison Foundation. How much did it take you to buy them off? How much did you lose to make sure they were fine with you withdrawing me from the position?”

He looks up mildly. “Two million. I figured you would appreciate it.”

“Appreciate it?” I seethe. “Why would I appreciate you sabotaging my career? I’ve dreamed of doing this kind of work since…” I trail off as my voice breaks with emotion.

He just rolls his eyes. My father, the great Timothy Caldwell, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Vera. You know you’re blowing this entirely out of proportion.”

I take a deep breath, desperately trying to keep from screaming at him. “I’m not being dramatic. You bought someone off—”

“I made a donation,” he interjects.

“You bought someone off to force me to work for you.”

He looks at me for a moment. “I suppose you can put it like that, if you insist. Though I’m doing it for your own good.”

“If you were going to do this, going to force my hand,” my fingers squeeze into fists and I desperately want to hit something, “then why make that deal with me at all? What was the point of the past three months of me looking for a job?”

The mistake on his plan fixed, my father puts his drafting tools away and fully turns to face me. “I wanted you to see just how hard it would be for you if you were on your own. I wanted you to appreciate the fact that I am handing you a career and a legacy on a platter. Most people would be grateful for the opportunity, Vera. I’ve worked hard to make sure you have a place in my company, and so you will accept it with grace. Understand me: this tantrum you’re throwing will be the last time you will be allowed to behave this way.”

“Tantrum,” I say, a sudden and deadly cold flowing through my body. “Confronting you about this thing you did and standing up for myself is not a tantrum.”

We stare at each other, and everything clicks with a horrifying certainty. Every rejection that I’ve received from my interviews referenced my father; my no-longer-future employers keep asking me to give him their best. I thought it was because he was famous. I’m realizing it’s because he paid them off.

Every single interview I’ve had has been sabotaged by him.

“You paid all of them off,” I say, my voice taut.

He nods, as if there’s nothing wrong with it. “I consider it an investment in the future of my company. We both know that your place is with me at the firm.”

My mouth is dry. “Did you ever mean for me to find out?”

“Does it matter?” He shrugs. “It’s the same result. Don’t worry, I made a point of giving the money to the charitable divisions of all the companies. I figured that if you found out, the money would help you let go and get this charity kick out of your system.”

“This charity kick is what I want to do. Not that you’ve cared to listen to that for the past four years I was working on my degree.”

“And when you’re my age and well established, if you still feel that burning need,” he scoffs, “feel free. It will be your company by then. For now, you’re twenty-two, my daughter, you live in my house, I paid for your education, and you’re going to work for me.”