Page 67 of Scrooge

“All here, sir,” the pilot says, as the blades start to slow and we unclip. My ground staff works overtime getting our bags and running everything inside as the door opens, and I step out.

“Thank you,” I yell to him as I grab Haylee from the helicopter and plant her on her feet.

“Wow,” she says, steadying herself, her hands digging into my arms as she sways a little. “That was insane.”

I give her a small smile, trying to appear okay, all the while my own anxiety builds.

Once she settles, I grab her hand, and we walk over my manicured lawn and straight inside. It’s cold, a chill in the air. It isn’t snowing, but it’s refreshing, her nose and cheeks already pinkened. The chopper leaves again as quick as it landed, my Hamptons team dispersing once we’re safely inside my home, having ensured it’s warm and inviting for our arrival.

“Wow,” Haylee says, standing still inside the door, looking up and around with wide eyes.

“Welcome to the Hamptons,” I tell her, watching her take it all in. It is a lot. Extravagant. The one place my father did spend money was here. It’s still lacking in decor and life, but with picture-perfect views of the beach, it’s a feast for the eyes.

“This is… like… actually insane.” She unravels the scarf from around her neck, shrugging off her jacket. As she walks around, I try to breathe as my eyes flick to the armchair, the one Dad always sat in to read his morning newspaper. I look behind me at the grand staircase that leads to all the bedrooms upstairs, automatically thinking he will walk down at any moment, just like he used to when I would arrive. But it’s empty. Quiet. He isn’t here.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, and I turn my head to look back at her, seeing her watching me.

I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

“It’s okay not to be. I know this place has some memories for you,” she says, and I take another breath, a big one, the first I feel like I have taken since we landed.

“It does.” I slowly walk toward the open fireplace that is now roaring, thanks to my team. “We used to sit in these chairs and talk about our growth plans,” I tell her, putting my hand on the back of one of the armchairs, imagining the two of us.

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly, stepping closer.

“There is a firepit outside. He would sit out on the outside lounge and smoke his cigars after dinner, and we would talk about the budgets. He always liked to have a cigar when talking numbers,” I say, smirking at the memory. “It feels good to remember. Like he is still here, almost.”

“As long as we remember, then they are still with us, right here.” Putting her hand to my chest, she taps me where my heart sits. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close and swallowing hard, gritting my teeth to keep my emotions at bay.

“The beach sounds so calming,” she says, and I look out the large floor-to-ceiling windows that act like a frame around a picturesque view of the white sandy beach and the blue water, the waves thumping heavily due to the winds.

“It can be therapeutic.” Now I am here, and over my initial trepidation, I actually feel relaxed. The faint smell of salty beach breeze fills my nose, and the rolling waves hit my ears as they crash onto the shore.

“I can imagine. I mean, I haven’t been to the beach much before. The Hamptons were never really in our vacation budget. Not that anything was. We grew up tied to the shop, so we’ve never really taken a vacation as a family before.”

I look back at her, and my brow crumples.

“Never taken a vacation? Ever?”

“No. That’s why my mom and dad want to retire, so they can take a few weekend trips and things. I think they may go down to Florida and spend some time in the sun,” she says, shrugging.

“What about the kids?” I ask. Her nephew and niece appear to be a handful. I’m sure they would love running up and down a beach.

“Oh, they would love it. Probably never come back,” she says on a laugh.

“Our bags will be upstairs in the main suite. I’m just going to go to the office to call Laurent and tell him we have arrived and get an update on things,” I tell her, wanting to get the work situation out of the way before we can fully relax.

“Sure, go. I might call Jillian and check in, then take a shower.”

“Up the stairs and to the right is the master wing. Go up. Make yourself at home,” I tell her, and she wiggles her eyebrows.

“Master wing… well… I shall.” She toys with me, before lifting onto her toes and kissing me too quickly, then sauntering off to explore. I watch her go, a stupid grin on my face before I turn and walk down the hall to my father’s office.

I open the door and immediately halt. It still smells like him. Like his cigars. The smell somewhat stale and barely there, but strong enough to have me questioning if coming here was the right move, after all. I grip on to the door handle, my grief hitting me in waves. I guess this is what happens when you bury yourself in work and not deal with it straightaway. It simmers under the skin, heating you up until you boil over. Closing the door, I stand in the silence. There are still papers on his desk, the newspaper folded, and I walk over and pick it up. I look at the business section that is open and see a photo of myself. It’s from the shot I did a while ago forNew York Businessmagazine.

I wipe my eyes and take a deep breath, looking through the piles of paperwork to ensure there is nothing here that is urgent or important that I have ignored for the past twelve months. Then I put Laurent on speakerphone, trying to multitask.

“You got there?” he asks, no greeting necessary.

---