Page 23 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
Willow
There’snothing even remotely positive about my father and his wife coming to visit when my house is in disarray.
At least Mason cleaned up all the water.
I eat my pizza standing at the kitchen counter. Mason was right, it’s a fantastic combination of toppings. I look around my house as I chew, trying to see it through my father’s critical eye. It’s not that he will disapprove per se. Oh hell, who am I kidding? That’s exactly what it is. My dad likes things a certain way. And that way is typically finished and pretty. Rather, not in progress. So, for him, the idea that I am living in a house that has not already been renovated and remodeled is not an attractive one. Couple that with me doing the work myself and it’s an abomination.
Daddy is all about the image. The better things look, the better they are. The more expensive something looks, the more money you must have. And he wants it all yesterday. Effort + time = results is not an equation he subscribes to. He likes the quick buck. The easy money. The quicker and easier the better. He was lucky to have married my mother, she had money to burn. So he did. Burn through it that is.
She loved him enough to believe in each of his ideas and schemes. Her faith in him never faltered. And it’s not like every idea he has fails. Plenty have made him a lot of money. But per the law of averages, plenty of them have not. What has saved him financially is being the sole beneficiary of my mom’s estate when she passed. A separate trust was set up for me, but he is the trustee. So, that’s the money that he spent first. It’s the primary way he has supported himself. That and his business dealings.
He likes to buy old buildings, shopping centers, stadiums, etc., tear them down and rebuild something newer and better. It’s all about progression and gentrification. He justifies using my trust fund by saying it’s in my benefit to accumulate more funds. Which is what his investments do. At least in theory they do. I’ve since learned that most of his actions were borderline, if not completely, illegal. Not that I’ll do anything about it.
My thought is Granny Violet knew what he was doing and that’s why she left me so much money herself. I never have to touch the money from my mom, my dad can keep it. Neither do my kids or my grandkids. But it angers both my father and Cassandra that Granny Violet didn’t leave anything to AshLynn. Even though they were no relation. My father took my mother’s name when they married because it was the more prestigious of the two. Plus, it made my mother’s family happy. Especially Granny Violet (Brooks), my maternal grandmother. Since my mom’s family was the one with all the money, my dad would do anything to make them happy.
All of which makes him sound like a bad guy, and he’s not. I had a great childhood filled with fun times and happy parents. We did everything together. Right up until the day my mom died. Because that changed everything. As death tends to do, I suppose. Shortly after that is when my dad became more frenetic with his ministrations. No matter what he did, how much he made, how successful he was, it wasn’t enough. He became obsessed with money, and at the same time more reckless with it. Taking chances that he never would have before. And he was way risky before. I feel sorry for him. I may not know what the hell I’m doing with my life, but at least I’m not living it on the edge and finding everything lacking.
As if summoned by the devil himself, I glance up as P-Tink barks and see a black town car coming up the drive. I look around the empty room out of habit, trying to find ahead of time whatever it will be that my stepmother will find fault with.
Hah! Nothing! The house is empty.
My father holds Cassandra’s elbow as they walk up the front step, her heels click-click-clicking. Like a big segmented metal door coming down, slowly closing me off from the rest of my sanity and patience. They must have come straight from the airport, that’s the only way to get here so fast. Before I’m ready for it, the doorbell rings.
“It’s showtime, P-Tink.” She yelps in response. I swear the dog understands me.
My father, as always, is dressed in a golf shirt and khakis. With Cassandra in what I consider to be typical Southlake second-wife attire: brightly colored, knee-length, skin-tight dress, flashy jewelry, designer bag, killer heels, and a hair weave.
My father enters the house. “There’s my Willsy.” Calling me by a nickname he hasn’t used in years. It’s bittersweet hearing it come from his lips now. He holds his arms out and I walk into his embrace for a hug. Which I cut short.
AshLynn squeals from behind me. “Daddy!” She, on the other hand, runs into his arms.
“Oh, my little girl is all grown up now. Engaged and everything. Where’s the lucky guy?”
I look around for Mason, but don’t see him anywhere.
“I think he’s on the patio,” I say. “I’ll get him.”
AshLynn and Cassandra immediately begin to titter about wedding-type things. And I slip outside.
“You are being summoned,” I tell Mason.
He groans in response.
“They aren’t so bad,” I lie.
“It’s just”—he pauses as if to gather his thoughts—“I was not expecting this, is all. And I feel blindsided.”
“Well, that’s AshLynn for you. If it helps, this happens to her all the time. Men lose their minds around her and are always at her beck and call.”
God, why did I say that? There I go talking without thinking. Again. Way to insult the man and imply his fiancée is always surrounded by men.
She is always surrounded by men.
Not the point, Willow.
“I didn’t—” he starts.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “I didn’t mean for that to sound like she has been with a ton of men.”
