Page 23 of Van Cort
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVERETT
I’m not sure why I’m doing this, but perhaps my ongoing need for privacy is ruling my brain. There’s gated access here, and I wouldn’t have to share a building with anyone. I could be alone if I let myself be, but the incessant business dealings and respectable responsibilities mean that this here around me now is expected.
I don’t give a damn what’s expected.
My name does.
The realtor stays a way behind me, having already worked out that pushing me, or attempting to manipulate me, will do her more harm than good.
“As you can see, Mr Van Cort, the layout here in the mansion is quite expansive. And the pool house is just divine. Perhaps we could head there now and see?” I look back at her briefly, wondering if I could fuck some of this morning’s business frustration out. “And the tennis court?” Little Miss too-high-heels needs to learn to keep her mouth shut while I’m thinking.
She backs away, her head lowered, as if she knows she just spoke too much.
She did.
Another ten minutes of me wandering around, and I begin considering the thought. I’ll never sell the place in Vancouver, but I’m becoming more and more detached from it with every passing year - purposely so. It’s just sitting there, with dust sheets covering everything and some staff and groundsmen managing its basic needs. But despite generations of us having lived there, and the grounds being vast in comparison to this place, with mountains and forests as privacy, it’s just a memory for me now. Still, it is home.
Much to the realtor’s disappointment, I decline and leave. I don’t need another ten-bedroom mansion, irrespective of liking it. Frankly, the three-bedroom penthouse I already have here is over-roomed for me alone. However, the fact of the matter is, at some point, I’ll need to breed some of these genes into a new generation regardless of my disinterest. Van Cort is its own being, with a wealth of money and knowledge to share, as it has been for many, many generations before.
I look at my signet ring, as I get into the car, and Andre pulls away, giving that thought some reflection and analysis. A child would involve marriage – a never-ending marriage. There would be no room for divorce, and no room for negotiations of any kind. A prenup would have to be in place, with some kind of monetary gifting system that stayed in power as long as the marriage stayed in effect. No payout if the marriagewas dissolved. Maybe even some kind of punishment. A forced arrangement, if you will.
Snorting at the deliberation of such an idea, I look up from my cogitations and send an email regarding the thought to Philip. If anyone can draft such a contract, he can.
The car finally pulls up outside the airport, and I get on with the route through to first class. I’ll be in Las Vegas in a few hours, and by this evening, I’ll be gambling with money I have no real interest in losing. The amount has already been authorised by the casino and is being held, and what else should I do at a bachelor party the night before the wedding if I don’t drink? I could fuck. And probably will.
At least this time, the groom is a friend, of sorts. Or used to be at Harvard.
“Mr Van Cort?” I look at a woman as she approaches, her hand reaching out to the side of her. “We’re boarding now.”
Fine.
***
The full weekend of wedding celebrations is as laborious as the thought of marriage itself. I smile my way through it, though, having at least doubled my money at the casino, and even laugh at some of the speeches and revelry. I don’t fuck anything. I’m unsure why not, but the ongoing dynamic in my head that seems to be overwhelmed with serious matters involving the future may have something to do with it. I muse on the thought of Andie on occasion when I see the bride – Vanessa – wander by, and wonder if she’d be a good bet. She certainly seems financially astute enough. Which would serve two purposes. She’d understand the contract, and she’d produce a reasonably intelligent heir. I’d also enjoy fucking her. Often. And she’s certainly beautiful enough for me to have on my arm.
Someone slaps me on the back, as I head out through the lobby of the hotel. “It’ll be your turn soon.” I turn to see Rick Petersson, one of California’s most eligible bachelors, grinning, alongside the groom, Henry Balthwick the third.
“Hmm.”
“And there’s that indelible Van Cort charm. Jesus, Everett. You need to chill the hell out,” Henry says.
“Some of us should be working, Henry.”
“Oh yeah, work. I don’t do that,” Rick cuts in. I sneer. He always has been a playboy. Frivolous, irresponsible. Nothing changes.
Henry laughs. “Seriously, Everett, you should golf more with us. You don’t need to work. Never have.” Golf? He means fucking and boozing and gambling. None of us have ever played golf.
Rick puts his arm around my shoulder and starts walking back in. “Come on, let’s get drunk and start you forgetting everything.” I shake my head and shrug him off. I don’t forget. Ever.
“No. I’m done.”
“But who the fuck else are we gonna have fun with? You used to be better than this.” I look around at the multitude of gawking women.
“That was a long time ago, and I think you’ll both be fine without my help.”
We say our goodbyes, and I’m accosted by a few others that I haven’t seen for years, before I finally get to the private car waiting to take me back to the airport. My smile instantly flattens as I slide in, and the emotionless, calm demeanour I’m more used to descends. Frankly, I’m exhausted trying to pretend there’s any charm in me at all other than the necessary. Three full days of being someone I’m not is draining as hell, and, if I’mtruthful, all I need to do is get some pent-up animosity out of myself and be quiet for a week.
