Christmas Billionaire Read online

  After all, Mazie was right: my father was selfish, in nearly every aspect of his life and yet, I still expected him to be different.

  However, as I chanced a glance across the car, staring at my one remaining parent, while my mother’s memory weighed heavily on my mind, I realized that I wished a lot of things were different.

  My mother was a wonderful human being. She was the only reason I developed even the smallest shred of decency. We got along great, and I always respected her. She wasn’t a pushover, but she was compassionate and understanding in a way my father was seemingly incapable of being.

  Yet, the rift between my father and myself wasn’t new. It was inbred. He wanted me to be one way, and for whatever reason, he would never allow himself to tell me that I was doing anything right. Everything was a damn competition to him, and even if I brought home the gold, there was always more work to be done.

  My mother, on the other hand, was more nurturing and encouraging. She wanted me to explore other avenues, both inwardly and outwardly, than simply being a business mogul. While she supported my father’s ambitions for me, they didn’t seem solely motivated.

  It was no secret that she hated the way my father and I were always arguing. After all, she loved us both and wanted the best for her family, and we never made it easy for her.

  Even on the day she died, my father and I had a fight, so I had to hear the news from our family’s lawyer because the stubborn ass with a heart of stone refused to call me himself.

  In all fairness, I wouldn’t have answered, unless he had called from my mother’s phone, but perhaps that was even too fucked up for his sadistic nature.

  Still, I resented him for it.

  After all, not only did he not even try to call me, he flat out refused. Even at my worst, I would have put our differences aside to make a phone call and had I any inkling of what the call was about, I certainly wouldn’t have ignored it.

  Yet, my father had never once tried to make amends for adding more pain to our already grieving family.

  Thus, every year, in the silence of this damn car ride, instead of remembering my mother, I thought solely about her death and how poorly my father handled it.

  I knew that if my mother somehow knew, she would give us both hell for being so stubborn, but as much as I wished things were different, I knew nothing would change unless my father willed it.

  Therefore, I remained silent and the drive seemed to wear on forever.

  A few times, I looked over at my father again, thinking that perhaps today was the day that we would patch things up. Maybe today, in the spirit of truly celebrating my mother’s memory, we would be able to give her what she had always wanted.

  However, each time I tried to think of something to say, the thousands of times my father had said something hurtful to me, or worse, hadn’t said something when he should have, burned in my mind. These memories lit my heart ablaze with fury, and I continued to drive, unable to find anything more than anger to approach him with.

  I wasn’t proud of it, and I knew my mother would be disappointed. Yet, instead of using the time we had left in our journey to try to be the bigger man, nothing assuaged my ire enough to allow a positive initiation.

  Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, we pulled up to the cemetery.

  I glanced over at my father as we turned in but his face remained emotionless, and that aggravated me.

  He had dragged me out here, on the only day I had no interest in being here, to pay his respects; I figured the least he could do would be to show some damn sentiment.

  Although, I knew I should expect nothing less from my father, and thus, I got out of the car, trying to shake the idea from my head. I was annoyed, sure, but that was the end of my feelings on the matter.

  I walked to the back of the car and grabbed both the flowers I had brought and my father’s grave blanket.

  The street was lined with trees, which seemed slightly out of place with so much death surrounding it.

  Yet, the landscape was beautiful; despite the graves of course. Rolling hills and lush green grass made up the landscape, while perfect rows of well-maintained headstones line the whole of the cemetery. The only break is where the road severs into paths winding through the grass so that loved ones don’t have to walk too far to visit those that have moved on.

  In silence, my father and I stepped up onto the patch of grass that paved the path to my mother’s grave.

  Despite the mood being so dismal, it was a nice day outside; one my mom would have loved.

  If she were alive, my mother would have wanted to spend such a lovely day at the beach, or shopping; doing just about anything other than going to a graveyard.

  After all, it was no secret that my mother was the spontaneous, fun one of the family. She was the one who forced my father to do something other than work and excelled in the pursuit.

  My mother was the one person on the planet that made my father human.

  I was reminded of that as we reached the grave and my father, expensive suit and all, sank to his knees and started to dust off the minimal amount of dirt on the headstone.

  Once it was cleared off, my father turned back toward me and took the flowers from my hands. He placed the grave blanket carefully across the span of dirt that had long ago been covered by grass and set the bouquet I had bought against the stone.

  When he was finished arranging the flowers in his own, precise manner, he put his head down, ceasing all movement.

  His shoulders slouched and his body hung, almost as though in defeat in front of the grave, in complete silence.

  When he did speak, it startled me.

  “It’s hard to believe it’s been three years, today,” my father said in a gravely, raw voice that was filled with emotion.

  I was surprised, both that he was speaking to me and the vulnerability he allowed his voice to possess.

  As my father turned to look up at me, his eyes reddened slightly, not faring much better than his voice, I struggled to find something to say to him. I wanted to respond in a manner that might help our relationship and start to bridge the gap that we had always.

  Alas, not for anger, resentment, or any other explainable reason, words remained completely lost.

  Though I knew my chance was slipping away, seeping into the ground of the dead, likely never to arise again, for as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t come up with any suitable words to respond with. So, eventually, I nodded silently.

  As if he had taken this as his cue, my father stood up, dusted himself off, and marched back toward the car.

  “It’s time to go, Dexter. We have a long ride back,” he responded, and this time, his voice had returned to the emotionless shard of ice that encapsulated his everyday tone.

  I felt my jaw tighten, both with aggravation and regret.

  Damn… I thought as I fell into step behind him, I should’ve tried to talk to him. Now, I’ve lost my chance.

  Chapter 12

  Mazie

  I pulled up to my parents’ house, which was now devoid of all the cars and commotion that was going on the last time I was here.

  I grinned as childhood memories flashed back to me, making me feel pleased with the life I’d led thus far.

  While Dexter wasn’t wrong about me taking the fall for his escapades, so that he wouldn’t be considered a failure in his father’s eyes, and hearing his appreciation for me going my own way was nice.

  However, looking at my family home now and remembering all the good times that were and continued to be shared within it, I couldn’t help but think that he was a little jaded. There was a good chance that his admiration for what I had done was slightly misguided. After all, he was basing his praise off his experience with his father; not mine.

  Granted, I was certain that if I had shown any excellence at all in my father’s business, as Laura had, my father would’ve been thrilled to take me under his wing.

  Fortunately for me, I didn’t, and instead of
forcing me on that path, my father understood.

  Did that leave me feeling as though my father was closer to my best friend than he was to me at times? Yes, but knowing how it all worked out, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I was never the corporate suit that my father, Mr. Myers, and now Laura, were.

  I would’ve been eaten alive in the corporate world. So, while my father deserved some credit for not trying to force me into a mold I definitely didn’t fit into, I was lucky in that it was blatant from the start that my talents lay elsewhere.

  I was pleased that my father understood that though because I knew that if the roles were reversed, Dexter’s father would’ve never understood. At times, even growing up, it seemed that Mr. Myers had a child for the sole purpose of producing an heir to his fortune and legacy.

  What Dexter wanted, while always being taken into consideration by his mother, was never valued by his father and I always thought that was sad.

  Especially since, beyond the corporate side of Dexter, there was much more depth than his father ever cared to see.

  Yet, again, he could have been playing to what he thought I wanted to see in him but when we were children, there wouldn’t have been a point. He never, ever indicated he liked me in any romantic fashion, and I never demanded anything from him for our friendship.

  However, when I realized I had sat in the driveway for far too long and knew that my parents would soon be coming out to make sure everything was alright, I escaped my reminisce and got out of the car.

  I walked up to the door and walked inside, as though I still lived there, and was welcomed by my mother, beaming brightly and opening her arms for a hug.

  “Hi, Mazie!” my mother exclaimed, wrapping her arms around my neck tightly as though we hadn’t seen one another in years.

  The warm reception was normal for her, however.

  “Hi, Mom,” I replied as we pulled away.

  “Your father said he saw you at the party last night, but I couldn’t find you,” she grinned and narrowed her eyes suggestively, “Where did you sneak off to, young lady?”

  I felt my cheeks get red as I burst out laughing.

  “Oh God, Mom. Eww…no. I left early but certainly not with anyone there,” I made a face that my mother seemed to agree with me on. “Fair enough.”

  “There you are! Finally, we are able to have a conversation in a normal setting,” my father exclaimed as he walked in from the kitchen, wearing comfortable clothes.

  “Hi, Dad!” I called as he embraced me, “How are you guys doing?” I asked between the two of them.

  “Honestly, I’m happy that party is over with,” my father chimed in, shaking his head. “It used to be fun, but this year, it seemed to be nothing more than work, that I feel I am finally able to say with certainty, I am too old for.”

  My father laughed, but I could see the weariness in his eyes. That had happened a lot lately.

  The past few times I had seen him, his calm, confident, jovial nature was overshadowed by something that was new. Whether it was his age or simply being tired of the rat race he had committed himself to, I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t like it.

  Although, like I always did, I ignored it, wanting to enjoy the time I had with my father instead of fretting over things I likely had no control over.

  If I did bring it up, he would likely deny it anyway, so the pursuit was pointless.

  So, instead, I grinned and pretended not to notice. I had a feeling that was going to be the easiest way to distance my mind from my concern.

  “So, how is school?” my mother asked as we all sat down in the living room.

  I grinned at the fact that she was asking me the same question she had, on nearly a daily basis, ever since I started kindergarten.

  “School is good,” I offered, biting my tongue before I said anything about taking the kids to see Santa. While I knew that there were plenty of ways this conversation could go without me mentioning Dexter, since he was still in the forefront of my mind, I figured it was best not to tempt the conversation.

  After all, Dexter would never forgive me if I slipped and my parents have a way of getting me to tell them things, even now that I would rather not say.

  “The kids, as well as the majority of the teachers were so excited to start winter break.”

  “I can imagine,” my mother insisted, teasing, “Much to the dismay of the children’s parents, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, come on, Mom, I wasn’t that bad,” I retorted.

  “No. You weren’t, but that still didn’t stop me from wanting you to go back to school, simply so that I could keep the house clean for more than five minutes.”

  I laughed as my father returned to the kitchen after sniffing the air, as though remembering he was cooking something.

  “Dammit,” my father grumbled, swiftly running back to the kitchen.

  My mother giggled and raised her eyes toward me.

  “Your father has taken up cooking to destress. See how well it's working?”

  “Do you need any help, Dad?” I called, trying to suppress a chuckle.

  “Not from either of you!” he responded in a playful huff, coming back to the dividing wall between the kitchen and where we sat, “What your mother neglected to tell you is that she has been getting amazing meals as a result of this new hobby.”

  “Yes, and you are talented, my darling, but you have to admit, it isn’t helping your blood pressure any.”

  “To hell with my blood pressure!” he retorted, “I believe I’ve found a hidden talent.”

  My mother burst out laughing, and I teasingly rolled my eyes.

  My father was always trying new things. They usually didn’t last all that long and general ended up taking up space in the garage, but my mother dealt with it.

  She loved my father, after all, and was willing to do what was necessary to ensure his sanity, especially since the job seemed to be getting to him far more than it had in his earlier years.

  My father shook his head and finished up the lunch, redirecting us to the enclosed patio.

  It was comfortable and afforded a beautiful view of the back yard.

  My mother’s hobby had always been both the inside and outside of their home, and there was never a time I could remember where the house and the landscaping weren't pristine.

  Although the patio was outside and cooler than the rest of the house, the heater and the thick panes of glass allowed the warmth to stay inside.

  My father brought out three renditions of what I assumed was a Ruben, and the three of us started to eat.

  “So, do you have any interesting students this year?” my father asked as we worked on our lunch.

  “Yes. There is one extremely talented artist, and another who I am sure is going to be some kind of mathematician, but each of the students has their own talents,” I explained trying to think of some specific stories, but only able to come up with things that reminded me of Dexter.

  So, again, I refrained from trying to delve too deep into the conversation.

  “That’s what’s so wonderful about the grade you teach,” my mother explained. “You have the unique opportunity to teach to each of your student’s strengths. You aren’t confined to one subject.”

  “Yes, but that can also be challenging,” my father added, “Having to modify your teaching style to match each different subject in a manner the kids will understand. I give you credit.”

  “Well, I enjoy it,” I offered easily, grinning.

  “We know, and we’re proud of you, for everything you’ve accomplished. You did it all on your own, and that is admirable,” my father insisted in a manner that made me wonder if there was a but coming.

  While my family has always been supportive, it was strange for them to be so complimentary without there being a reason for it.

  However, as we finished lunch and my mother cleaned up, disappearing back into the house, nothing more came of their praise, which led me to believe that perhaps they were simply
being nice.

  When my mother was busy in the kitchen, however, my father looked at me with a strange expression, and when he spoke, his voice was calm but intrigued.

  “So, I see that you and Dexter were able to hit it off, huh? You two always got along so well,” he grinned, and I felt my stomach drop, fearing that, somehow, he had realized that we had seen one another more than simply meeting up at the party the other night.

  “Yeah, we have. He hasn’t changed a bit,” I grinned, trying to keep the conversation light, even though I felt my heart start to race nervously.

  “That boy needs some better influences in his life. It seems like all he has is his father and all he does is knock him down,” my dad admitted.

  “Well, you know him better than I do now. The other night was the first time I’d seen him in nearly two years,” I replied, happy that I at least was able to admit to that, if not the date we had the night before. “What do you think of him?”

  “What do you mean?” my father inquired.

  “You know, as a person? I’m sure he’s changed since we were kids and a lot can and probably has happened in two years.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I’ve always liked Dexter. He’s always been a good kid…a smart kid too. He’s a hard worker and would give his blood for the company, if it was necessary. He’s extremely dedicated, though some days I can’t imagine why, since his father is such an ass to him. I mean, he’s an ass to everyone but, whether it’s afraid of being succeeded or for some other reason that I can’t quite grasp, he is always far meaner to Dexter than to anyone else. Unfortunately for that boy, the more he tries to please his father, the more I fear he is going to become his father.”

  My dad paused and shook his head.

  “Yeah, I kind of expected Mr. Myers to be gone by now. He seemed eager enough to retire when we were only kids.”

  “So did I,” my father admitted before grumbling and shaking his head again, “But, then his wife died a few years ago, and Mr. Myers threw himself into his work. The second she passed, I think any intention he had of retiring died with her. I think Dexter is headed on that path now too.”