Page 64 of Married in Michigan
Liam pats my shoulder. “Now you’re getting it.” He grins at me. “It’s just that Mr. deBraun pays me an exorbitant amount of money, and I take my job very, very seriously. This is one of those duties.”
I set the bags on the ground and meet his eyes. “You’re a Marine Recon. You risked your life fighting a war to serve this country. And now you’re unloading bags for rich people?”
“I do alotmore than that,” he says, his voice low and rough. “I protect. I serve.” He gestures at the car. “Driving you around and unloading a few bags is just a fraction of the job, and it’s one I’m honored to have.”
I realize that everywhere we went, he was never far away. His eyes, hidden behind mirrored aviators were watchful, in the way a raptor perched in a tree watching a rodent scurry below is watchful. He was still, and quiet, and calm, but exuded deadly threat and ultimate confidence.
He smiles at me, his voice lighter, now. “What I’m saying is, please let me take care of the bags. Luisa has a light snack prepared for you upstairs.”
Luisa—Paxton’s…everything else that Liam isn’t. Liam is the driver, the bodyguard, the personal assistant, and Luisa is the housekeeper and daily cook. Which, I’m told, is not the same as the personal chef. Luisa takes care of breakfast and lunch and your average dinner, but if Paxton wants a special, fancy dinner he calls Jean-Paul, the chef. Who, of course, lives in the building and is on call twenty-four hours a day.
What an odd life.
I head upstairs with Julie, who makes a beeline for my room and my closet, eagerly waiting for Liam to bring up the first load of bags so she can start removing tags and sorting. Resigned to not having anything to do with any part of the process except wearing the clothes, I head for the kitchen in search of the "light snack" mentioned by Liam.
What I find is a charcuterie board with an assortment of freshly sliced meats and cheeses, assorted nuts, fresh local honey, fruit, olives, crackers, mustard, and jams. There’s enough food on the wooden cutting board to last me at least half a week, longer if I were to stretch it out, and this is a "light snack."
I shake my head in marvel as I sit at the island, picking at the board and sipping Pellegrino.
I hear the door opening and closing as Liam comes and goes with bags, and I hear Julie rattling hangers and sliding them on the bars of the walk-in closet in my room—which is so large I could fit my entire apartment back in Petoskey in it with room to spare. I picture the closet, and then the clothing we purchased today, and realize everything we got will still only fillmaybea third of the closet. Nowhere near even half. And I begin to grasp an inkling of the scope of what Julie meant when she referred to the haul of clothing as “just the basics” and “a decent start.”
So much.
So, so, so much.
I hear the door open again, but this time it’s accompanied by Paxton’s voice—irritated, impatient.
“…I know, Mom. Iknow. But what I’m telling you is, I don’t care. Send out whatever you want, or don’t send anything at all. This wedding is your shindig, so do what you want. As long as what you send out doesn’t have that bitch’s name on it, I do not give a single sparkly shit…” A pause as he listens to what Camilla is saying, and I hear his footsteps on the marble approaching the kitchen. “Yes, I know you saw it…yeah, well, wouldn’t you like to know….no, I’m not telling you. Familiar, huh? Well, I mean, I’ve seen the photos, and it could be anyone. No, I’m really not telling you who she is. You’ll find out at the wedding. Yes, Mother, I’m absolutely for real.”
He appears in the kitchen, dressed in dark blue jeans that fit just right—tight, but not skinny—over heavy black boots, with a white button-down under a black blazer. A casual but dressy look, somewhere between a suit and tie and his jeans-and-polo look from yesterday. He’s got a leather briefcase in one hand, the leather a rich, deep, polished, aged brown, and his cell phone in the other hand pressed to his ear. He locks the phone between his shoulder and ear, sets the briefcase down, shifts the phone to his left hand, and uses his right to fold a piece of Dubliner cheese inside a roll of prosciutto, shoves it into his mouth and holds the phone away while he chews. He perches on the stool next to me, gives me a quick, friendly wink and grin, and then steals a long swig of my sparkling water. He holds the phone away, rolling his eyes at the volume of his mother’s voice, and then puts it on speaker, sets it on the counter, and puts his finger to his lips.
“—Someone appropriate for your station in life, not to mention suitable for your aspirations in life, Paxton. You cannot simply surprise me on the wedding day with some cross-eyed, silicone-breasted bimbo from some dive bar in Anacostia.”
“Mom, Jesus. For real? The hell is wrong with you?”
“Well, I certainly have no understanding of how you’ve gone about selecting your companions.”
“God, you’re horrible,” Paxton mutters under his breath. “You said, and I think I’m quoting you pretty accurately here: you said I could bring Cecily, a Kardashian, or a hooker, you didn’t care, as long as she played the game your way.” His voice ices over. “Well, Mother, I’m playing your game. But I won’t play it your way, and neither will she. We’ll play itourway, and I’m only playing it until I don’t need you anymore.”
A sigh, bitter and furious. “You are so…petulant, Paxton.”
“Learned from the best, Mother.”
“I hope you don’t mean me,” she says, her voice hard and brittle.
“I sure as hell do.”
“I’m nothing so pedestrian as petulant.”
“What you are, they don’t have words for. Cold, calculating, manipulative, and selfish only begin to cut it.”
“I believe you forgot cunning and vindictive,” she says.
A laugh. “True.”
“Let’s not bandy words, Paxton. Who is she?”
“I told you, Mom, I’m not telling. You’ll find out along with the rest of the world.”