Page 4

Chapter 4

Asher Bennett Carter

Watcha Cove, July 2015

Asher narrowed his eyes, hoping that Kennedy would feel the hate he was beaming toward her from his stare. He’d told her to back off, that sometimes things just don’t make sense, and that was totally fine in the grand scheme of things, but nothing was ever good enough for Kennedy. Anyway, she’d only been working on a video that was going to be shown at a birthday party, not some prime-time feature. But she just had to keep asking questions.

The stormy daylight coming in through the many windows was soft, and he was horrified to find that tears had been gathering in his eyes. He turned quickly away from his mother and sister.

Asher was confused, embarrassed. He knew this kind of shriveling collapse was the exact opposite of the composed strength his father so often required of him. He turned and stared at his sister, letting himself be overcome by the most familiar of emotions ... anger.

“You think your little project didn’t do this?” he whispered to her.

Kennedy stumbled to find words. “It was—it couldn’t have been. I didn’t mean to ...,” she said clumsily.

Jacqueline raised her hand lazily from where she sat. “Please,” she said quietly. “Not now.”

Asher and Kennedy’s drag-out fights were household lore. They were never “allowed,” technically speaking, to be physical with one another, but what’s “allowed” is really limited to what you get caught doing. Asher had often violated that rule in their youth with shoves, kicks, and punches whenever he could seize the opportunity. He wasn’t sadistic, just short tempered, and Kennedy worked his nerves nonstop. It was her goody-two-shoes, know-it-all attitude that grated at him. How she tried extra hard with everything. How she had such a big bleeding heart, and how much she wanted everyone to know it.

He snuck another glance over at his father, almost afraid to look. Kennedy, of course, was crying, her tears falling fast and free. Asher knew, or had suspected, that her so-called investigation was causing trouble. He knew that he was probably reaching, since their father was prepared and expecting this video and that he wouldn’t have dropped dead from something as trivial as his daughter’s curiosity. But still, it felt good to lay things at Kennedy’s feet for the moment. To direct his anger toward something. Kennedy had come to Asher more than once about “inconsistencies” in their family history, fishing for more information. It was insane. He told her a million times that she should just make their dad a music video. Who wouldn’t want that instead of some sad, serious feature that he suspected Kennedy was working on?

He hadn’t been jealous that their mother had asked Kennedy to make the video instead of him, but his idea was obviously better. Their father, filmed behind his Financial District desk, a panoramic shot of the office, a close-up on his watch, a rapper commissioned to provide trap lyrics and beats. It would have been epic. In fact, Asher had worked out a rough draft of lyrics that included rhyming words like “set” and “jet,” “boss” and “floss,” “fly” and “guy,” and “money” and “money.” (The last couplet, he knew, still needed work, but it was an easier problem to tackle than trying to find a partner for the word “profit.”)

As he reflected on all this, Asher felt his emotions going into hyperdrive. He’d tried to conceal from his parents that he was failing out of Harvard Business School. He had failed at that too. He couldn’t help but think that perhaps maybe now he didn’t need an MBA, since, well ... he was about to be set for life. Well, as long as no one else knew what he had thought he overheard his mother and father discussing when he had been home in the late spring. The hushed voices of his parents were still echoing in his head, clawing to reach him through the fog from that night that was padded with beer and weed. Asher chewed the cuticle on his thumb and began pacing back and forth in his parents’ bedroom, desperation for an outlet building up in his body.

His thoughts went to the only logical place they could go when you’re the child of a billionaire: to his inheritance. It was his. It should be his. Because he was the first child and a boy, his father set out early to shape him into the CEO he’d hoped Asher would become. In that pursuit, William Carter Jr. attempted to inculcate the grave responsibility into Asher of what it means to be “self-made.” This was a confusing lesson for Asher, not only because he found most lessons confusing but also because he wasn’t in the “self-made” club, as his father would never fail to remind him. Asher was not a self-made man but had to learn the struggles of how it felt to be one anyway. Struggles Asher found tedious.

He walked over to the intercom and buzzed down to the kitchen. “Can we have some bourbon? Three glasses.” He slid his finger off the button. “Please,” he added, forcefully jabbing the intercom again, feeling immediate guilt for not using his manners. Minutes later, the bourbon arrived, and he tore at the top of the packaging with his teeth and set it down. He reached for the three glasses on the small coffee table in front of the fireplace with his left hand.

“You want?” he asked his sister while pouring for himself. Asher was annoyed with her, but she could still have a drink.

She came over to join him, eyeing him carefully, clearly guarded.

“To Dad,” Asher said, knocking their glasses together before draining his in one big gulp. He grimaced, afraid that it would come right back up, but he kept his eyes closed and willed the alcohol to start working. He poured again.

“The video was nice, you know,” Kennedy said quietly to him, sipping her whiskey and trying not to make a face as the bitter drink spread over her taste buds and warmed her esophagus. “I pursued this because I wanted to know him. We don’t know him at all, not really, and I really understood that when it seemed like the whole world had a better idea about his life than I did. I wanted to make him more real, and I thought I was the best person to do that.” Kennedy raised her chin in the direction of their father. Asher’s nostrils flared slightly.

“Well, were you?”

“Not really,” Kennedy replied.

“Did you ever consider the possibility that he didn’t want people to know him? I mean he obviously controlled the way we did everything for a reason,” Asher said, a rare moment of clarity coming as a surprise to even him. He threw his head back and gulped down more bourbon, welcoming the wisdom the whiskey was providing him.

“There were just some things I wanted to know,” Kennedy said.

“Like what?” Asher asked.

“I wanted to know if he was happy. If he felt proud, fulfilled. I just wanted to know something real.”

Asher rolled his eyes dramatically and circled his neck around. He set his glass on the table. “Who. Cares. About. Any. Of. That?” he asked, punctuating each word with a clap in her face. This was exactly why he couldn’t talk to his sister. She was always worried about the wrong thing. Their father wasn’t happy, and he was pretty sure that Kennedy could figure that out too. The man radiated misery, but happiness had never been his objective. The day Asher got into Princeton was the only time he’d ever seen his father happy.

William Carter Jr. had made it explicitly clear that there were no more than eight acceptable universities for his children to attend as undergraduates. To achieve this goal, the Carters hired a consultant who polished Asher’s résumé, including interests and academics that were most appealing to his top schools. But in the end, Asher was invited to bring his squash prowess to Princeton, and though it wasn’t his alma mater, William Carter Jr. still found the school appealing.

When Asher announced his intentions for Princeton, every Carter had done their part. William contacted all his associates who were Princeton alums and invited them to his homes in Martha’s Vineyard and New York. Asher then expressed his desire to attend Princeton, shaking hands and charming whomever was necessary.

Everything was fantastically coordinated by his father. There was the initial squash scouting overnight, a showcase where Asher would play demo matches for coaches with current students. There was also the matter of the tour and getting to know the current Princeton administration, which was what his mother handled. Jacqueline always asked pointed questions about what the school’s needs were and offered assistance in finding a solution to any problems expressed.

As for Asher, like his mother, he was a professional when it came to putting on a performance. He said what he was supposed to say, looked how he was supposed to look, and at the close of his first trimester of his senior year of high school, he had applied early decision. Asher played the part of the perfect applicant, and Princeton bought it, especially after a donation for the restoration of a teacher’s cottage to the tune of $200,000.

The next spring, Asher received his acceptance. He was surprised at the numbness he felt opening the letter.

“Well done, son!” William said, beaming with the purest form of pride and expression he could have offered. William wasn’t a physically affectionate person, and had given his son a handshake for about ten seconds longer than a normal handshake would last. That night, William Carter Jr. took the whole family on an impromptu cruise on a yacht around the Long Island Sound. That was the happiest Asher had ever seen his father.

That his father was now dead and Asher was failing out of business school was humiliating. Worse still, his dad had asked him to keep his sister’s little pet project under control and he had failed. He hated that the only thing he could finish perfectly was a squash match. After three drinks, he finally felt the alcohol settle nicely over him. He leaned his head back in the chair he was in, closed his eyes, and tried to slow down his breathing to let the thoughts go. He probably needed to text his girlfriend, but his thoughts were consumed by one thing, the only thing now.

The money.