anxiously.
He still refuses to meet my eye. “Your father has also asked me to collect the keys to any vehicle registered to the Larrabee estate.” His voice is pained, indicating that he’s clearly troubled by the message he’s been asked to relay. But I could really care less about his agony right now. It can’t even begin to compare to my own.
“Horatio!” I call out. I’m so furious, my body is actually shaking. Like in convulsions. I have to set Holly back down in fear that I might drop her.
Horatio appears from the kitchen. He saunters calmly toward the foot of the stairs, his pace neither quickened nor slowed by my evident impatience. He, on the other hand, has no problem meeting my eye. He stops in front of the banister and looks directly up at me.
“Can you please tell me what is going on here?”
His face registers no emotion. Not a smile. Not a scowl. “Your father called,” he pronounces slowly in his silky Argentinean accent. “He regrets to inform you that your credit cards have been canceled, your bank account frozen, and your allowance suspended.” Then with a slight nod of his head he adds, “Until further notice.”
“Further notice?” I scream back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
How he can be so gosh-darn calm in the face of such catastrophe is beyond me. “It means,” he replies smoothly, his tone unaffected by my outbursts, “Mr. Larrabee is cutting you off until you agree to his arrangement.”
* * *
I’m about this close to calling my shrink and suggesting he have my father committed because he’s clearly lost his mind. It must be the old age. He’s going to be fifty in a few years and the senility is obviously already starting to settle in. But really, how unfair is it that I have to be the one to experience the wrath of his lunacy? Just because I’m the youngest. RJ and Harrison and Hudson never had to deal with this kind of madness. Or even Cooper! The world is a very cruel place.
The sun is starting to set now and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. My voice is hoarse from the screaming, my feet hurt from shuffling around Los Angeles all day, and my spirit is beyond broken. I walk alone in the darkening gardens behind the house. It’s a breathtaking five-thousand-square-foot labyrinth of flawlessly groomed hedges and bright and vibrant blankets of flowers. My mother designed the gardens to be smaller replicas of the ones found at the Château de Villandry in France. Before she died, of course. They’ve been featured at least a dozen times in a variety of home-and-garden magazines. Always pictured with my father posing somewhere in the middle. As though he were personally responsible for the maintenance of such an elaborate landscape, when in reality he’s barely around long enough to appreciate the place, let alone trim hedges. There’s a staff of about ten gardeners who come twice a week to do that. My father just sits back and takes the credit. Nothing new, I suppose.
When I was little, I used to love to play out here. I made Horatio play countless rounds of hide-and-seek and freeze tag and any other game I could think of. That’s when I was short enough to be concealed by the sheer height of the hedges and Horatio would have to squat down and crawl on hands and knees to avoid being spotted. After about five minutes of breathless pursuit, his head would inevitably pop up over a shrub somewhere and I would giggle in delight and run to capture him. He would fall prey to my attack and then convincingly complain that he was simply too tall for this game and that it was unfair because I had the clear advantage. I remember how special that made me feel. How lucky I was to be little.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized Horatio would reveal himself on purpose. The moment he grew weary or had other business inside the house to attend to, he would stand up and surrender and the game would be over. And ever since that realization, I’ve
He still refuses to meet my eye. “Your father has also asked me to collect the keys to any vehicle registered to the Larrabee estate.” His voice is pained, indicating that he’s clearly troubled by the message he’s been asked to relay. But I could really care less about his agony right now. It can’t even begin to compare to my own.
“Horatio!” I call out. I’m so furious, my body is actually shaking. Like in convulsions. I have to set Holly back down in fear that I might drop her.
Horatio appears from the kitchen. He saunters calmly toward the foot of the stairs, his pace neither quickened nor slowed by my evident impatience. He, on the other hand, has no problem meeting my eye. He stops in front of the banister and looks directly up at me.
“Can you please tell me what is going on here?”
His face registers no emotion. Not a smile. Not a scowl. “Your father called,” he pronounces slowly in his silky Argentinean accent. “He regrets to inform you that your credit cards have been canceled, your bank account frozen, and your allowance suspended.” Then with a slight nod of his head he adds, “Until further notice.”
“Further notice?” I scream back. “What is that supposed to mean?”
How he can be so gosh-darn calm in the face of such catastrophe is beyond me. “It means,” he replies smoothly, his tone unaffected by my outbursts, “Mr. Larrabee is cutting you off until you agree to his arrangement.”
* * *
I’m about this close to calling my shrink and suggesting he have my father committed because he’s clearly lost his mind. It must be the old age. He’s going to be fifty in a few years and the senility is obviously already starting to settle in. But really, how unfair is it that I have to be the one to experience the wrath of his lunacy? Just because I’m the youngest. RJ and Harrison and Hudson never had to deal with this kind of madness. Or even Cooper! The world is a very cruel place.
The sun is starting to set now and I’m physically and mentally exhausted. My voice is hoarse from the screaming, my feet hurt from shuffling around Los Angeles all day, and my spirit is beyond broken. I walk alone in the darkening gardens behind the house. It’s a breathtaking five-thousand-square-foot labyrinth of flawlessly groomed hedges and bright and vibrant blankets of flowers. My mother designed the gardens to be smaller replicas of the ones found at the Château de Villandry in France. Before she died, of course. They’ve been featured at least a dozen times in a variety of home-and-garden magazines. Always pictured with my father posing somewhere in the middle. As though he were personally responsible for the maintenance of such an elaborate landscape, when in reality he’s barely around long enough to appreciate the place, let alone trim hedges. There’s a staff of about ten gardeners who come twice a week to do that. My father just sits back and takes the credit. Nothing new, I suppose.
When I was little, I used to love to play out here. I made Horatio play countless rounds of hide-and-seek and freeze tag and any other game I could think of. That’s when I was short enough to be concealed by the sheer height of the hedges and Horatio would have to squat down and crawl on hands and knees to avoid being spotted. After about five minutes of breathless pursuit, his head would inevitably pop up over a shrub somewhere and I would giggle in delight and run to capture him. He would fall prey to my attack and then convincingly complain that he was simply too tall for this game and that it was unfair because I had the clear advantage. I remember how special that made me feel. How lucky I was to be little.
It wasn’t until years later that I realized Horatio would reveal himself on purpose. The moment he grew weary or had other business inside the house to attend to, he would stand up and surrender and the game would be over. And ever since that realization, I’ve
Similar Books
