Beau walked around downtown until it was late. His heart was getting a workout today, thumping extra hard every time he thought of the ridiculous amount of money that would hit his bank account at midnight. It was like having the ticker of a newborn. He was experiencing a second birth, the life he was supposed to have.
He’d always had a plan—visualization was important. Beau looked up at some skyscrapers, rectangular lights popping on with the settling night. Important people were up there. For years, he’d seen himself working in the sky too. Next week, he’d start thinking about moving out of his apartment, preferably somewhere also above the city. During one of his foul moods a few months earlier, Brigitte had driven him through the Hollywood Hills to pick out their dream home. Admittedly, that simple act had eased the day’s frustrations, whatever they’d been. Maybe he would buy that house.
Beau stopped at a pay phone and took out his wallet. He carried a reserve of cash for emergencies. Tonight, he had two hundred dollars plus four credit cards that weren’t much good anymore. He gave himself one goal for the rest of the night—to give his wallet a good cleaning out before his fortune befell him. He wanted to start fresh.
Beau picked up the receiver, inserted fifty cents and dialed his mother.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Mom.”
“Beau. Is that you?” She sucked in a quick breath. “How are you?”
“Good.”
Neither of them spoke a second. Beau didn’t really know how to start the conversation. “That deal I told you about—”
“I know. I remember. The meeting was today.”
“Yes.” He had her attention now. “It went through.” Beau glanced at his shoes. He’d polished them that afternoon, and they reflected the glow from the convenience store behind him. “Mom?”
“Is it like you said?” she asked, speaking fast. “For real? Because the women at the office don’t believe it, and they’re threatening to have me committed.”
“No—I mean, yes. It’s true. I’m a…” Beau stopped, his throat dry. He hadn’t ever said it aloud. Visualization was one thing, but he didn’t like to get ahead of himself. Now, it was just a fact. “I’m a multi-millionaire.”
She sighed loudly, as though she’d been holding her breath the entire call. “Well, how about that. I raised a multi-millionaire.”
Beau refrained from saying thathehad raised a multi-millionaire. Brigitte may have motivated him in his occasional dark hours. Giving his mom a better life had certainly given him an extra push now and then. But nobody had done this for him but himself.
“Where are you living now?” he asked.
“I got an apartment in Venice Beach. Had to move out of my place over the summer. Rents keep rising, you know.”
“Venice?” he asked, frowning. “How long does it take you to get to work?”
“Too long.”
He shut his eyes a brief second, more grateful than he’d been yet that day. He and his mom weren’t close anymore, not after she’d stolen Brigitte’s inheritance. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take care of her until the day she passed—now that he was able. “You don’t have to worry about that anymore, Mom. You can go wherever you want.”
“I never liked it here.”
“Where then? Pick a place, anywhere in the world. Greece? Rome?”
She snorted. “You know who you sound like, don’t you? America’s my home. Never leaving this country.”
Beau didn’t know who she was referring to, just that it was one of two foreigners. It was likely his father, a Frenchman who’d loved his country a little too much and had ended up dying there in a car accident with his mistress. But it could’ve also been Brigitte, said mistress’s daughter, who’d given up her life in Paris to be closer to Beau, the only person she considered family.
He changed the subject. Bringing up either of them would mean a certain argument. “New York City is popular.”
“Too many people. I’m done with cities.”
“Think it over and let me know,” Beau said. “I have to call Brigitte.”
“Brigitte,” she said, accusing. “Now would be a good time to get rid of her, Beau. Before it’s too late.”
“We’ve been over this.” Beau studied the payphone’s crusty buttons. Brigitte’d been in his life ten years, during which they’d been cramped in various one-bedroom apartments around L.A., making it work. They were both broke. They didn’t like it, but neither of them complained about it. “She’s my sister.”
“Don’t say that to me. You know it gets me worked up. She’s the bastard child of some European hussy who—”
