Page 30 of Worth the Wait
“Different, but charming in its own way. Your parents have been wonderful hosts.”
My parents beam as if they’ve successfully orchestrated this encounter, as if their thirty-year-old son needs help in finding a girlfriend. Or in their case, a wife.
“We were just heading to the club for brunch,” my mother says. “Isabella’s parents are meeting us there. You should join us.”
It’s not really a request. It’s a family obligation wrapped in social courtesy, the kind of thing I’ve been navigating my entire life.
“I should probably shower and change,” I say, looking down at my wrinkled clothes from yesterday. “I’m not exactly dressed for the club.”
“Nonsense,” my father says. “You look fine. Besides, Charles and Patricia are eager to meet you.”
“Fine, but give me twenty minutes,” I say before heading into my bedroom. Charles and Patricia Vitale. Major players in international fashion and luxury goods, with business connections that span three continents. The kind of people whose friendship could benefit our family business’ European expansion plans.
Which means this isn’t just a social introduction. It’s a business opportunity disguised as a family gathering.
“Of course,” I agree, because turning down potential business connections over personal preferences is exactly the kind ofshort-sighted thinking that would prove I haven’t learned anything about strategic relationship building.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my father’s Mercedes, following my mother and Isabella in the Range Rover toward the Pacific Palisades Country Club. I’ve managed a quick shower and changed into clothes appropriate for weekend brunch with people who consider casual dress a form of subtle rebellion.
“Isabella seems lovely,” my father says as we navigate the winding roads that lead to the club. “Accomplished, well-educated, excellent family connections.”
“Mmm,” I reply, which could mean anything.
“Her father’s fashion empire has been expanding into sustainable luxury goods. Very forward-thinking for their industry. Could be valuable partnerships there.”
“Possibly.”
“Your mother thinks you two would get along well,” he continues. “Similar backgrounds, shared interests.”
I glance at my father, wondering if he actually believes that shared backgrounds and business connections are sufficient foundations for romantic relationships, or if he’s just following the script my mother has provided.
“Dad,” I say carefully, “I’m not looking for anyone to set me up with right now.”
“Of course not. This is just a friendly introduction. No pressure.”
But we both know there’s always pressure when my parents arrange friendly introductions with eligible daughters of business associates. It’s just not something we say out loud.
The Pacific Palisades Country Club sits on perfectly manicured grounds overlooking the ocean, its Spanish colonial architecture designed to suggest old California elegance. I’ve been a member since I turned eighteen, attended countless events here, played golf with clients and family friends on the same courses where my father taught me business networking disguised as leisure activities.
Today, the main dining room is filled with the usual crowd—business executives extending their lunch meetings into the afternoon, retired members who treat their bridge games like sacred appointments, a handful of wives discussing charity committee preparations over white wine spritzers, their diamonds catching the light as they gesture.
The Vitales are exactly what I remember from the years my family vacationed in Europe. Charles is tall and distinguished in the way that comes from generations of money and influence. Patricia has the kind of understated elegance that suggests a lifetime of shopping at places that don’t advertise their prices.
“Cameron, my boy, how long has it been? Fifteen years?” Charles stands to shake my hand with the firm grip. “Your parents speak very highly of your business acumen.”
“The pleasure is mine,” I reply, settling into the chair between Isabella and my father. “Isabella was telling me about your sustainable luxury initiatives. Impressive market positioning.”
For the next hour, we discuss everything except the obvious reason for this gathering. European fashion trends. Sustainablebusiness practices. Investment opportunities in emerging markets. The kind of conversation that happens between successful families who understand that personal relationships and business advantages are often inseparable.
Isabella listens intently to every conversation, asking thoughtful questions about my company’s expansion plans and offering insights about consumer trends in luxury markets. She’s exactly the kind of woman my parents think I should be interested in—beautiful, accomplished, from the right background with the right connections.
She’s also nothing like Lianne.
The realization hits me somewhere between the mimosas and the discussion of Italian manufacturing techniques. Isabella is as lovely as I remember, but there’s no spark, no electricity.
When she laughs at my comments, it’s polite rather than genuine. When she asks about my interests, it feels like interview questions rather than curiosity. When she touches my arm while making a point, it’s calculated rather than instinctive.
Everything that should work on paper feels hollow in practice.
