Page 9 of Marry Lies
The busser walks over and pours us all some water. I take a sip before setting the glass on the table.
“Yes. Well, in a few years, that is. It’s quite an endeavor, and requires a fair bit of startup money,” I explain.
“I see.” Something about the way he says those two words makes me uncomfortable, but I brush it off. Just as I’m about to ask him what he’s doing for my father, he lights up as his eyes catch on something across the restaurant. “Ah, here’s the man of the hour.”
I follow his gaze to see my father strutting through the restaurant. He’s dressed in a white button-down and dark jeans. His silver hair is slicked back, and his face seems slightly more weathered than the last time I saw him. When I stand, he walks straight to me and kisses me on both cheeks.
“Darling, I’m sorry I was late,” he tells me, his half-British, half-French accent low and deep. “You look beautiful. Is this one of your pieces?” he asks, touching the sleeve of my blazer.
“It is. Thank you for noticing.” He beams down at me before greeting Charles and Miles with a friendly hello. I take note that he addresses Miles with some familiarity. They must’ve met before.
“Ma chérie, Charles Ravage has been helping me with my investments,” he says brightly.
“Well, your portfolio is certainly impressive,” Charles says.
When I look over at Miles, he’s glaring at his father. “Is that so?” he asks, his voice hard and icy.
My brows knit together as I observe the three men and their dynamics. It almost seems like Miles is angry about his father helping mine. But why?
“Yes,” Charles says, sipping his water and giving Miles a hard look. Before the two of them can say another word, my father interjects.
“I’m so glad we could all have lunch today,” he says jovially. But then again, my father is always jovial.
As the founder of one of the biggest charities in Europe, he’s had his fair share of hardships. After my mother died giving birth to me, he made a name for himself as a philanthropist. We weren’t rich—in fact, until a few years ago, we had almost no money. My father had insisted we didn’t need much to live on. I grew up working in soup kitchens all over Europe, residing in London and going to a normal school. No nannies, no household help. Just a two-bedroom flat and lots of beans on toast.
But because of his work,Deverauxbecame something of a household name. He was featured in all the big publications as someone who would change the world for the better—which of course, led to more notoriety and more introductions to people like Charles Ravage, apparently. My father believed these connections would bring more money to his charities, which is exactly what happened. Once big names got to know him—once he got into the same room with some of the most powerful people in the world—he began receiving large donations simply due to his wit and charm.
Most of that money was tied up in the charity, but my father gave himself a bigger salary—for the first time—as well as the rest of his employees. Instead of giving most of his salary away to the charity, like he’d done for decades, he was finally able to set some aside for himself.
So while we didn’t have a ton of money to our name, we had enough to be comfortable. I’m not surprised that Charles is helping him manage his newfound success. After all, my father doesn’t even know how to write a check, and all the charities had massive influxes of donations over the last couple of years. His net worth is sizable now, and I’m glad he has someone helping him with everything.
After another tense look from Miles, the conversation flows easily. Every couple of minutes, I sneak a glance at the man to my right, and every time, his eyes are on me.
Accusatory, stormy, dark.
I caught a glimpse of his surliness last year, but right now, he looks as though he’s about to shatter the glass in his hand.
I order a goat cheese salad, and Miles orders a medium rare steak. Our fathers get the lobster. I eat quickly, and the tension grows thicker with each minute as our fathers chat about their recent holidays. My father now resides in Paris, where he was born, though I grew up in London, where my mother was from. I like having that connection to her. And I know my father enjoyed it when I was young, too. It’s what she would’ve wanted.
They were married for ten years before having me, and after her death, he never remarried, despite my encouragement.
She was the love of his life.
Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find that kind of love someday.
A couple of minutes later, Miles leans in a couple of inches and begins to speak.
“Go skinny dipping in any fountains lately?” he asks, wiping his mouth and frowning over at me.
“Not lately, no. I’m too afraid of being hassled by grumpy businessmen.”
“Ah. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I haven’t been wandering around Paris in the middle of the night. Too afraid of being affronted by exasperating naked women.”
Is he insulting me? Or flirting with me?
With him, it’s hard to tell.
“Well, it’s a good thing you left when you did, then. I’ve heard Paris is full of women like me. I wouldn’t want you to get your knickers in a twist and grow to hate this city more than you already do.”
