Instead of the steakhouse where my brothers and I normally have our dinners, I head to Noah’s place. Grant is still pissed about the way they treated Aspen, so we aren’t going there anymore, even though they have great steak and the best bread in the city. If Noah’s sad about that—he’s the carb addict of the family—he doesn’t show it.
We always watch each other’s backs. Screw with one of us, and you just screwed with all of us.
Noah said he hired Jane Pryce, a popular private chef, for our dinner, so it should be good. He asked for something homey and filling, with lots of beef.
It’s just the seven of us at dinner, even though three—actually, four—of us are married now. Emmett, Griffin and Grant’s wives get along well. So when we have our brother-only brunches or dinners, they hang out together, doing facials or whatever women like to do when they’re left to their own devices with their husbands’ black AmEx cards. Last time, they ordered over a hundred romance novels from Amazon. Although Amy doesn’t read much, Sierra and Aspen do, and they read the “good parts” out loud and analyzed the anatomical possibilities of each over chocolate fondue and sparkling white pear cider.
Should I introduce Luce to the trio? Even if she’s not somebody I wanted to marry, she is my wife. But will she fit in? Amy, Sierra and Aspen are normal. They don’t have dozens of scandalous headlines published about them each year, and they don’t do orgies or drugs. Although…Luce might not do orgies or drugs, either—at least, I haven’t seen any signs. But she still isn’t like them.
Maybe they can be introduced at the wedding reception next Saturday. That way, if they don’t like Luce, they won’t feel pressured to spend time with her.
Noah’s home sits on a beachfront lot in Malibu. All chrome, stone and glass, the place looks out onto the ocean. It’s gorgeous when the day changes to evening, the sky turning bronze and purple. The property is fenced with wrought iron that’s surprisingly sturdy. Noah reinforced it with an electric fence after Dad’s hooker jumped over the wrought-iron barrier to reach him. He says he needs privacy and the beach. I think he just likes to gaze at bikini-clad girls frolicking out on the sand, which you can see from the living room and any of the bedrooms on the upper level.
Nicholas and I arrive at the same time. We park our cars. The other brothers are already here.
Nicholas waves as he climbs out of his Bentley Flying Spur. Although we have different moms, most people can tell we’re related. Actually, they can tell all seven of us are related because we all have Dad’s coloring and jaw. Joey also says we have Dad’s “Promethean” brow, but I prefer not to put much stock into his observations because everything coming out of his mouth is designed to flatter Dad.
There’s no nickname for Nicholas because his mom goes by Nikki or Nic, depending on her mood. She’s an extremely capricious woman, and I’ll never understand how she ended up with a son as steady and stable as Nicholas. He’s as sturdy and reliable as a thousand-year-old oak.
Sierra observed that Nicholas would make a great boyfriend. “Just the kind of guy you can depend on. It’s so weird he’s still single. The women in this city must be blind.”
The women aren’t blind. He just isn’t interested because he’s hung up on some girl he refuses to tell us about. And it’s been going on since… I can’t even remember.
“Nice ring,” he says, glancing at my finger. “You always have the best taste in jewelry.”
“Luce picked it.”
“Luce?”
“Lucienne feels impersonal.”
“Ah.” Nicholas’s smile is entirely too serene and knowing.
“What?”
“Just gathering another data point.”
“For…?”
“I think you might like her a little.”
“Jesus, stop. This is what happens when you don’t drink coffee.” He isn’t a huge coffee drinker. He drinks it when he joins us for brunches—since the rest of us are coffee addicts—but on his own, he doesn’t really seek it out. It’s unnatural.
Nicholas and I walk inside. Noah’s home is a prototypical bachelor pad with weird postmodern chandeliers that look like handguns and breasts—it’s the way the orbs are shaped—and darts, a billiard table, a pinball machine, foosball and a fully stocked bar that’s impossible to miss. A gigantic framed black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe graces the wall. She’s bent forward with her hands on her knees for maximum cleavage exposure. Her signature is scrawled on the right-hand corner, and Noah paid more money than is sensible for it.
Interestingly, there’s not a single shot of cheetahs. Noah is a wildlife photographer, although he wants to become a novelist for some reason only he can understand. There’s an actual typewriter on the desk in the corner, overlooking the ocean. A huge stack of paper sits next to it, but I’d bet my left nut he still doesn’t have the opening line.
On the long cherry dining table is a massive spread of roast beef, poached wild salmon, German potatoes and other side dishes. Since Noah adores carbs, there’s a mountain of freshy baked bread in the center.
He’s stuffed his mouth with a roll, his cheeks as full as a hamster’s. When he notices me, he quickly swallows, then washes it down with Pétrus. “I can’t believe you didn’t invite us to your wedding!”
“Oh, come on.” I scoff as I take an empty seat and help myself to roast beef and mashed potatoes. I’m starving.
“We invited you to ours,” Emmett says. Grant nods next to him. He and Emmett founded a venture capital firm together, and they’re generally in agreement on everything.
“Do you know that the percentage of people who don’t invite their family to their weddings who end up divorced is—”
“I didn’t invite you for a good reason,” I interrupt before Griffin can launch into the statistics and research papers he’s read on marriage failure. He spends way too much time with government records on all sorts of bizarre topics. But then, he’s an economist. It’s like a fetish.
“You invited Dad,” Huxley says. “Noah showed us the pic Joey posted on Dad’s Instagram this morning.”
“I can’t believe it took him that long,” I mutter.
Noah says, “Do you want to see the caption?”
“No.” I don’t need to read what Joey said. I shared the same space with him for far too long yesterday. “I only invited them because the whole thing was a joke.”
Grant angles his head, making a big deal out of checking my torso. “Did your new bride stab you for inviting him?”
“Don’t see any blood,” Nicholas says.
“She probably got disgusted and left,” Griffin says.
“Guys,” I say, “she likes him.”
A befuddled silence falls over the room. My brothers stare like I just told them I’d love nothing more than to get butt-fucked with a cactus.
Finally, Emmett gulps down the rest of his Bordeaux. “Say that again, mais en français—because I think I lost my ability to understand English.”
Since all of us studied in Europe, we speak French, in addition to German, Italian, Portuguese and Spanish—and of course English. So I oblige. “Elle l’aime.”
“Fuck. Me,” Nicholas says.
“Was she high? Drunk?” Noah asks.
“It’d have to be both,” Griffin croaks. He can’t imagine any scenario under which anybody could like Dad.
I shake my head. “No.”
Huxley gives me a look full of pity. It’s a little creepy, because compassion really isn’t his forte. “Insanity might be valid grounds for divorce.”
I wish. “Can’t. We need to stay married for at least five years, unless she decides to dump me earlier.”
“If you belch and fart around her all the time, she’ll probably divorce you before the month is over,” Noah says.
I scrunch my face. “That’s disgusting.”
“It works. Trust me.”
Everyone’s head swivels toward Noah, who spreads his hands.
“What? You can’t argue with the result. I’m just trying to help,” he says.
“Don’t. Nothing’s going to help. Anyway, all of you are invited to the post-elopement reception at Luce’s house next Saturday. Bring your wives and girlfriends.”
“Is Dad coming?” Grant asks warily. He’ll never let Dad get close to Aspen again after our father offered to make her a soft-core porn star.
“Absolutely not. I’ve used up my Ted Lasker tolerance quotient for the year.”
Emmett relaxes slightly. Dad’s been harassing him and Amy about wanting to see his “grandkid.” I don’t think he knows if it’s a girl or a boy. Not because Emmett kept that a secret, but because it’s just too much bother for Dad to remember.
“Also, I need your help,” I say.
My brothers turn to me, instantly serious.
“I need you to start buying up shares in Peery Diamonds,” I say. “I’ll fund it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Huxley glares at me, insulted to the core of his soul. “We don’t need your money.”
The rest of my brothers give me a what-he-said look.
“What is this for?” Grant asks.
“To even the scales. Luce thinks she got what she wants from this marriage by forcing my hand. I’m going to prove her wrong.”
Emmett cocks his eyebrow. “And that would be…?”
“I’m going to strip her of her title as CEO of Peery Diamonds.”
