When I was a child, most of the children of my parents’ friends played together after school. They had dolls. They went to parties. They swam. They played sports, some of them.
Not me.
I learned Latin, a totally useless language. After private school classes ended each day, my tutor came to teach me French, Spanish, and Italian. I played piano, taught by the best piano players of my time—I was one of the first women invited to teach at Juilliard.
No moment of my waking time was wasted.
Because I knew from the time I was born—my birth killed my mother, as I was repeatedly reminded—that the responsibility fell to me to captain the Richmond Steel enterprise. Eventually, even my marriage was planned by my father. He found someone who would take my name, who brought efficient and intelligent planning expertise to the table, and most of all, someone who would listen to me in a time when women were not often allowed, much less encouraged, to run companies.
My father always treated me like I was the son he never had.
And I took my responsibility seriously.
I learned what was taught. I worked, and worked, and worked ceaselessly to turn Dad’s large company into the unparalleled empire that it is today. When the time was right, I gave birth to a strong and healthy little boy. And then, I did for Alistair the exact thing my father did for me. I molded him, like unformed clay, into the perfect successor. He learned four languages—and more useful ones than I had. He spent his time on robotics projects, on developing science and technology areas where I always felt reliant on engineers to translate for me. I made the knowledge of running a business paramount, but the underlying technology wasn’t a puzzle to him.
He became exactly what Richmond Steel needed—what I shaped him to be.
All my efforts were nearly derailed while he was in high school, because of a girl.
I called my dad and asked him what to do. He said that having a child while my son was a teenager would be catastrophic. Not only to his reputation, but also on his focus, on his ability to learn, and in his capacity to work. Richmond would suffer. Our legacy would suffer. I was undecided before then, but galvanized by my father’s words, I took care of the problem ruthlessly.
Or, I thought I did.
The one area on which I didn’t spend enough time, because focusing on it was diametrically opposed to my plan to make him a perfect successor, was ensuring that Alistair had a proper diet, exercised enough, and had low stress. I’ve since discovered that those deficiencies are the leading causes of heart attacks in men under fifty, and that’s what ended his life.
Which means that I killed my own son.
I took identical steps to those my dad took with me, but instead of living a long and healthy life as I have, Alistair died early. All that effort, all that push, and all the misery I inflicted on him were utterly pointless. And worse, I had absolutely no one to take over the one thing I’d done right—no one to manage the Richmond dynasty.
Until I met Emerson.
He was twenty-seven years behind, but he was clearly my grandson. He was bright, eager, hard-working, and competent in the things he had managed to learn. He hadn’t been raised as he should have, but I thought I might be able to repair the damage. I was making progress—more than I expected, frankly. He was receptive to dating the right people, and I didn’t even hate the girl he chose. Her family wasn’t the best, but she had a basic understanding of what would be required of her. She seemed fairly competent, and she was clearly gifted in guiding him. If she was obsessed with saving mongrels, well, everyone has some flaws.
She was nice enough looking and reasonably intelligent.
But then. . .Emerson thought he had come up with something that would transform Richmond Steel. I could barely contain my laugher. He had the audacity to invite outsiders to evaluate my work, and when I rightfully dismissed his ideas, his parents showed up to yell at me. It was absurd in the extreme. I should be relieved he’s gone. Clearly the progress I thought I was making was false. It couldn’t have been real, not with that sort of delusion.
And yet.
I keep wanting to pick up my phone and call him. Not for any particular reason, but I just. . .seeing him made me feel better somehow. My chest wasn’t tight. My lips kept wanting to turn up in a smile, like I was a soft-headed idiot. And now that he’s gone, I feel. . .sluggish. Perpetually disappointed with everything.
“So you don’t like the updates to the plans?” The CEO looks like he might have already asked me that.
I snap my head down at the plans in front of me. “No.”
“What didn’t you like?” He looks like he’s worried I’ll maul him. What’s he so nervous about?
“They’re fine, I said.”
“Oh.” He blinks. “Alright. Then if you could sign off on them.”
I stand up. I clearly can’t sign off on anything right now. I wasn’t listening to a word he said. “Send a copy to my office. I’d like the chance to look over them a little longer.” When I’m not so distracted thinking about The Great Disappointment.
“To your—okay. I’ll do that.”
“Thanks.”
I’m nearly to the door, my hand reaching for the knob when he says, “And by the way. That suggestion was one of the best I’ve seen. I’m interviewing people for the proposed position internally first, and if we don’t find a suitable candidate, we’ll post a listing.”
I freeze. “What?” I pivot on my heel and pin him with a stare.
He clears his throat. “Did you want me to post it externally first?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The cost savings proposal you sent over? It came at the bottom of that stack of materials on the shipping contracts and the warehouse design, so I didn’t see it until this morning.”
It’s like he’s lost his mind. “I didn’t send any cost savings proposals.”
“The one your grandson authored?” He tilts his head. “I assumed you had written most of it. It was one of the most clear, most impressive memos I’ve seen, and it’s one hundred percent right—with the hand-written corrections. Surely those came. . .from you?” His brow’s furrowed.
“Oh, yes.” I nod. “The hand-written corrections.”
He exhales. “Thank goodness.” His mouth turns up into a smile. “You were kidding. It’s not like you to make jokes like that. For a moment I thought I misunderstood.”
“Can you tell me about the proposal in your own words?” I ask. “Just so I’m sure we’re on the same page with the interviews?”
“To be honest, I was floored. I had no idea we had such a huge cost latency in the company profile. To think that we had that many million in wasted rental payments—ten times the cost of the equipment over a term of years.” He whistles. “What even made him think of that?”
“I’ve just realized that I sent you my only copy. If you could make copies for yourself and send it back to me, that would be great.”
“For sentimental reason.” He bobs his head. “Of course. I’d want to keep that too—your grandson’s first save ever.” He chuckles. “His projections were showing close to ninety million, but I’m embarrassed to say that now we’re digging through the figures, it’ll be closer to a hundred million.”
A hundred million. . .savings? From Emerson’s memo?
“And boy, if anyone was wondering whether he really was a Richmond, initiating a new position in the company that will save that kind of money in his first week here?” He smiles. “Impressive.”
I practically race back to my office and tap my fingers until I get the original proposal back.
The one I ignored.
The one I mocked.
The one my CEO says is the best save he’s seen.
I read it myself, and I realize that Emerson was dead on. How did none of our accountants see this?
How did Emerson?
It’s hard—my hand shakes as I press the buttons—but I call him.
He’s ignoring me.
I hate doing it, but I actually cancel my meetings, and I drive to the address he wrote on the file. I knock on the door of his shabby little apartment, shuddering at the thought that he lives here.
Some girl answers the door. It’s most definitely not Elizabeth. “Hello,” I say. “I’m looking for Emerson.”
“You must be the grandmother.” The small girl with dark hair tilts her head. “You look just as mean as he said.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emerson’s at work,” she says. “Maybe leave him alone, yeah?” Then she slams the door in my face.
I wasn’t wrong about his horrible family, at least. But he’s at work? He had just been fired and was working as a caterer when we met. Then he spent every day with me, shadowing me through business operations. Where else could he have gotten a job in two days? It must be Bentley Harrison.
I try calling his office as well, but infuriatingly, his secretary asks me to leave a message.
Well, I’m more tenacious than his sister thinks. I can wait around. It’s three-thirty. How late could Emerson possibly be coming home? I notice a bench across the parking lot, and I walk over and sit down at it. A few moments later, a horrible, squelching, burping bus stops in front of the bench.
“You getting in?” the driver asks.
Horrified, I shake my head. “No.”
The driver shrugs, closes the door, and the horrible bus blasts its way down the road, making an already muggy day even hotter. A few moments later, I notice someone heading for the apartment door. I spring up and dash across the street, but when I get closer, I realize it’s not Emerson.
It’s another young man—possibly the dark-haired girl’s boyfriend? He doesn’t bother knocking, though. He simply grabs the knob and barges into the apartment. Is Emerson’s place some kind of young person waystation? I wait, and then I wait, and then I wait more, and he’s still not here at half past six.
I should leave. Surely the appallingly poorly mannered dark-haired girl will tell him I came by. Or he might notice the several missed calls from me. Either way, he’ll probably call me back soon.
Or will he?
I can’t help thinking about what he said to me again. It keeps coming back to me, over and over. I already have the kind of love that comes with no strings at all.
I don’t even really understand him. What kind of love has no strings? Not a good kind. Everything has strings. If you want to have lots of money, you have to work for it. If you want to run a company, you have responsibilities. If you want your spouse to respect you, you earn that respect. Nothing in life is ever free. Similarly, love isn’t love if it doesn’t have obligations.
Love always comes with strings.
He’s just too young and naive to understand that.
But finally—finally—he comes home. I watch him park his old, tired car, and I stand. He looks backward, seeing my movement, and his eyes widen alarmingly. “Grandmother?”
That’s a little satisfying, at least. He didn’t expect to see me.
I can’t help but notice that he’s cut his hair. When we met, it looked almost dopey. Long, block-cut, and not at all what an heir of the Richmond empire should have. One very expensive haircut later, he looked the part. He should have been delighted with his appearance.
So why did he essentially shave all his beautiful hair off?
I take a step toward him, but he jogs toward me. “Are you alright?” He’s looking me over for signs of injury, but other than being a bit stiff from spending hours on a bus bench, I’m fine.
“How long have you been here?” His brow furrows.
I want to lie, but I’m worried that little girl would out me on it. “Since earlier this afternoon.”
“Why?” He sits on the bench and gestures that I can join him.
Of course a bus pulls up right then.
We both wave it on—I’ve gotten good at that—and he stares quietly, waiting for me to explain. Now that he’s here, I wish I’d spent more time thinking about what exactly to say.
“You cut your hair.”
He shrugs. “That expensive haircut wasn’t me. This one is.”
“Maybe they’re both you,” I say.
“Did something happen?”
“You left your clothes,” I blurt out.
“My. . .oh, that’s okay. Maybe you can return them. I barely wore any of them.”
I didn’t expect that. Those clothes are expensive, and he walked away from a lot of money. Surely he would at least want the clothes so he could resell them or wear them or whatever.
That’s when it hits me—that’s what he means by strings. I thought he would appreciate the clothes, but he didn’t want them in the first place. He didn’t want Richmond Steel enough to let me tell him what to do. For a split second, I wonder.
If I’d met my dad at age twenty-seven, what would I have thought about his orders about what I should study? What I should learn? How I should apply myself? Would I be upset? Would it chafe?
“I’m pretty tired,” he says. “And I was going to go shower and try to see someone.”
“The old girlfriend.” I sigh. “Right? The one I wouldn’t let you date?”
“Actually.” He shakes his head. “She turned out to be. . . disappointing.”
“She did?”
He nods slowly. “I’m not sure it’s any of your business, but I want to go see Elizabeth Moorland.”
I can’t help a smug smile. I know it’s not helping me, but. . .he likes the type of girl I wanted him to like. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“It’s not, really. I’m sure if you knew more about her, you’d be just as disapproving of her. Her parents are selling you the shelter because her dad’s business is dying. They’re broke.”
“I know.”
“Wait,” he says. “You do?”
I can’t help my laugh. “I always look into the finances of people when I enter into a business transaction. The Moorlands have been struggling for a while.”
“Oh.” He looks floored. “And Elizabeth blew her entire trust fund saving animals.”
I nod. “Knew that too.”
“Well.”
“You wanted me to fund her shelter.”
“I did, but you said no.” He folds his arms and shifts away from me. “You said she’s not your family.”
“But if my family cares about her, maybe I was wrong.”
“Maybe?”
“Do you?” I ask.
“Do I care about her?”
I nod.
“Yes. I do.”
I suppress my grin. She may be broke, but she’s bright, beautiful, and she’s well-heeled. She’s everything I need for my future great-grandchildren. And she understands what’s expected.
“Grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“I might have been a little hasty,” I say. “My CEO found your proposal, and it was good.”
He huffs. “It was.”
“I underestimated you,” I say. “I’m sorry about that.”
He stands. “Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up. No hard feelings now, right?”
“Wait.” I stand too. “Come back and live with me again.”
He shakes his head.
And my heart twists in my chest in the same painful way it did when I found out that Alistair died. “Why not?”
“I already told you. I have a family.” His face softens. “I’m not trying to hurt you, but you’re not it. I thought you might need someone—I thought we might need each other, but you don’t need anyone. And I won’t live my life as some kind of untouchable statue. Mom and Dad have taught me better than that.”
I hate it. How could he turn around and walk away from the Richmond name? Our estate? “I’ll write you in,” I say. “No strings.”
He laughs. Not forced. Not stilted. Not nervous. “I’m still passing.”
“Why?” I hate how brittle my voice sounds. How unsure.
“Grandmother.” He sighs. “I didn’t know my father—because of you, because of your machinations. My mom and I were alone. We were poor. We struggled. You didn’t owe my mom anything, and she never talked about you or Dad. For some kids, that might be enough. I still wanted to know you. But.” He shrugs. “It’s not healthy, and I know what I want now. It’s not running Richmond Steel.”
“What is your new job?” I hope it’s a good one for his sake. I hope it’s horrible for my own—then maybe he’ll recant and come back.
“I’m working for Uncle Bentley. He offered me a position before, but I turned him down.”
“I forbid it,” I say. “You have to work for me, not him.”
“Grandmother.” His eyes are so sad.
And they look just like Alistair’s.
That’s what gets me, in the end.
Something inside of me snaps, and for the first time in a very, very long life, a tear rolls down my cheek in public. As if that somehow freed the floodgates, I’m suddenly sobbing like a complete nitwit at a bus station, as if there could be a more pedestrian, a more embarrassing place to cry.
“Oh.” Emerson steps forward and pulls me against his chest. “Oh, Grandmother.” His arms wrap around me, and his hands pat my back stiffly. “It’s okay.”
“Nothing is okay,” I say. “I messed up, and your father died. And now I’ve done it again.”
“Everyone screws up,” he says.
“Not Richmonds,” I say.
“Well, I have news for you. If you want this kid to ever use the Richmond name, even Richmonds will screw up.”
I’m laughing now, which is so weird, because it’s not even that funny. But with every laugh that rockets through my body, the tears abate a little more. And suddenly, I’m laughing, and laughing, and Emerson releases me, and he’s laughing, too.
“I’m arguing with you at a bus stop,” I say.
Just then, a bus pulls up, and a hunched old woman climbs off the bus. “Don’t get on that one,” she stage-whispers. “I just ate a bean taco that I should not have eaten.”
Emerson meets my eyes. “Should we talk at your house?”
“You mean our house?” I hate how much hope there is in my voice. In my plea. But it’s there nonetheless.
My beautiful, brilliant, talented grandson half-smiles. “I guess that’s what I mean.”
For the second time in more than sixty years, I’m crying in public, at a bus stop. But this time, the tears feel different. Beautiful, somehow.
“Uncle Bentley is going to kill you if I quit my job. I just started.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” I say. “Bentley Harrison is a smart guy, but he’s a creampuff compared to your grandmother.”
Emerson wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go, creampuff.”
“No,” I say as he drags me toward his car. “Bentley’s the creampuff.”
“Right,” he says. “Now let’s talk about what the terms of being written back into the will are.”
“No terms,” I say. “Unless you want a formal apology from me first.”
“It would be nice, but I’m not all that demanding,” he says. “An informal one would be fine, too.”
My heart swells, then. Like the surf frothing its way toward the sandy shore, it grows and grows, expanding until I’m worried I’m having a heart attack like Alistair. But this never hurts—it only feels better and better.
And I wonder if this is what it feels like to love without strings. “I may be an old dog, but maybe Elizabeth will say that even some old dogs can learn new things.”
“I think she’d agree with that,” Emerson says. “Or at least, now I bet she would. If she was still talking to me.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “Did you screw up too?”
He kicks at an anthill on the edge of the parking lot. “Well, I did tell you that Richmonds made mistakes.”
“But when we do,” I say. “We do whatever it takes to fix them.”