“Welcome back to the Four Seasons Hotel Los Angeles, sir,” said the blond, tan hotel manager, clearing his throat as he slid the key card through the slot and pressed the elevator button to the top floor. “I trust you had a good trip?”
“It was very nice, thank you,” the Jurg replied to his shoes.
“Glad to hear it, sir,” the manager said, standing stiffly against the wall with his hands behind his back. “And I know you’ve stayed with us before, but may I remind you of our twenty-four-hour bottle service? I mean, butler service?” he quickly added.
Chill out, Carina wanted to say from where she was slumped in the corner, duffel bag over her shoulder. She’d seen this kind of thing so many times before. The nervous smiles, the strained formality, the unnecessary information. People always got so weird around her dad. Waiters forgot the specials, busboys dropped forks, and women automatically leaned forward to show off their cleavage. She called it the Cha-Ching Effect. Nothing had a more powerful—and embarrassing—effect on people than a billionaire.
“Here we are,” the manager said too loudly when the elevator coasted to a stop.
They stepped out onto the hushed floor and walked down a long, thickly carpeted hall. Finally, they reached the doors at the very end. A gold placard on the wall read PRESIDENTIAL SUITE.
“You’ll see we took your advice about the flat screen, Mr. Jurgensen,” the manager said earnestly as he unlocked the doors with another swipe of the key card. “We’ve hung it on the wall without the glare from the window this time.”
The manager held the doors open and they walked into a black marble foyer. Beyond it Carina could see a palatial, high-ceilinged living room. A baby grand piano stood near a pair of French doors. On the sleek glass coffee table was the usual stunning arrangement of white roses, and next to it stood a gift basket that she knew would be stuffed with Vosges chocolate bars and rare French cheeses.
“Are you familiar with our Scotch selection, sir?” the manager asked. “We have a variety of ten-year-old malts…”
Carina veered to the left and straight out of the room, eager to skip the spiel. She needed to be alone.
She walked past the dining room and the kitchen and around the corner into a spacious, light beige bedroom with a canopied king bed. She dropped her bag on the floor, flopped onto the bed, and yawned into the silk bedspread. She was completely exhausted. For the entire six-hour flight, they’d stayed on opposite ends of the plane and hadn’t spoken a word. Ignoring someone on a Gulfstream wasn’t easy to do, after all. The Jurg sat up near the front reading the Economist while she lay on a couch in the back, keeping an eye on the screen that monitored their trip. With every state they crossed, she felt her throat tighten a little more. Even Marsha, their ever-chipper flight attendant, sensed her anxiety. “Everything okay?” she asked Carina brightly as she set down a Diet Coke and her favorite grilled artichoke.
“Fine!” Carina had said, tearing off an artichoke leaf with a fake smile.
Now it felt good to be alone. She hopped off the bed and padded toward the marble bathroom. But when she flipped on the light, she almost didn’t recognize herself in the mirror. She’d done and undone her ponytail so many times that her blond, chin-length hair looked dark and greasy, and pieces of it fell in chunks around her face. Her brown eyes were bloodshot, and underneath them were dark purplish circles. Her tan and normally freckled skin looked sallow. She looked like a prisoner of war, and this was only the beginning. For the next eight months she’d be held captive in some quasi military school on the coast. Of course her friends had been right. Releasing that memo had been a huge mistake.
But maybe this was a weird blessing in disguise, she thought, as she splashed some cold water on her face. She’d been miserable living with her dad. Not in a conscious way, but in a low-grade, just-under-the-surface way. He didn’t care about her—he didn’t even know her. And she’d figured out long ago that the only reason he’d wanted her to live with him was just so her mother couldn’t have her. So maybe being shipped off was a good thing. If only she could get used to the idea of never seeing Lizzie and Hudson again.
She left the bathroom and went back to her bag. It was time to hear her friends’ messages. She knelt on the floor and pulled out her iPhone. There were ten voice mails.
“C? We’re standing in your lobby. The doorman said you left. We don’t know what’s going on. Call us!” Even though Lizzie almost sounded mad, Carina felt a pang of sadness at hearing her voice.
“Carina? Oh my God… Carina? Where are you? We know what happened. We know you sent out that Smoking Gun thing. Oh C, why’d you do it? Did you really have to? Oh C, where are you?” Hudson always sounded like an exasperated, terrified mom, but Carina missed her so much she almost wanted to cry.
Then she scrolled through their texts.
WHERE R U?!!
We <3 u, C!
U ok?
The last text was from Lizzie, sent at ten p.m. New York time.
Hold on. Think yer gonna b fine. Stay tuned…
Carina looked at this one in disbelief. Lizzie wasn’t usually this optimistic. And how, exactly, was she going to be fine?
It was the middle of the night in New York right now, so she couldn’t call them back. She thought of her mom in Hawaii. It was only ten o’clock there.
She dialed her mom’s number and listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times. Finally her voice mail came on.
“Hi, you’ve reached Mimi… Leave me some love.” BEEP.
Carina slid her finger across the screen and hung up. She could leave a message, but she had no idea when, and if, her mom would return it. Mimi was a little flaky when it came to messages. When her parents had first gotten divorced, she and her mom had been in constant touch, scheduling phone calls between New York and Maui and IMing with each other at night. But over the past couple of years, their contact had dwindled to a weekly phone call and an occasional text. Carina suspected her dad had something to do with that. He hadn’t even wanted Carina to be in touch with her mom at all when they’d first split up.
Carina yawned again, feeling her eyelids start to droop. She’d write her friends in the morning and try her mom again later in the day. Right now, she just needed to sleep.
Without even bothering to get undressed, she pulled back the covers and climbed into bed. She pulled the thick, soft sheets over her, breathing in their powdery hotel scent, and felt a small measure of comfort. She’d done something terrible, but there was one thing she was proud of.
At least he didn’t see me cry, she thought, just before she drifted off to sleep.
*
“Carina?”
She opened her eyes halfway. Even though she’d forgotten to close the curtains before falling asleep, the room was still dark.
“The car’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Time to get up.”
At first she could barely make out the slim, tall figure of her dad in the doorway. But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw that he was already dressed in a suit and had the newspaper in his hand.
“Fifteen minutes,” he repeated. “Let’s go.”
After he left, Carina propped herself up on her elbows. Her head felt enormous and heavy, like a bowling ball filled with concrete. The clock on the bedside table said six a.m. Leave it to her dad to keep the torture coming.
She dragged herself to the bathroom, where she showered and brushed her teeth with the complimentary toothbrush and paste. She pulled out a Splendid tee and a pair of skinny jeans. Finally she dressed, went to her bag, and picked up her iPhone. There were already two more texts from her friends, sent before she’d woken up.
WHERE R U??
R U ALIVE????
Carina glanced at her watch. It was almost nine thirty in New York. Lizzie would be in honors English and Hudson would be in Spanish. It was time to let them know what was going on.
Except how could she begin to tell them what she needed to in a text? She had to call them. But who first? Lizzie or Hudson?
“Carina?” her father called out to her from the dining room. “Breakfast!”
She tossed her iPhone back in her bag and headed into the dining room. The longer she held off on telling her friends about this, the longer she could pretend that it wasn’t happening.
The Jurg sat at the head of the long mahogany table, reading the Wall Street Journal. “Eat,” he said, nodding at the lavish spread of eggs, bacon, fruit, croissants, and orange juice he’d ordered. Clearly, he didn’t know that she only ate oatmeal for breakfast. “We only have a few minutes until the car’s here. And it’s a long drive.” He fluttered his paper and went back to it, as if she weren’t even there.
She looked out the French doors to the balcony. The sky was just beginning to turn an indigo blue, and the palm tree–lined streets of Beverly Hills below looked deserted. It was going to be a long day, and it hadn’t even started yet. Suddenly the idea of being trapped with her dad in a town car for hours as they drove up the coast was unbearable.
“You don’t have to come with me,” she said, speaking to him for the first time. “I can go by myself, it’s not a big deal.”
“The plane’s picking me up in Monterey,” he said, turning the page.
“Dad.” Carina walked up to one of the hard-backed chairs and held on to it to steady herself. She’d been trying to think of the best way to say this since last night. She had to be careful. She was so tired that anything was liable to tumble out of her mouth. “I’m sorry. I really am. I just want you to know that.”
He kept his eyes on the paper. “It’s a little late for that,” he said.
“But I’m apologizing,” she pointed out.
He folded the paper noisily and turned the full force of his disapproving stare on her. “I don’t understand, Carina. I think I’ve been a pretty decent parent to you. Even a good parent. I’ve denied you nothing, for starters. I give you anything you want. And this is how you act?”
“Dad—” she attempted.
He threw the paper down on his empty plate. “Don’t I send you to the best school in the city? Don’t I pay your credit card bills? Don’t I send you on every mountain climbing trip under the sun?”
“Yeah, but…” Her mind whirled around, struggling to come up with an argument. “Is that all that being a father means to you? Paying for stuff?”
She knew as soon as she said it that it had been a mistake. The Jurg didn’t blink but his right eyebrow twitched, the way it always did when he was about to really get furious.
Ding-dong.
Both turned their heads toward the front door. The doorbell rang again.
“I’ll get it,” she said, thrilled at the chance to leave the room. It was probably another overeager room service waiter, checking to see whether they were done with breakfast.
She ran out to the foyer and threw open the heavy front door. Instead of a room service waiter it was a short, slim woman sporting a black suit, fuchsia lipstick, and tightly curled black hair. In her right hand she held a shiny caramel leather attaché case with aged clasps, the kind that held ticking bombs and spy secrets in the movies.
“I’m Erica Straker,” the woman said abruptly, thrusting out her hand. “Carina, right?”
Carina shook her hand loosely. She wasn’t used to adults addressing her by name. “Uh, yes,” she said.
“I’m with the law firm of Cantwell and Schrum, here in Century City,” she said briskly. “Is your father here?”
“Can I help you?” said the Jurg. He’d come to stand behind Carina.
“Erica Straker. We’ve met before,” she said brusquely. This time she didn’t offer her hand. “I represent your ex-wife.”
The Jurg didn’t move, and without waiting for an invitation Erica Straker stepped right into the room.
“What’s this about, Ms. Straker?” the Jurg asked, straining to sound polite.
“My client’s been notified about your plan to send Carina away to boarding school,” she said matter-of-factly as she lifted her attaché case and placed it on a glass credenza by the door. “And the custody agreement you and my client signed says you are not to change your daughter’s living arrangements without my client’s permission.” She popped the case and took out a thick, stapled document that seemed to be hundreds of pages. She hefted it out of the case and handed it to the Jurg. “Maybe you forgot that clause?” she asked, cocking her head, as if she didn’t already know the answer.
The Jurg swiped the document out of her hands. “These plans came up very quickly,” he muttered. “And as you probably know, she’s not the easiest person to reach.”
Ms. Straker smiled, showing her coffee-stained teeth. “Well, my client understands that you may have forgotten the agreement, so she wanted me to come by and remind you. Of course she’d like Carina to stay in New York. And if you do choose to disregard her wishes,” she went on, “she’ll have ample grounds to sue you for custody. And she knows how much you’d hate that.”
Carina looked down at the gold and crimson Persian rug, aware that her eyes were bugging out of her head. Lizzie, she thought. This was why she’d sent her that text saying that everything was going to be fine. Lizzie and Hudson had told her mom. They’d saved her.
The Jurg cleared his throat. “All right then. Tell your client I’m impressed by her quick response. I didn’t think she’d have the time. What with her tight yoga schedule and her meditation commitments and all.”
With the smugness of someone who knows they’ve just beaten their opponent—badly—Erica clicked her attaché case shut and pulled it off the table. “Have a nice trip back east, Mr. Jurgensen. And you take care, Carina,” she said, winking. Then she walked out the door.
As soon as the door shut, the Jurg tossed the agreement into the trash. “I suppose you had nothing to do with this,” he said. His cheeks had turned a dark shade of pink. Karl Jurgensen was not used to being foiled in his plans, much less in front of his daughter.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t even call her—”
“Don’t think for a minute I’m going to forget about this,” he interrupted. “Now get your things. We’re leaving.”
“Ten minutes?” she asked sarcastically. She couldn’t help it.
The Jurg turned around and glared at her. “Now,” he said.
Carina rushed back into her room and grabbed her iPhone. Now she knew exactly what to say to her friends.
I’M COMING HOME!! she tapped out as the California sun slowly lit up the sky.