fiancé of hers. Grayson.
Charles shook his head. A terrible name. Cold and limp, followed by a diminutive. The son of something boring and colorless could only be even more boring and colorless, yet somehow his brilliant daughter had been taken in by him. It was true that the boy had been good-looking. Charles suspected sex was the lure, though he didn’t quite want to admit that to himself.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Grace had taken off her ridiculous fur vest and little boots, and slipped on a pair of those fabric shoes that Charles had noticed on the feet of more and more of his friends’ children recently. Ugly shoes, like the ones that poor people in China wore. “What if we pull the car over and I stand on the hood? I think I can boost myself up from there.”
She could, and now her head poked out the back door.
He’d never seen the warehouse so empty before. It was infuriating that someone would take hold of his business and sell it off in pieces instead of letting Charles turn it back around. Because he could. Even though Lehman Brothers filed Chapter 11 yesterday and interest rates were down to 2 percent, he could have turned it all back around because America still needed makeup. He knew, with the certitude of someone who had grown up calling this land across the Pacific Mei Guo —Beautiful Country—that, more than any other country, this was one that would never reject improvement. Even those signs along the freeway said it: KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL . But the bank with its unimaginative managers had refused to see things his way. They’d rather pull down the entire country than believe in Charles Wang.
Shafts of streetlight filtered into the building through the dusty windows, giving off just enough of a glow for Charles to find the pile of boxes destined for Opelika.
“So why do we need these?”
“We make personal delivery.”
“Okay, but why these?”
Why these? Because it was one of the few orders he’d personally sold since his business had grown. Ellie and Trip were a glowing young couple that he’d met on a flight to New York. They’d been bumped up to business class and refused his offer to switch seats, instead including him in their enthusiasm over the warm mixed nuts and free mimosas. The pair were en route from one friend’s wedding in Malibu to another’s on Cape Cod. Afterwards, they were moving back to her Alabama hometown to open a new-school take on a traditional general store. Handmade clothes, vintage hoes, and whole grains. Enchanted by their entrepreneurial drive and soft southern accents, Charles found himself recounting his first flight to America—the nausea, the revelation in the bathroom, all of it.
“I come to America to get rich, and now I am!” he’d finished.
“So you came here for the American Dream!” said Ellie, pleased.
Charles had laughed. “Not only American Dream! Everybody, every country, have same dream! Al Gore think he invent Internet, America think they invent American Dream!” And then he found himself convincing them to develop a line of magnolia-scented lotions and candles. “Magnolia oil you get local, send to me, I do everything else, you sell and say ‘local magnolia’ and everybody will buy!” he’d enthused, imagining it as the beginning of a southern beauty empire for them, a surefire melding of gracious tradition and modern style. Pooh-poohing their lack of capital, Charles waived his minimums and promised that they could spread out their payments, that their orders could grow as their business grew.
He did it for that bubbling, champagne-in-the-veins high, that desire to be part of someone else’s new life, someone else’s realized potential.
Vampires must feel like that.
“Because I sell to them personally, and I make them spend all their money, so Daddy feel bad if they lose. Besides, we never go to Alabama before.”
“But couldn’t you just mail it?”
“Business is all about the personal.”
She looked at him,
Charles shook his head. A terrible name. Cold and limp, followed by a diminutive. The son of something boring and colorless could only be even more boring and colorless, yet somehow his brilliant daughter had been taken in by him. It was true that the boy had been good-looking. Charles suspected sex was the lure, though he didn’t quite want to admit that to himself.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Grace had taken off her ridiculous fur vest and little boots, and slipped on a pair of those fabric shoes that Charles had noticed on the feet of more and more of his friends’ children recently. Ugly shoes, like the ones that poor people in China wore. “What if we pull the car over and I stand on the hood? I think I can boost myself up from there.”
She could, and now her head poked out the back door.
He’d never seen the warehouse so empty before. It was infuriating that someone would take hold of his business and sell it off in pieces instead of letting Charles turn it back around. Because he could. Even though Lehman Brothers filed Chapter 11 yesterday and interest rates were down to 2 percent, he could have turned it all back around because America still needed makeup. He knew, with the certitude of someone who had grown up calling this land across the Pacific Mei Guo —Beautiful Country—that, more than any other country, this was one that would never reject improvement. Even those signs along the freeway said it: KEEP AMERICA BEAUTIFUL . But the bank with its unimaginative managers had refused to see things his way. They’d rather pull down the entire country than believe in Charles Wang.
Shafts of streetlight filtered into the building through the dusty windows, giving off just enough of a glow for Charles to find the pile of boxes destined for Opelika.
“So why do we need these?”
“We make personal delivery.”
“Okay, but why these?”
Why these? Because it was one of the few orders he’d personally sold since his business had grown. Ellie and Trip were a glowing young couple that he’d met on a flight to New York. They’d been bumped up to business class and refused his offer to switch seats, instead including him in their enthusiasm over the warm mixed nuts and free mimosas. The pair were en route from one friend’s wedding in Malibu to another’s on Cape Cod. Afterwards, they were moving back to her Alabama hometown to open a new-school take on a traditional general store. Handmade clothes, vintage hoes, and whole grains. Enchanted by their entrepreneurial drive and soft southern accents, Charles found himself recounting his first flight to America—the nausea, the revelation in the bathroom, all of it.
“I come to America to get rich, and now I am!” he’d finished.
“So you came here for the American Dream!” said Ellie, pleased.
Charles had laughed. “Not only American Dream! Everybody, every country, have same dream! Al Gore think he invent Internet, America think they invent American Dream!” And then he found himself convincing them to develop a line of magnolia-scented lotions and candles. “Magnolia oil you get local, send to me, I do everything else, you sell and say ‘local magnolia’ and everybody will buy!” he’d enthused, imagining it as the beginning of a southern beauty empire for them, a surefire melding of gracious tradition and modern style. Pooh-poohing their lack of capital, Charles waived his minimums and promised that they could spread out their payments, that their orders could grow as their business grew.
He did it for that bubbling, champagne-in-the-veins high, that desire to be part of someone else’s new life, someone else’s realized potential.
Vampires must feel like that.
“Because I sell to them personally, and I make them spend all their money, so Daddy feel bad if they lose. Besides, we never go to Alabama before.”
“But couldn’t you just mail it?”
“Business is all about the personal.”
She looked at him,
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