not be gracing you with my presence. Nor will you be allowed access to our home on Tuesday to “evaluate it.”
Go fuck yourself.
Monty
7
Blood
M onty paced back and forth in the small living area of the guesthouse, running his fingers through his wet hair. Returning to Arcadia Lane from the ball field at least thirty minutes after Helen and Adele were due home, he’d been dismayed to see that her car wasn’t in the drive. He had gone through the day’s mail, drunk a bottle of water, showered, and poured himself a large cocktail. What the fuck was Helen doing, emailing his sister, trying to arrange a meeting? And where was his wife right now? She hadn’t answered his call or his text. She rarely worked late, and she always let him know if she had to stay at the office to finish some stupid brochure.
Between the gym and the practice field with Chip and a bunch of seven-year-olds, Monty had retrieved and read Shepherd’s email on his iPad. Helen didn’t know that he had managed to get one of the first iPads available, nor how he had done it. As soon as he had it in his hands, he had immediately disabled the signature setting “Sent from my iPad”—no one needed to know he was in possession of Apple’s newest toy before its official release next month. He had paid a premium to get it early. There was no way he was going to spend his time in a long line between two nerds at a mall, or at home waiting for an online shipment that could take weeks. He brought his iPad with him everywhere, surfing the web and managing his email whenever he was out and about. Handier than his laptop, it had become indispensable to keep up with the many projects he had previously filed solely in his brain, a brain that was so much faster than those of other people.
Which might have been a source of deep annoyance if it weren’t for the very real advantages to be gained. Like with that moron Shepherd. That asshole hadn’t taken Monty’s call this afternoon, so he had been forced to leave a message; then Shepherd had attacked him in a patronizing email sent to all the parties. That fucker is not going to micromanage me, no matter what his “boss” tells him to do. It was clear that Candace’s lackey was a fool, in over his head in his career. Monty took great satisfaction in the presumption that Shepherd had lost tons of his clients’ money during the financial crisis of 2008. How many of them had taken their shrunken portfolios elsewhere? Monty surmised that it was a large number, and that Candace herself had lost a boatload.
Downing the last of the vodka in his glass, Monty refilled it with ice and poured another, then heard the approach of Helen’s car.
“Come on, Boo,” she said to their daughter as the two of them entered from the driveway. Monty couldn’t stand this nickname she used—the only Boo he’d ever heard of was Boo Radley, the village idiot-recluse.
“What the fuck, Helen!”
“What the fuck, Mommy!” Adele parroted her father, her bright smile shining.
“Monty! Please!” Helen bent down to eye level with the little girl. “Don’t say that, sweetie. It’s not nice.”
“But Daddy—”
“I know, but Daddy didn’t mean to. Go on into Mommy’s room now and turn on the TV.”
Adele did as she was bid, skipping the fifteen feet through the bathroom and into the bedroom. Helen shut the door gently.
“Since we’re having another baby, Monty, I just thought it’s time to—”
“You thought ? What were you thinking, Hel?” Monty knew she hated it when he called her that. “I can’t imagine what was going through your mind. Did you think that Queen Candace would email you back? Or call you? She won’t even talk to me! And why did you think it was up to you to tell her about the baby?”
“What do you mean? Did you call to tell her?”
“I just said, she won’t talk to me! I had to leave a voicemail—”
“Monty, listen. I—”
“No, you listen. You are not to email her. Or that
Go fuck yourself.
Monty
7
Blood
M onty paced back and forth in the small living area of the guesthouse, running his fingers through his wet hair. Returning to Arcadia Lane from the ball field at least thirty minutes after Helen and Adele were due home, he’d been dismayed to see that her car wasn’t in the drive. He had gone through the day’s mail, drunk a bottle of water, showered, and poured himself a large cocktail. What the fuck was Helen doing, emailing his sister, trying to arrange a meeting? And where was his wife right now? She hadn’t answered his call or his text. She rarely worked late, and she always let him know if she had to stay at the office to finish some stupid brochure.
Between the gym and the practice field with Chip and a bunch of seven-year-olds, Monty had retrieved and read Shepherd’s email on his iPad. Helen didn’t know that he had managed to get one of the first iPads available, nor how he had done it. As soon as he had it in his hands, he had immediately disabled the signature setting “Sent from my iPad”—no one needed to know he was in possession of Apple’s newest toy before its official release next month. He had paid a premium to get it early. There was no way he was going to spend his time in a long line between two nerds at a mall, or at home waiting for an online shipment that could take weeks. He brought his iPad with him everywhere, surfing the web and managing his email whenever he was out and about. Handier than his laptop, it had become indispensable to keep up with the many projects he had previously filed solely in his brain, a brain that was so much faster than those of other people.
Which might have been a source of deep annoyance if it weren’t for the very real advantages to be gained. Like with that moron Shepherd. That asshole hadn’t taken Monty’s call this afternoon, so he had been forced to leave a message; then Shepherd had attacked him in a patronizing email sent to all the parties. That fucker is not going to micromanage me, no matter what his “boss” tells him to do. It was clear that Candace’s lackey was a fool, in over his head in his career. Monty took great satisfaction in the presumption that Shepherd had lost tons of his clients’ money during the financial crisis of 2008. How many of them had taken their shrunken portfolios elsewhere? Monty surmised that it was a large number, and that Candace herself had lost a boatload.
Downing the last of the vodka in his glass, Monty refilled it with ice and poured another, then heard the approach of Helen’s car.
“Come on, Boo,” she said to their daughter as the two of them entered from the driveway. Monty couldn’t stand this nickname she used—the only Boo he’d ever heard of was Boo Radley, the village idiot-recluse.
“What the fuck, Helen!”
“What the fuck, Mommy!” Adele parroted her father, her bright smile shining.
“Monty! Please!” Helen bent down to eye level with the little girl. “Don’t say that, sweetie. It’s not nice.”
“But Daddy—”
“I know, but Daddy didn’t mean to. Go on into Mommy’s room now and turn on the TV.”
Adele did as she was bid, skipping the fifteen feet through the bathroom and into the bedroom. Helen shut the door gently.
“Since we’re having another baby, Monty, I just thought it’s time to—”
“You thought ? What were you thinking, Hel?” Monty knew she hated it when he called her that. “I can’t imagine what was going through your mind. Did you think that Queen Candace would email you back? Or call you? She won’t even talk to me! And why did you think it was up to you to tell her about the baby?”
“What do you mean? Did you call to tell her?”
“I just said, she won’t talk to me! I had to leave a voicemail—”
“Monty, listen. I—”
“No, you listen. You are not to email her. Or that
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