Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90260 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
My father stops next to an intercom with a camera and pushes the button. The gates swing open without a squeak. We follow the road to where several cars are parked around a fountain on a circular driveway.
Benjamin Edwards appears on his doorstep before my father has cut the engine. I get out and straighten my jacket, taking stock of the surroundings like a soldier scouts a battlefield.
The house is the most impressive for miles around, built on the highest hill. Edwards stands on the porch like a cock crowing on his dunghill. In this sparsely populated part of South Africa, he may be the wealthiest man living in the biggest house. Compared to our property in Corsica, which is nothing short of a castle, the house that defines Edwards’s status is unsubstantial. Inconsequential.
Much good all that money does us. Like Edwards’s pretentious residence, our stronghold and landscaped gardens are for show. It’s like putting a scumbag in a fancy suit. The centuries-old stigma still clings to our name. We come from a long line of vicious pirates and uneducated scoundrels. We’re not welcome in the circles of the refined, religious, and elite.
That will change soon.
Edwards descends the steps to meet us.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he says, shaking our hands, but his fake smile says otherwise.
The garden is buzzing with the commotion appropriate for a rich girl’s sixteenth birthday party. Staff wearing black uniforms and white aprons are running up and down between the house and a cool truck parked in the far corner of the garden. White and pink flower wreaths decorate the balustrades, and a silver balloon arch frames the doorway. The breeze carries the notes of string music from the front of the house.
Edwards leads us to the lounge, which is similarly decorated with flowers and balloons. Bouquets of lilies and roses perfume the air. A round table in the center of the room is piled high with parcels wrapped in pink with white ribbons and vice versa. Did they specify the color of the wrapping paper like a fucking dress code on the invitation? I won’t be surprised if Edwards introduces his daughter by marching her down the stairs in billows of white and pink voile.
What does she look like? I resisted the urge to look her up on social media. A part of me, the darker, more deviant part that can resist neither gamble nor dare, wanted to walk into this unprepared and let the surprise take me wherever it would. Shock me. Please me.
I’m about to find out which.
My father takes the box wrapped in golden paper from his jacket pocket and leaves it with the mountain of packets on the table. He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to select a fine piece of craftsmanship from one of the best jewelers in Italy.
The sliding doors are open, revealing the green lawn that sweeps to the edge of the dune and the sea that’s visible all the way to the convex curve of the horizon. The party is already in full swing. Guests mingle around cocktail tables, their droning conversations audible above the music. The string quartet is set up under a pine tree, the musicians expertly keeping the volume on a level that allows for chatter.
The women are decked out in their best, some of them sporting hats you’d see at the Derby, and, like my father and Edwards, the men are dressed in tuxedos. Personally, I prefer a style less universal. I opted for a modern European look with a designer jacket, a fitted shirt, and tailored pants.
“Welcome to my humble home,” Edwards says, waving a waiter closer. “Can I offer you a glass of champagne?”
“Maybe Scotch first,” my father says. “While we talk business.”
Edwards glances at the top of the stairs and then at his watch. “It’s hardly the moment.”
My father’s smile is indulgent. “It won’t take long.”
Our host doesn’t have a choice but to comply. Our family is an important service provider—for lack of a better word—in his business. Although, from our impromptu visit to his office yesterday, I got the impression he wasn’t ecstatic about our presence.
As manners dictate, my father asked about the welfare of his family and specifically about news of his youngest daughter. I could almost see the gears turning in Edwards’s head, questioning the unlikely coincidence of our uninvited visit that happened to fall on the date of his daughter’s sixteenth birthday. He couldn’t do otherwise but to tell us about the party. The town is small. News travels. It would’ve been rude and politically incorrect not to invite us. We traveled across the whole of Africa after all, going to considerable efforts and expenses to call on him. Of course, my father accepted the invitation gracefully.
Judging by Edwards’s reaction yesterday, I won’t be surprised if my bride-to-be has no knowledge of my existence. Edwards isn’t a good actor. He couldn’t hide his aversion. He barely endured shaking my hand. People either fear or despise me. Mostly, they do both.