Chapter 2: JADE - A Very Good Bad Idea

Whoever said size doesn’t matter has never been on a construction site. It’s impressive—you can’t help but marvel at the massiveness of it—the raw strength. The enormous machinery, the sexy stacks of thick steel girders, the copious heavy slide of pouring concrete. Being a woman at the top of the food chain on a job site is even headier. All eyes are on me as I walk across the sunlit yard in my three-inch heels, perfectly tailored navy slacks that hug my hips and accentuate my waist, and a pristine sleeveless white blouse. Although construction is a male-dominated business, I’m not “one of the guys” and I don’t try to be. I prefer to think of myself as Athena or Hera, confident in my feminine power, down from Mount Olympus and strolling amongst the mere mortals.

And, if I do say so myself, I make a hard hat look good.

“Good morning, Miss Buchanan.”

“Franklin.” I hold out my hand and give a firm handshake to the muscled, middle-aged construction manager, and nod to the foreman and supervisors behind him. “Are we ready?”

“Yes, ma’am. The building is clear and the chargers are set. Just waiting on your go-ahead.”

Before you can build something up, you have to break it down. Wipe away the imperfections that were there before. Start with a clean slate and level ground.

In a few moments, I’m going to turn a condemned Atlantic City hospital into dust—like magic. To make room for a shiny new casino that will be up and running in five weeks. We had some pushback from the local community at first, but it was nothing a few strategically placed campaign contributions couldn’t fix. For a project to move forward, you have to make sure the wheels are greased, as well as the palms.

All part of the job.

While I wouldn’t say I love my job, a lifetime of training has made me fantastic at it. And that makes me feel powerful too.

I check the time on my Rolex to be sure we’re on schedule. Phones have made watches pretty much obsolete, but status symbols never go out of style.

I turn my gaze to the sad, mud-colored building in the distance waiting to be put out of its misery. “Abracadabra, Franklin. Let’s make the sucker disappear.”

Unlike other little girls my age, I wasn’t allowed to play with dolls growing up—too soft, my father said. When I was eight, the nanny smuggled a Barbie Ballerina into the toy room like sparkly prison contraband, and was promptly fired for her trouble. It was Legos and Lincoln Logs, Tinkertoys and erector sets, as far back as I can remember. Building is in my blood, but my father is a man who hedges his bets.

Franklin does a safety check over the walkie-talkie, and when the all-clear comes through, he pushes a series of buttons on a square control panel, until he gets to the button. The big kahuna—the red one. After he pushes it, there’s a powerful rumble beneath our feet that grows and widens. The building seems to tremble for a moment—then, with the grace of a house of cards, the brick-and-mortar structure folds inward and collapses on itself in an embracing ring of thick dust.

It’s almost beautiful. Like a row of falling dominos or the hypnotic dance of a tornado, it’s a compelling sight. A synchronized ballet of destruction.

I grin at the burly men around me. “I love the smell of demolition in the morning.”

* * *

By afternoon, I’m back at the offices of Buchanan Industries. The top floor of a shimmering silver-and-glass building in the heart of AC. My corner office is sleek and modern, decorated in shades of cream and mauve with rose-gold accents.

Is the candy-toned decor a passive-aggressive response to the Barbie ban of my formative years? Possibly.

I glance at myself in the oval mirror, adjusting the low ponytail at the nape of my neck and smoothing several pale-blond flyaways down my temple.

Then I do a double take, in the direction of my forehead.

“Does my hair look thinner? Oh my God, am I losing my hair? I think I might be losing my hair.”

Piper, my assistant, responds without looking up from the papers she’s organizing at my desk. “The average human head sheds a hundred strands per day, and female-pattern baldness is on the rise.”

Although her squeaky, Megan Mullally from Will & Grace–like voice gives the impression of an airhead, she’s sharp as a switchblade. And she could teach a masterclass on seemingly-useless-until-you-need-them, little-known facts. Piper leans into the ditzy brunette persona so her opponents underestimate her, at their own peril. But it’s all an act.

“Also, hair is less frizzy if blow-dried while facing north. It’s all about the feng shui.”

Well . . . most of the time it’s an act.

“Have you been stressed lately?” she asks. “More than your normal-everyday dose of stress, I mean.”

I’m a high-anxiety individual. Pressure is my driving force and stress is my personal breakfast of champions. But I don’t let it show. On the outside, I’m as solid as a rock. It takes a lot of effort to hide the nerves bubbling in my stomach like an underwater volcano about to blow.

It’s probably going to give me cancer one day.

“Is my yearly physical scheduled?”

“Yep,” Piper replies. “All done-y-hoo.”

She comes around the desk and hands me the folder. Then her aquamarine eyes zero in on my hairline for a beat, before releasing a happy breath. “You’re good. You’re not losing your hair.”

Piper may be occasionally spacey, but she’s honest—and loyal to the core.

“Still, I’ll make an appointment with your acupuncturist, just to be safe. If you walk in here one day looking like Mr. Clean, your dad will fire your ass.”

* * *

A thought that passes through my mind so often it would be considered a wish, if I were the wishing type, is: if only the weekly status meetings were as easy to manage as a construction site. I’m the only woman here too, but unlike this morning, the men at the conference table aren’t my subordinates. They’re my equals, my competitors . . . and the people I happen to be related to. Family is such a strong word.

“We can’t break ground until the wetlands impact study is finalized. Goddamn environmental hippies,” says my older brother, Beckett. He has the same sharp features, narrow eyes, thick copper hair, and long, powerful physique as my father in his prime. Beckett is the firstborn and likes to pretend he’s the heir apparent of the company, but we all know that’s not true. Like the rest of us, he’s just one wrong move away from being banished to the mailroom and cut out of the will.

“Between the EPA hoops and the weather delays, the budget on this one is starting to feel like more of a suggestion than a rule,” says my younger brother, Bailey, seated to my right. His short, round stature and freckled face make him appear younger than his twenty-five years. Bailey’s the runt of the litter but he’s smart and shrewd—a cute, russet-haired hyena that you should never turn your back on.

“The drawings need to be tweaked. The branding team is pitching ‘urban serenity’ but our renderings scream ‘high-density sprawl,’” I counter.

In contrast to my brothers, my bright-green eyes, fair skin, and almost white-blond hair were passed down from she-who-must-not-be-named. In my dad’s book, those traits are strike two against me. Strike one is the fact that I was born with a vagina.

“Why am I finding out about the soil contamination from the city and not our own team? Who dropped the ball?” says Uncle Elmer, a bachelor whose sole focus in life is himself. His suits are handmade and impeccable, and his leather shoes are never not shiny—but his gaunt features and ashen skin are the real reflection of his personality. If we were the royal family, he’d be a ringer for Richard III—that’s the guy who had his nephews offed in the tower so he could claim the throne for himself.

Collectively, we are the masterminds of Buchanan Industries—the VPs, the cream of the crop, the heads of the hydra.

“I want a revised project brief on my desk this afternoon. No more mission creep.”

And at the end of the table is the ringleader who rules us all: my father, Ilias Buchanan.

If Dad were an Avenger, his superpower would be his eyes. They’re dark brown, almost black, with the ability to twist your stomach, suck the air from your lungs, and dissolve any argument from your brain with a single look.

It’s a mighty skill. One I both loathe and aspire to possess.

Like the Facebook pages of old used to say . . . it’s complicated.

“Have we closed on the Summit store chain project?” my father asks Beckett, because that deal is his baby. One he’s spent weeks of time and effort and company expenditures to bring across the finish line.

Beckett doesn’t answer right away. His chin dips and his shoulders hunch and he practically shrivels, reminding me of one of those squiggly, squirming worm-souls that Ursula chowed down on in The Little Mermaid. Disney was also off-limits in our household—but in eighth grade, I borrowed the whole princess catalogue on Blu-ray from a classmate and watched them in the dead of night while my father was out of town on business.

With our upbringing, it’s a wonder the three of us turned out normal. Although, if I’m being honest, normal is probably a bit of a stretch.

“They’ve . . . decided to go in a different direction,” Beckett eventually stammers out.

I want to say I don’t find his failure magically delicious . . . but I would so be lying.

Because that’s what these weekly meetings are all about. A high-stakes poker match with each of us trying to spot each other’s tells, anticipate one another’s next move, figure out who’s got a royal flush and who’s bluffing with a hand full of nothing. Our family motto is practically What makes you look bad, makes me look better—we should have it engraved on a plaque somewhere.

Bailey’s enjoying it too—there’s a twinkle in his eye and a not-subtle smirk on his round freckled face.

My father frowns, dropping the temperature in the room five degrees.

“Another direction? Who?”

Beckett swallows harshly. “Burke Developers.”

And just like that, my joy at Beckett’s floppage is sucked down the drain.

Because if there’s someone I dislike even more than my older brother, it’s Damon “Demon” Burke.

He’s a cocky, egotistical rat-bastard. But worse—he has every reason to be.

And since his firm first blipped onto the real-estate development radar, Burke’s made it his mission to zero in on our potential projects—and take them out from under us. He’s become a thorn in our side, our biggest competition. In technical terms: a cockblocker.

Damon Burke is bad for business and since I have every intention of being the one running this company after my father heads to those pearly gates . . . or wherever . . . that means Damon Burke is bad for me.

“That’s the second project this month,” my father says. “Explain yourself.”

Beckett’s voice goes higher, not precisely whining, but close. “He underbid us. I don’t know how he’s doing it. I crunched the numbers, but we couldn’t match him without losing money on the deal.”

“And while you were ‘crunching the numbers,’ did you consider waiving your commission?”

Beckett stares at the table like an escape hatch might miraculously spring open from it. “Well . . . no, I didn’t.”

The table rattles under the pound of my father’s fist. “Goddamn it, Beckett. Do I have to do your job for you?”

Beckett holds up a hand. “Relax, Dad.”

Whoa. I choke on my saliva.

“Let’s not get too excited.”

Bailey and I make mutually amazed eye contact, and even Elmer looks taken aback. But none of us moves a muscle or says a word. When your adversary is putting the noose around their own neck, it’s best to just sit back and let it happen.

“They’ve scooped a few small projects. Table scraps. I . . .”

My father’s expression goes thunder-cloud dark.

“Another word and it’s the idiot chair for you.”

The idiot chair is a lone, wooden seat in the corner of the conference room, where anyone my father finds particularly displeasing is relegated.

“If a rat eats enough scraps, it gets bigger and invites its friends. And before you know it there’s an infestation in your walls, your cabinets, eating you out of house and home until they decide to start gnawing on you in your sleep. Who’s going to starve when Burke Developers starts devouring our food, boy? Who’s going to get served to the rats? You? Cause it sure as shit won’t be me.”

In the midst of this epic drama, the conference room door opens and Piper walks in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,” she says hesitantly. “It’s just . . . I have news.”

She pauses, looking toward me, her features soft.

“Well, spit it out, moron,” my older brother demands.

There was a time, when we were younger, that I was deeply afraid of Beckett. Because while Bailey can be sneaky and conniving, Beckett was just born mean. And the reflex is still there. The sensation of fear, crawling up my throat, tells me to stay quiet—hidden from his attention—because it’s safer that way.

But I don’t give in to it. I refuse to let myself be afraid of him ever again.

“Don’t talk to her like that.”

“She’s an employee of this company. I’ll talk to her any fucking way I like, Jade.”

“She’s my assistant. My employee. So no, you won’t.”

He spikes up out of his chair, leaning across the table, his jaw tight and hands clenched. “Or what? What are you gonna do?”

I lean right back at him, my gaze hard and my tone indomitable.

“I’ll make sure you never close another deal in your life. You can kiss your sweet commissions goodbye and you can forget all about Damon Burke swiping your projects because I’ll be doing it for him.”

My father watches us like a spectator at a fencing match. And he doesn’t disapprove—he likes us to keep our blades sharp.

Dismissing Beckett, I turn to Piper.

“Go ahead, Piper. What were you saying?”

Her voice is hushed, like she’s talking only to me.

“Clarabelle Spicket passed away last night.”

And though I know it’s illogical, that it shouldn’t be a shock, the news hits me like a mallet to the breastbone, momentarily knocking the breath from my lungs.

“Are you sure?” Uncle Elmer asks. “How do you know?”

“We went to high school with Jimmy Mopseed,” Piper explains. “His dad owns the funeral parlor on Dune Drive.”

My father is a multimillionaire, but he wasn’t born one. Although he could’ve sent us to the best boarding schools in the country, he wanted his children to grow up with the grit and mental toughness only a public-school education can instill.

“His gym locker was next to mine junior year,” Bailey says. “He always smelled like formaldehyde.”

“That’s him.” Piper nods. “Anyway, he’s in the family business now and we added each other on Snapchat and he just snapped me the news. He said Mrs. Spicket didn’t want any public services but they’re . . . taking care of her arrangements.”

“No need to waste money on fancy,” Clara told me once. “All I want is a good pine box and a spot in the ground next to my Harvey.”

I school my features and carefully choose my words. “That’s . . . unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” Beckett repeats, like a ghoul. “It’s fantastic. She should’ve died years ago. There’s nothing more gauche than overstaying your welcome.”

My father shrugs. “The timing is good. You’re sure the bequeathment is locked down tight?”

“Tight as a drum,” I tell him in a hollow voice. “Clara was very clear. She’s leaving the house to me. She put it in the will.”

And then my father smiles. It’s charming and sincere and full of glorious pride.

“At least one of my children knows how to do their job. Well done, Jade.”

Coming from him, that’s some high praise. And because intermittent reinforcement is the most addictive, his approval hits like a snort of cocaine—sending a rush of pleasing warmth and elation zinging through my limbs. With the tiniest aftertaste of self-loathing for craving it so much in the first place.

“Why don’t you come to the house tonight for dinner?” he adds. “We can discuss the details and next steps on the project.”

Although he could live anywhere, my father still resides in the same house in Shore Haven we grew up in—the second-largest house in town while Clara’s still stands. It’s a monument to his success, his very own golden, Louis XIV–decorated, shining castle on the hill. Since the three of us moved out, visitation is by invite only.

I nod. “Great, Dad. Sure.”

“How about we make it a family dinner?” Bailey suggests, because he’s jonesing for a fix too. “Haven’t had one of those in a while.”

“No,” my father barks. “Just your sister.”

And yes, I preen. I can’t help myself. I give a gloating smile to both my brothers, restraining the impulse to stick my tongue out at them. Our relationship never evolved past adolescence—maybe toddlerhood—so that’s how we roll.

“A little hunger is just what you boys need to light a fire under your asses. I’m sick of hearing about what you did yesterday. Produce, damn it—and I don’t mean excuses.”

And that is how our weekly status meeting concludes . . . just like any other big, happy family business.

* * *

Back in my office, I sit behind my desk and pull out my sketchpad from the locked bottom drawer. Drawing is a hobby, something I do to relax, something I keep to myself. Usually I draw designs for our more historical development projects—visions of how I imagine they might look if time and effort were put into restoring them—bringing them back to life. I flip through until I find the picture I’m looking for. It’s a portrait of Clara, sitting in the same rocking chair she sat in in her parlor when we had brunch every Sunday for the last year and a half.

At first, it was just a strategy. Everyone and their brother had been trying to get Clara’s house, and my angle was to talk with her, spend time with her—young woman to old. But then . . . it was something different. I haven’t had a woman to look up to in my life since I was six years old.

And I didn’t know how much I’d missed it, until Clara became that woman.

I run my finger over the contours of her beautiful, smiling face, smudging the pencil just a bit. I trace her eyes that had seen so much, held so much wisdom. And my vision blurs, because I can’t believe I’m never going to get to see her again. If I had known last week was the last time, I would have thanked her. I would have told her how much she meant to me.

I hope she knew anyway. God, I hope she knew.

There’s a knock on my office door.

I clear my throat and wipe my eyes, shoving the sketchpad back in its drawer.

“Come in.”

Piper carries in a tray with a rose and two tall mimosas.

“I figured we could drink a toast to Mrs. Spicket,” she says. But then, as she looks at me, her brows draw together with concern. “You okay?”

I lift my chin, shrugging. “Yeah. I’m fine. It was just a business deal. Eyes on the prize, you know? Mission accomplished. It was always about the house.”

“Okay, Jade.” Piper nods. “Sure.”

But she sets the tray down on my desk and carefully approaches me. “Do you want to come over after you’re done here? Queen Charlotte just dropped on Netflix. I hear King George’s mad ass is a thing of mad beauty.”

“Can’t.” I shake my head. “I’m having dinner with my father.”

Piper pumps her arms like a hungover cheerleader. “Oh . . . yaaaay. Sounds like fun.” Then she picks up one of the glasses and downs the mimosa in one shot. “Well, text me if you change your mind. I’ll be home.”

“Okay.” I look up into her eyes. “Thanks, Piper. I appreciate it.”

She nods with a gentle smile and heads out the door.

After she leaves, I take a breath. Stand up and suck it up.

Because this is life—carcinogenic though mine may be at times. We meet people, care about them, lose them and say goodbye. And then we move on.

That’s how it goes.

Still, I find myself walking around my desk and picking up the remaining mimosa.

I turn to the window, look up toward the deep-blue sky, and raise the glass.

“I’ll miss you, Clara. And I promise to remember you. I’ll remember you forever.”

There’s a taste of tears in the back of my throat, but I take a long drink and swallow them down.