Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem. Read online

  Riches & Rags

  By Camille Nagasaki

  Published by

  camelot books

  Riches & Rags © 2016 Camille Nagasaki

  ISBN: 978-0-9950080-1-4

  1st Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Camille Nagasaki

  www.CamilleNagasaki.com

  This book is dedicated to my late mommy, Carol Nagasaki, a queen of a woman, who encouraged me and believed in and cheered for me in everything I did. I hold you in my heart. xo

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Only when we venture past the surface do we truly appreciate the truth and meaning beyond what we perceive.

  1

  I give an effort. Really, I do. I make a valiant attempt to focus on the latest issue of Veranda. As I slide the pages along, I try my utmost to become engrossed in the stunning designs and to not obsess over the precious time slipping away with every painstaking minute that drags by. I strive to remain calm and to overlook my frustration that is reaching a near-boiling point. Honestly, if only—

  Oooh.

  “Look at this Michael Amini table; it’s exquisite.” I lift my tablet for a closer look. “This piece would definitely be gorgeous in our dining room—that is, if I decide to go über modern!”

  I glance up, hoping he’s listening or showing any sign of interest, and am offended to see he isn’t. I narrow my eyes and heave an incredibly loud and obvious sigh, hoping to force his attention.

  Nothing.

  I’ve been hunkered down in Micky’s study for what feels like forever—though his office aboard Victory, our yacht, is impeccable. Gleaming, floor-to-ceiling polished mahogany; illuminated turquoise glass panels for a contemporary touch; plush, ivory Italian leather sofas; linear gas fireplaces; and, of course, views of the glistening Pacific Ocean from every porthole are enough for anyone who craves luxury, comfort, and excess. Micky is beautiful to watch; his baby face is divine, even when deep in concentration. His smooth, tanned skin exudes a healthy glow and his eyes appear to dance as they move across the screen.

  But even my patience has a limit. I drum my nails on my tablet in a deliberate and irritating pattern while piercing him with my eyes—just waiting for a reaction. He continues typing away on his laptop with a laser-like intensity, seemingly oblivious to my presence.

  I sigh again and, as I can’t stand it anymore, I fling my tablet to the side like a Frisbee and shoot Micky the look of death.

  He—finally!—raises bemused eyes to mine for a brief moment as he stretches his arms above his head. “What’s the matter, baby?” His voice is soft and tender. But now I’m too agitated to be warmed by his charm.

  “What do you think? It’s our anniversary get-away, and I’m bored as hell!” I can’t help letting the hurt creep into my voice. Why does he always have to work like a fiend, and on our anniversary of all times?

  Micky’s attention wanes and is sucked back to the computer vortex and his beloved business.

  “Honey,” he says in a distracted voice as he reads something on his screen, “go enjoy the sun. I’ll wrap this up soon.”

  Soon. Could he be vaguer?

  I now realize my efforts have been futile; there isn’t a glimmer of hope in gaining his undivided attention. I might as well go outside and take advantage of the last few hours of sunshine; there sure as hell isn’t anything else to do.

  Defeated, I inhale a deep, quivering breath and rise from my seat. Shaking my head in dismay, I shoot one last, pitiful glance in his direction before I leave the study. Then I pull the door behind me with a bang and plod my way to the outer sun deck upstairs.

  Outside, the air is pungent with sea and salt. The wind whips at my hair as I lean against the freshly polished rail and inhale deeply. Our yacht slices through the water in all its 110 feet of majesty and grace. The hull’s rise and fall is hypnotic and soothing. For a moment, I take in the beauty of my surroundings. The landscape of British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast is truly breathtaking—rolling green hills, snow-capped mountains, and majestic forests are displayed in perfect harmony as far as the eye can see. The ocean is particularly striking today, turquoise and glistening. It’s slightly windy, but the sun is shining, so I can’t complain—although, this would be a hell of a lot more enjoyable if Micky would ditch his miserable work shit and get this anniversary started! I sink into a leather chaise and pull on a pair of Versace sunglasses.

  Hmm. Still bored.

  Well, I’ll just have to make my own fun.

  I sit upright looking alert, and—sure enough!—a crew member, dressed impeccably in navy and crisp white, stands at a discreet distance, though he appears ready and eager to serve. I don’t believe I’ve seen him before; but that doesn’t matter.

  “Would you like something, Mrs. Capello?”

  “It’s Carson,” I snap, irritated by his slip-up.

  “Sorry?”

  “Ms. Carson. I don’t go by my husband’s last name. God, weren’t you briefed?”

  “I’m very sorry, Ms. Carson. I wasn’t. How may I be of service?”

  I groan inwardly and say nothing, waiting for the momentum to build. It’s nice to have someone’s attention, and I’m not going to squander it. “Tell the chef I feel like something.” I sink back into the chaise and stretch, trying to relax my nerves and play the part like I don’t have a care in the world.

  “Of course. Would you like something savory or sweet?”

  Sigh. Who the hell cares? I’m not even hungry, but there’s nothing else to do. “Well, I’m not sure.” I pretend to consider his question. “I want…seafood. Shellfish. And maybe some Nicola gnocchi served with a glass of Quails’ Gate Pinot Blanc. And don’t bother with truffle oil; it’s overrated.” I glance at Server Boy to find he’s smiling at me with a ridiculous grin. “Aren’t you going to write this down?” I scoff. I can’t help it, this kid infuriates me.

  “No need, Ms. Carson, it’s all right here.” He taps at his temple and gives me a wink of all things.

  I frown in return and fix him with a menacing stare. “I also want fresh key lime pie.” I raise my eyebrow, challenging him.

  “Oh, actually, I’m not sure if we have—”

  “That’ll be all. Now, pass this on to the chef and hurry back.” I turn away, and after a b
rief hesitation, he retreats to the galley. I’m not done with him yet. Speaking of finishing, where’s Micky? I feel my blood start to boil but concentrate on control and deep breathing. Ok, just chill. Don’t stress, he’ll be here soon.

  Someone clears their throat, and I lift my eyes to find Server Boy has returned. “Good, you’re back.” I flop onto my side and sigh.

  “Would you like something else, Ms. Carson?”

  “This chaise is on the hard side. But I don’t want to move, the sun is ideal where I am. I need you to fetch some cushions, pillows, and a cashmere blanket. Make me a nice nest, will you?” I admire my french manicure, and he retreats once more.

  Moments later, he emerges with two other crew members, their arms laden with soft, lovely pillows and blankets. Perfect. “Put some cushions behind my back—but I don’t want to sit erect,” I instruct a female crew member. “Support my arms, and put one under my legs.” I move about to allow the crew to place the pillows, enjoying their fawning and feeling almost like royalty. Damn right!

  “I’m really getting hungry.” I direct my pointed gaze to Server Boy, and he scurries away to the galley.

  “I need my iPod from my cabin,” I say, turning to the girl. She nods and dashes off in the direction of my room, followed closely by the third attendant.

  “And you can fetch my sunblock and some gum,” I call after him. “Also, get my sunhat. Can’t anyone around here anticipate?” And where the hell is Micky? I grab my phone and compose a quick text.

  This anniversary blows. I should have just married myself.

  Micky replies almost instantly.

  Don’t worry baby. Relax. Done soon…

  I won’t hold my breath.

  The crew return with my things. And a while later, the server approaches with a tray. The first thing I notice, with displeasure, is the pecan pie. I like pecan pie, but I asked for key lime.

  “Where’s my pie?” I demand. Server Boy mumbles something about not having the right ingredients on board. I dismiss this with an exasperated wave, and move on to inspect the main dish. The gnocchi is topped with fresh prawns, mussels, and scallops. I reach for the glass of wine and take a swig. The wine is perfect, but that was to be expected. Next I raise a mouthful of prawn and gnocchi to my lips. It’s steaming hot but tastes bland. The gnocchi is slightly gummy and the prawn could be a hell of a lot fresher—considering we’re on the bloody ocean! I let my fork fall to the plate with a clatter and sink back into the pillows in dismay.

  “Is there a problem, Mrs.…uh…Ms. Carson?”

  “I’ve lost my appetite.” I pout.

  “Ohhh. Well, what’s wrong?” he asks, appearing concerned.

  “You take this back and tell the chef I’m unimpressed. Better yet, tell her to start looking for a new job when we get back to port.”

  Server Boy’s placid features betray an array of emotions, from shock to outrage. His civil charm has evaporated, and now he’s gawking at me like I’m nuts. Nobody looks at me like that. Not on my boat. “What the hell are you looking at?” I bolt forward, ready for a fight.

  “I can’t believe you would do that. She’s an amazing chef, and you’re just going to fire her based on one meal?”

  “Listen, you little shit! Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do! I’m incredulous at your nerve, so guess what? You can join her in the job search.” I sink back into the chaise with satisfaction. Ha! Two crew fired, but well worth the entertainment value. Plus, how can Micky expect to wow clients aboard Victory when the food is mediocre? And who needs staff with attitude? I’m pleased with myself for making such well-executed decisions.

  I relax against the down pillows and close my eyes, enjoying both the rhythm of riding the waves and the cool breeze on my face. After a moment, I hear the subdued server turn on his heel and plod away.

  I’m startled awake to find the weather has cooled and the sun is low in the sky; I can’t believe I drifted off to sleep. I shiver and wrap my bare arms around myself. Scanning the horizon, I realize with a start we’re back near Bowen Island.

  What?

  I toss the blankets and pillows aside and scramble to my feet, growing more bewildered by the second. I race to Micky’s study, sprinting down the deck toward his quarters, heels clipping and hair flying. Why are we going back? We’re supposed to be heading out to Savary Island.

  I fling open his door and barge inside, hands on hips. Micky is on the phone, looking tense, and I notice his left hand is clenched into a tight fist. He seems annoyed by my intrusion but continues his conversation. “I don’t give a damn if the legal team is against this. Bloody well remind them they work for me. The entire acquisition depends on this, and we can’t afford delays. Don’t call me until it’s rectified, goddammit!”

  He chucks his phone to the side and whirls around to face me with obvious exasperation. “I thought you were tanning, Lane. Why are you barging in on me like this?”

  “Why are we going back?” I demand, squaring my shoulders.

  Micky clenches his jaw and sits back down at his computer and begins scrolling through a document. “We’re picking up a potential client. I need to nail this guy before Forester seals the deal.”

  “A client? You’ve invited a client? To our anniversary?”

  Micky glances up and his features soften. “I’m sorry, baby. Really I am. Don’t worry; I’ll make it up to you. We’ll do a shopping trip to Milan or something soon. And please, be on your best behavior. I need you with me on this. Understand?” He doesn’t bother waiting for my reply.

  The way he says things is so final—conversation over. There’s no way I can convince him to cancel the meeting. I already know what the answer will be. And now Micky has become engrossed in whatever he’s reading.

  “I DON’T BELIEVE THIS!” I scream. I’m seething with rage. It’s unfathomable how many times his business takes precedence over our marriage. Now, our romantic getaway for two has become a fucking party, and I have to spend the night as arm candy—the trophy wife. And make idle chat with some wretched client. And not even a client, a potential client. Fuck me!

  I cannot believe this.

  I leave the workhorse to his bloody business and flounce off to my own stateroom on the lower deck. I slam the door, flop onto the king-size bed, and yank out my phone to call Billy.

  “Billy Jean Florist,” Billy answers, in his singsong way. I feel instant relief just hearing my cousin and best friend’s voice. Billy’s full name is Willame Jean, pronounced the French way, as his birth father is Haitian. Billy happens to be a dedicated Michael Jackson fan, and he’s incredibly proud of his name.

  “Billy my anniversary getaway is horrible!” I wail. I know I’m whining, but I can’t help it. I relish the chance to have someone to vent to and feel myself growing more dramatic. “In fact, we’re on our way back to Coal Harbour to pick up some asshole client, and now I have to entertain the dickhead! Can you believe it? And now our plans—”

  “Lane, I’m with a customer here. Talk later, okay, bye.”

  I stare at my phone, gobsmacked. He did not just… I drop my phone with a huff. So much for that! And, hey—Micky hasn’t even presented me with an anniversary gift. I can always expect some jewelry—purchased by one of his assistants, no doubt—waiting for me in my stateroom. Even last year’s Harry Winston diamond tennis bracelet, virtually identical to 2007’s birthday gift, was better than nothing. My anger and frustration toward Micky builds. I really have no way out of this predicament. Unless…

  Inspired, I pick up my phone again and text the crew to pack my room. Next, I text Denise, my maid, to schedule a town car to Coal Harbour, my Shiatsu masseuse for this evening at home, and a meeting with Billy in my home spa for tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. sharp. If Billy’s too busy to speak with me, we’ll schedule it in.

  Feeling satisfied, I roll over on my bed and wait for the staff to pack my things.

  As Victory makes her way through English Bay, I emerge from my cabin and saunter u
p to the main deck. Micky is standing at the rail near the stern of the ship, drink in hand and looking his usual impressive self—muscular build, tall frame, slim hips, thick dark hair blowing in the wind. He’s all tanned, thanks to his Italian heritage, and dressed impeccably in a Hermes polo shirt and Armani khakis.

  The Vancouver city skyline is aglow from the sinking sun when we enter Coal Harbour Marina. We approach our dock, and the crew time their leaps from the ship and expertly tie Victory into place.

  I narrow my eyes at a couple approaching our berth. The woman is on the shorter side, mousy and plain, with short brown hair and a pixie-like face. As she comes closer, I realize she has attractive features and a nice body—though nothing like mine, of course. I lift my chin in superiority and at once feel powerful aboard my glorious yacht. I pose nonchalantly on the rail and look down on the woman. The man she’s with, her husband and the potential client, I’m presuming, is flamboyant to say the least. The guy has better hair than I do—well, not really—all thick, blond waves and perfected highlights, and his walk can actually be classified as a prance. I eye his Louis Vuitton bag and Italian shoes. They definitely make a contradictive duo.

  “Welcome!” Micky booms as he descends the vessel, and then proceeds to dazzle the guests with his charm and grace.

  Opportunist! Well, good thing I’m not sticking around for the show. If he thinks he can conduct business on my anniversary, he’s got another thing coming. I turn around and nod to the crew waiting with my luggage. They nod back, appearing capable and ready.

  “May I present my lovely wife, Lane? Laney, this is Mr. Fenwig and his wife, Faye.” Micky motions for me to join them. I take a deep breath, raise my chin, and sashay my way off the boat and right past the trio. I shoot Micky a triumphant look, pleased he’s gawking, open mouthed, at me and at the crew carrying my belongings. Ha! Micky, at a loss for words. Mousy Woman and her husband exchange uncomfortable glances. I can hear the crew following closely behind and the wheels humming from my Prada suitcases as we make our way up the ramp to the awaiting town car.

  “LANE! Where are you going?” Micky calls from behind; but I don’t bother turning around.