Married in Michigan Read online

  I bring us to a stop in front of the garage. “Two things I know nothing about—not having a care in the world, and life’s greatest joys.”

  Paxton starts laughing, and then lifts his head to look at me, and realizes I’m not joking. “Makayla, Jesus. That’s awful.”

  I snort, shrug. “I mean, I’m not being all poor me. I got nothing to complain about. My momma loves me, I’ve always had some kind of a roof over my head and food to eat and clothes to wear. My life has just been focused on the grind, you know? Surviving day to day.”

  He prods the clicker attached to the underside of the sun visor, and a garage door opens. “Well, Makayla Poe, that’s about to change.”

  11

  Paxton does the finicky work of pulling his Porsche into its spot in the cavernous garage, and then retrieves my duffel from the front trunk.

  “Is it still called a trunk, if it’s in the front?” I ask, as he closes the lid and hangs the keys in a lockbox on the wall. “Or is it the hood?”

  He smiles at me. “They call it a frunk.”

  I laugh. “Frunk. What a funny word.” I eye the expansive garage. “So now…inside?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. Now I have Johnny drive us to the airport.”

  “Don’t you have to pack?”

  He waves a hand, careless. “Nah. I keep everything I need both places.” He tilts his head. “Well, wherever I go regularly. I’ve got at least minimal wardrobes and toiletries and all that shit here, in DC, LA, Manhattan, Aspen, and London.”

  I snort, a helpless giggle of hilarity. “You have houses in all those places?”

  He shrugs, with a well yeah expression on his face. “I live in DC while Congress is in session, and I have business interests in LA, New York, and London, and when I want to get away from everything, I go to Aspen.”

  I glance his way. “Business interests?”

  Another shrug. “Sure. I have plans for a long political career, but I’m also interested in diversifying my assets, just in case.”

  “What kind of business?”

  He blinks my way. “Ummm, this and that. Luxury real estate in LA, telecom-slash-media in New York, import-export in London. Just dabbling in various things my family has ties to, you know? Easy investments with minimal oversight from me, until and unless I want to start leaning into those endeavors.”

  I laugh. “What a weird, wild world you live in, Paxton.” I gesture at him. “Well, lead the way, I suppose.”

  He waves toward a side door I hadn’t noticed the last time I was here. “This way.”

  Through the rows and rows of gleaming cars, each one worth more than I’ve ever made in my entire life—probably more than what Mom and I have made in our lives combined—and then we pass through the door in the far side of the garage, which leads to…another garage.

  I pause in the doorway as I see yet more rows of vehicles. “Seriously?” I say with a cackle. “How many cars do ya’ll have?”

  He taps his chin. “Hmmm. No clue, never added them all up.” He gestures to the larger garage we just left. “Those are the collection.” Another wave of his hand to this other, much smaller garage. “These are the daily drivers, the noncollector cars. Just your average, run-of-the-mill, everyday cars.”

  I stroll through and examine the cars here: I see two Range Rovers—one brand, sparkling new, the other older and more beat up, but not a collector item, apparently—a long, sleek, new Mercedes Benz sedan, a boxy, white Mercedes SUV, a quick-looking little blue two-door BMW, a handful of motorcycles ranging from choppers to antiques to crotch rocket sport bikes, and an older and well-used Mercedes convertible sedan.

  I laugh. “Not a single thing here is run-of-the-mill, Paxton. I think you’re wildly out of touch with reality.”

  “Well, yeah, probably,” he says with a chuckle. “My first car at sixteen was a one of ten ever made Jag.”

  “Jag?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Jaguar?”

  I snort. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I just know literally zero about cars.”

  Paxton laughs. “Clearly.” He points at the new Mercedes sedan. “We’re taking that. I just have to find Johnny.”

  A voice from behind us. “Here, sir.”

  Paxton jumps, whirls. “Dude, you are a ghost. Were you in the SAS or something?”

  John doesn’t react at all. “No, sir. Something rather more challenging: the British Butler Institute.”

  I snicker, thinking he’s joking. “The British Butler Institute. Good one.”

  John only stares at me. “I was serious, ma’am.”

  My eyes widen. “It’s a real thing?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.” I wrinkle my nose. “What do you learn in butler school?”

  “How to be a butler, ma’am.” A beat of silence as I work out how to respond. “That was a joke, ma’am.” He smiles, a smooth curve of his lips. “Posture and bearing, elocution, etiquette, things like that.” He turns to address Paxton. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “We’re heading to DC, so we need a ride to Pellston, and I need you to have them warm up the jet for me.”

  John nods. “Yes, sir. Of course.” A pause. “Will you require a meal, or a particular beverage selection for the trip, sir?”

  Paxton waves a hand in dismissal. “Nah. It’s a short hop.” He eyes me, and then turns back to John. “Um, one thing. She was never here, okay? I’m working something out with Mom, and I’d like my association with Miss Poe kept…private. Yeah?”

  A subtle nod. “Certainly, sir. Mrs. deBraun is on holiday in Marseilles at the moment, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Good to know,” Paxton says. “She can be hard to reach when she’s on vacation.”

  “She made a point of being unavailable. A mental recharge, she called it.”

  “Recharge, or retard?” Paxton mutters.

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know sir,” John says, but his tone is openly disapproving.

  I whack Paxton’s arm. “Not cool, Paxton.”

  He grumbles. “Whatever. I was joking.”

  “Yeah, well, some things aren’t funny,” I say.

  He waves a hand in that dismissive way he has. “Whatever. Let’s go.”

  John nods. “A moment, sir, and I’ll bring the car around front.” He takes my duffel bag. “There’s coffee on, if you’d like some, sir, ma’am.”

  “Ooh, coffee!” I say, excited, and then glance at Paxton with a glare. “SOMEONE helped himself to mine.”

  “Shall I set out cream and sugar for you ma’am?” John asks.

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. I like it strong and black, like me.”

  He smirks. “Certainly, ma’am.” With a short bow of his upper body, he turns and heads into the house, and Paxton and I follow him.

  By the time we’re in the kitchen, John is nowhere to be seen, but two insulated travel mugs bearing the logo of Beach by deBraun wait on the counter, full of steaming black coffee, the lids beside each one. Paxton screws the lid on one, hands it to me, and does the same for the other. I sip, and the coffee is as much better than mine as the house is—that is to say, the coffee I buy makes Folger’s look expensive, and this coffee is some kind of gourmet, designer stuff.

  “Wow,” I say, after the first sip. “Best coffee I’ve ever had.”

  Paxton nods. “Mom takes coffee very seriously. She bought several coffee farms in Indonesia, South America, and Africa, hired a master roaster, and started a distribution company, all for the sole purpose of getting the best, freshest beans possible. Each twelve-ounce bag costs at minimum fifty dollars. Some of the bags can go for upward of a hundred.”

  I snicker. “For coffee?”

  Paxton gestures at the mug I’m sipping from. “You did say it was the best coffee you’ve ever had.”

  I shrug, nod. “Very true. It does taste…expensive.”

  I marvel, as I sip. This family goes far out of their
way, sometimes to ridiculous extremes, to get the absolute best of literally everything. It’s almost funny.

  Apropos of nothing, Paxton heads for the front door. “I’m guessing John will have the car around, now.” A glance at me. “You ready?”

  I shake my head negative. “Not at all.” I laugh, and follow him. “But here we go anyway, right?”

  Last time I was here, I saw the garage, the kitchen, and the deck—this time, I get more of a tour as Paxton leads me to the front door. Miles of marble, clean white walls, pops of color here and there in the form of knickknacks and statues and wall hangings and paintings; I see one painting on the wall near the front door that looks, to my uneducated eye, like a Picasso. I stop to look at it more closely, and Paxton stands beside me.

  “That’s an original,” he says.

  “Of course it is,” I mutter. “I mean, who doesn’t have an original Picasso.”

  “If I told you how much Dad paid for it at the auction, you’d probably faint.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I don’t think I need to know. I couldn’t fathom the amount anyway.”

  “An original by a master like this is actually considered an investment, though,” Paxton says. “It retains its value. It’s insured to an absolutely eye-watering amount, even for us.” He gestures at the glass case surrounding the painting. “The case is fireproof, waterproof, and crushproof. The house could burn down around it, and this painting would be intact.”

  I shake my head, sighing. “Incredible.” I just look at the painting a while longer, because who gets to see an original Picasso in person, outside a museum?

  Paxton is looking at me, rather than the painting, I notice. “You like art, huh?”

  I shrug. “I mean, sure. Who doesn’t? And plus, it’s just a cool opportunity, you know? A real, original Picasso, without paying to go into a museum and fighting the crowds? It’s just cool.”

  Paxton grins. “I’ve got some pretty cool original pieces at my place in DC you may like to see, in that case.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  His grin is mischievous. “Let it be a surprise?”

  The foyer of the home is a palace in and of itself, with a giant chandelier made of dangling crystals and Edison bulbs, an acre of marble, with Greco-Roman statues flanking each side of a pair of curving staircases which frame the foyer space. We walk out through French doors which are easily six feet wide and twenty feet tall, made of heavy dark oak to contrast with the white marble floor and white ceiling.

  Outside, another grand, sweeping staircase like you’d see at a courthouse or something, descends to a wide circular driveway of cobblestones ringing a stunning fountain, the centerpiece of which is another Greco-Roman statue of a mostly nude woman tastefully covered in the folds of a dangling robe, one foot touching the waters of the pool, a jar under one arm from which water pours. Knowing this family, the statue is probably an actual antique statue from Ancient Greece or Rome, as with the statues in the foyer.

  I glance at Paxton. “The fountain and the statues inside, are they…?”

  He laughs. “Real? As in from like two thousand years ago? No. They’re hand-carved replicas of actual pieces from a museum in Athens, but they’re not actual real statues carved by the ancients. Shit like that has to be in a temperature-controlled museum environment. Keeping them here out in the open would be highly irresponsible.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling relieved for some reason.

  “I can’t tell if you’re disappointed by that, or relieved.”

  I laugh. “Me either.”

  Paxton laughs with me. “You know, I think Uncle Nicholas does actually own a piece of legitimate Roman statuary, but it’s on long-term loan to…the Berlin Museum, I believe.”

  I snort. “Figures.”

  Waiting at the top of the circle is the long, low, sleek, black Mercedes sedan, which isn’t a limousine, as in stretched, but when I get in its clear this vehicle is, yet again, something extraordinary. The seats are…beyond words. Stitched, quilted white leather, supple and soft to the touch, so comfortable I feel like I’m sitting on a cloud. There are only two seats in the back, so it’s not designed to carry a lot of people, but rather one or two people in extreme luxury. Large digital screens were installed on the rear of each front seat, providing each passenger with his or her own individual viewing experience, and each seat also includes recliner-style extendable footrests, and enough footwell space to fully extend them. Upon further inspection, I realized that the rear compartment is adjustable, so if there are only two passengers, it could be arranged as it is now, and if space for four passengers was needed, two additional rear-facing seats could be folded down.

  Paxton is watching me examine my surroundings, and I see the expectant look on his face.

  “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll indulge you. What is this thing I’m in? I’ll admit it’s impressive.”

  Paxton face palms himself. “Impressive.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, it’s nice. Comfy.”

  A laugh, disbelieving, as with everything else he imagined I would be in awe over. “It’s a Mercedes-Maybach Pullman.”

  I shook my head. “Okay?”

  A sigh. “Unbelievable. Basically, the version of a limousine used by royalty, as in literal kings and queens and Sultans. It’s bulletproof, for one thing.”

  I cackle. “Just in case terrorists want to assassinate you, way out here in Northern Michigan, huh?”

  A shrug. “Right? Dad bought it. He keeps it here most of the time, but if he has to travel abroad, he takes the 747 and brings this with him.”

  “The 747?” I ask.

  “Customized to carry several vehicles, plus three executive suites, a movie theater, and a full kitchen,” he clarifies.

  “Of course,” I say with a snort. “How else should he travel?”

  Paxton laughs. “You think I’m out of touch with reality? You should meet Dad. His idea of slumming it is…” He pauses, tilts his head. “Well, to be honest, he doesn’t even know what that is. I doubt he’s been inside any means of transportation within the last twenty-five years which he doesn’t personally own, and which costs less than half a million dollars.”

  I blink. “I…wow.”

  “Right now, he’s in Marseilles with Mom, I’m guessing. He flew into Pellston in the 747 with this car, collected Mom, and they flew to France, where they were taken by helicopter to their Mediterranean mega yacht, leaving the Pullman here because they won’t need a car in France, as they won’t leave the boat.”

  “As opposed to their Caribbean mega yacht, I presume?”

  “Precisely. Far more convenient to simply have one in both places than try to move it back and forth and have to plan far enough ahead to send it over when you want it.”

  “But of course,” I drawl.

  Paxton just laughs. “You make fun, but it’s just how they do things. They have the money, so why not?”

  I shrug, nod. “Makes sense, I just…” A laugh. “It’s all beyond my ability to fathom, I guess.”

  A silence, but not an uncomfortable one. I watch the scenery pass, and I can’t help but marvel a little at the complete silence within this car—the soundproofing is perfect, without even a hint of road noise. I feel separate from the world, a completely opposite sensation to being in Paxton’s little Porsche.

  I glance at him. “I like your car better.”

  He smirks. “My 356?”

  “The one you picked me up in this morning, yes.”

  His grin widens. “Totally different experiences, right?”

  I nod. “Exactly what I was just thinking. I like the air and the sense of being in the world, whereas in this I just feel like I’m floating in a moving castle, separated from everything.”

  “Well, that is the purpose of this car.”

  “To make you feel separate from the unwashed masses?”

  He frowns, but nods. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, that’s an unkind way of putting it, and not every wealthy pers
on is like that, but the essence of your point is accurate enough.”

  We chat more on the rest of the drive, but there are long silences, and I’m somewhat baffled by how comfortable I am already with Paxton.

  Although, now and then, there are moments that are distinctly not comfortable. Moments where I’m looking out the window and feel his eyes on me, moments where his gaze is piercing and scrutinizing and yet unreadable, and I wonder if he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. We’re separated by the console between us, yet I feel him filling the car with his larger-than-life presence, where even silent and still he is somehow just more.

  Thirty minutes in the car, and we’re pulling onto a section of tarmac somewhat distant from the rest of the airport. The jet that’s waiting, engines idling, is not small. Sleek, white, with six or so oval windows, and a truck-borne staircase leading up to the door. John pulls the limousine up within a few feet of the base of the stairs, puts the vehicle in park, and moves with a speed that is somehow unhurried around to open the door first for me, and then Paxton, who unfolds himself from the seat with a smooth elegance. A tug straightens his polo; a pass of his hand sweeps his hair aside.

  Effortlessly perfect.

  Annoying.

  I feel…frumpy. Underdressed. Awkward, like a newborn giraffe. I wish, stupidly, that I’d dressed up a little more. Worn nicer jeans, a better top. Compared to Paxton’s elegant perfection, I’m a sleazy plebeian with no taste.

  I push my self-consciousness away—I am who I am, and I’m not trying to impress him or anyone. He picked me, and I’m not going to pretend to be someone I’m not just to please him. Like me or don’t, take me or leave me, I don’t care—that’s been my attitude my whole life, taught to me by Mom, who is the most self-confident, self-possessed woman I’ve ever known. Even Camilla deBraun can’t compare to my mom when it comes to sense of pride in self—Mom survived just about the worst that life can throw at a person, and retained her sense of self and pride in who she is; it’s this attitude I have inherited, which I’ve also developed for myself through my own experiences. I can stand on my own two feet; I can make my way through life without anyone’s help. I have nobody to impress. Never cared about what I do or don’t own, or what I look like.