The Ex Files

Chapter 7 - Brooks

Something Ally said that first evening had hit a nerve, not that she'd intended it to. We'd been waiting for the car to pick us up at the end of the night, and I'd noticed her checking her watch. When I asked if she had an early start the next day, she'd explained that she was running a "design your own T-shirt" session for kids at the local library.

"My job might be unconventional," she'd told me, "but it means I can donate time and materials to causes I'm passionate about."

"And you're passionate about T-shirts?"

"It's more than just the shirts. It's about hope. Some families can barely afford to eat, let alone buy new clothes, plus I'm inspiring the next generation of designers."

Ally gave up a Saturday morning to help underprivileged kids, and what did I do for charity? Rubber-stamped the pre-approved monthly donation to the Carrington Foundation and focused on making yet more money. Hell, I hadn't even known what the foundation did. It was a just a line I trotted out at parties—oh, yes, the Carrington family funds numerous projects through our philanthropic arm, and we're thrilled to help so many worthy causes.

In reality, my father considered the donations a write-off he'd been forced to agree to in his divorce settlement—five percent of monthly pre-tax profits—and a bunch of crusty old trustees did the rest. And my mother, it turned out. She never showed up for shareholder meetings at Carrington Holdings, but several years ago, she'd quietly begun attending the trustee get-togethers and steering the Carrington Foundation in the direction of her choosing. Apparently, we'd been supporting animal rights, needy children, and a number of domestic abuse charities.

Spurred on by Ally's enthusiasm for T-shirts, I'd attended the next trustee meeting with the intention of finagling some cash for the library and come face to face with my mom for the first time in twenty-three years. Nobody could undo that amount of damage over coffee, but we'd started taking baby steps. Lunch, dinner, visits to several of the projects we were funding.

And now she was gone.

A ruptured aneurysm, the ME said. It had been fast.

"You made your peace with her?" Ally asked.

"We were getting there."

"I'll tell your dad we went to Vegas. I'll tell him anything you want. He won't ask me about blackjack, will he? Because I don't know how to play that."

"No, he won't ask." He didn't give a shit about anything a woman had to say. He might chuckle and congratulate me for a Vegas fuck-fest, but he wouldn't care about Ally as a person. As a chip off the old block, I'd always assumed I wasn't capable of caring about a woman either, but Mom had told me I might surprise myself one day. "I'll email you a briefing for the trip," I told Ally. "Wear something black, knee-length. A small heel."

"A hat?"

"It won't be that formal."

Mom had reinvented herself as an artist. She painted what she loved and gave all the profits from her gallery away to local charities, homeless people, and folks with sob stories on Go Fund Me. Dividends from Carrington Holdings had still provided her with a comfortable lifestyle.

"Will we need to stay overnight?"

"I'll check the timings. Is it a problem if we do?"

"My next booking isn't until a week from Friday, so I can be flexible."

"Am I allowed to ask what it is?"

"Another wedding." She made a face. "In Idaho."

"I didn't realise you'd expanded nationwide."