The Other Brother
Chapter 1
Spark Plugs
She hated her life.
The girl, dressed thoughtlessly in worn jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt, lay along a long thick limb of an oak tree. From her vantage she could see The Party.
It was another typically uber-glamourous party on the uber-expansive estate of the uber-rich Stiltskin family. The women were all dressed beautifully . . . amazingly . . . gloriously in long silky, sparkly, designer dresses with glittering, dazzling, vibrant jewels around their necks, hanging from their arms and wrapped around their fingers. The men, ah, they were all well-groomed and wearing tailor-fitted, sleek and expensive designer tuxedos.
Looking through one cycloramic window of the main house, she could see a group of these well-dressed men, all gathered around Peter Stiltskin's heavy ornate desk, looking over some blueprints or stock reports or some such. Peter was the lecherous patriarch of the family, a mean-spirited, conniving, under-handed, sneaky excuse of a human being. She didn't like him.
She also recognized Rumford Stiltskin, Peter's oldest son, the heir apparent to all things mean-spirited, conniving, under-handed, and sneaky. He was the wunderkind of the family – everything he touched turned to gold. His canny manipulation of the stock market in his early twenties and self-made fortune over and above what his father might have bequeathed to him had earned him the nickname 'Gold.' He was hard and unyielding – no one ever broke a deal with Gold. She was a little afraid of him.
There were also other men she recognized - Albert Spencer, a prominent, arrogant judge. For some reason she didn't like him either. Pompous jackass. There was also David Nolen, one of the family's attorneys. She liked him. He'd always seemed to be a genuinely nice guy. She also recognized Killian Jones. His family had a lot of shipping holdings, ships, trains, trucks and such. He was a good friend of Jefferson Stiltskin, the younger scion of the Stiltskin family. And there was Arthur King, a young man who had already inherited the empire his father had built - and also good friends with Killian and Jefferson. Usually these three were out together, joined at the hip, having a good time.
There were others, of course, others that she didn't recognize from the newspaper or the financial magazines.
Through the opening of an over-sized window, she could see a group of the well-dressed ladies. Milah Stiltskin, Rum's gorgeous wife held court over any number of the female guests. Mary Margaret Nolen, wife of David, was standing in the room, separated out from the closed circle around Milah.
There was also Cora Hart, Queen of the Bitches. She was one of the corporate attorneys with whom the family regularly had dealings. She had never been nice . . . to anyone . . . at any time. The girl lying along the thick branch in the tree knew that Cora had the royal, pee-purple hots for Rum or maybe it was for his money. She'd seen the older woman corner him a couple of times and watched as Rum would extricate himself from her clutches with fake phone calls or pretend meetings which he had to go to.
Cora was there with her two daughters. The older daughter was a glorious red-head. She moved in many of the same circles as Jefferson and Killian. She was wild and often in trouble; she had boyfriends who were bad news. The girl knew that this oldest daughter, Zelena, also had the hots for Rum but he seemed to despise her (raising her estimation of Rum). The girl wasn't quite sure what to make of the younger daughter, Regina – sometimes, when she was away from her mother, she seemed nice enough. Other times, she seemed a lot like her mother.
Next the girl could see into the grand room which held most of the party attendees. The grand room attendees spilled out onto the patio. There she could see drinkers and dancing couples and dancing drinking couples and her eyes lit on the person she was looking for. Jefferson Stiltskin. The tall, handsome, youngest son of the family. The good looking one. The nice one. The fun one.
Yes, he was following his usual script. Usually he would pick out the prettiest girl at the party, whisking her away from her date or her parents or her husband - leading her literally down the garden path, down to the indoor tennis court. He would meet with his latest conquest with champagne and dancing and there would be kissing and . . . sometimes . . . there would be more.
The girl sighed.
It wasn't fair. She was too young to attract Jefferson's attention. She wasn't pretty enough with her plain-Jane brunette locks. Too skinny, no boobs, short stumpy legs. Her family wasn't prominent enough, absolutely not rich enough. And of course, she didn't have money to spend on an elegant gown.
She hated her life.
At sixteen, almost seventeen, there was no hope that it would ever get better. She would always be stuck in her place - just the chauffeur's daughter.
Sniffing, she knew she would live as she always had, above the garage on the large estate.
To be fair, it was a large garage. Her father had had this job since before she was born. He was happy in it. He drove Peter and Rumford Stiltskin into their office building every morning and back to the house every night. He remained on standby during the day in case they wanted to drive anywhere besides their office.
Not that the Stiltskins hadn't been kind to her little family. She had been sent to the finest private school wherein the uniform she had to wear disguised the family's income level. But her lack of professional manicures, her kitchen haircut, her drugstore makeup did reveal that her family wasn't quite at the same financial level as her classmates. She couldn't spend the weekend flying out to the coast or pay for a five-day shopping trip to Paris or London.
Most of her classmates were kind but there were a few snooty, snotty girls who tried to torment her. It didn't help things that she had been accelerated a year because of her academic skills. The girls would purposely exclude her in the cafeteria and whenever the students divided into teams. They made catty remarks well within her hearing.
It didn't bother her that much. She had thrown herself into her studies which pleased and impressed her teachers. She was a bright girl and found school work easy.
When she was a Junior, she was asked to tutor the school's star football player, much to the irritation of the mean girls. For helping Gary through several tests, she gained the protection of the team, so much of the actual bullying stopped. She would still overhear the occasional catty comment. And she'd had to go out a couple of time with the pawing, slobbering football captain.
Bae, Rum's son, who was a year ahead of her and very well-liked not to mention already richer than anybody else at the school, caught wind of some of the meanness and also lent her his protection, sitting with her at lunch and making sure she got to her homeroom with no problems. And there was Emma, the daughter of the Nolens who was in her same class. Emma also lent her the cloak of belonging, often walking her between classes. Finally there was Ruby Lucas, who was the granddaughter of the Stiltskin's former (now retired) cook, who also attended the private school. Ruby made no bones that her family wasn't well-to-do but after punching one of the mean girls in the nose after making sure there were no witnesses, well, they seemed to have made the decision to give her a wide berth.
That had all been last school year. Bae had graduated and gone off to Yale on a full academic scholarship. Gary had graduated and gone off to Ohio State on a full athletic scholarship. Her other friends had remained and continued to provide a buffer for her. Senior year had come and gone without incident. She'd graduated first in her class.
But now, despite the academic accolades, at the end of her summer following her Senior Year, she felt defeated.
The problem: for three years, she had been nurturing a crush on the younger Stiltskin, taken in by his handsome looks and carefree ways. He'd had one marriage and countless affairs since she had first noticed him. He was the hottest, neatest guy, ever.
And she was in love with him.
And she would always be in love with him.
It looked like he was about to embark on his second marriage. He was seeing the fabulously famous, exquisitely exotic model Tamara Ritt. They had been photographed going everywhere, doing everything together. Skiing, shopping, Fashion Week, Cannes . . . if the rich and famous indulged in it, they were there.
Jefferson had just plied Tamara away from the crowd at the party and she was the one he was going to meet up with at the tennis court to dance with her and drink champagne with her. It was the most romantic liaison the girl in the tree could possibly think of.
The girl sniffed again. If only she was the one Jefferson was meeting. She imagined herself in a fabulous gown, something the other ladies would envy, with her unruly chestnut hair gathered up (for a change) into well-behaved curls, with just a touch of lipstick and a curl of black mascara. She would be there at the party.
Jefferson would see her from across the room.
Their eyes would lock.
He would come towards her.
He would forget about all the other women in his life. He would have to dance with her.
"But you are with someone," she would point out demurely.
"Never mind her. It's you I want. It's you I've been waiting for," he would tell her and she would agree to meet him at the tennis court. They would drink champagne and he would kiss her.
Imagining his kiss, she rolled her head back, lost her balance, yelped, and unceremoniously fell to the ground. Never a graceful child, she barely managed to get her feet under herself. She was momentarily stunned.
The final indignity.
She hated her life.
She made her decision: life was not worth living. She'd been thinking about this next step for a while but seeing the party this evening had clinched it.
She imagined the sad funeral – so young, so much to live for, if only Jefferson Stiltskin had paid her any attention.
It would be such a sad affair with everyone attending and feeling sorry.
She went back to the garage, the very same garage she and her father lived over. Entering, she left off the lights. She stood in the middle of the garage amidst the Bentley (Peter Stiltskin's preferred car), the Astin-Martin (Milah's car), the Tesla (Rum's car), the Lamborghini (Jefferson's car), the Ferrari (also Jefferson's car), and the Maserati (also Jefferson's car). Decided and determined, she started the Bentley, the Astin-Martin, the Lamborghini, the Ferrari and the Maserati. She didn't bother with the all-electric Tesla – it didn't put out carbon monoxide fumes.
The exhaust from the vehicles quickly began filling the garage. It made her have difficulties catching her breath and she coughed. She stood on a box and opened one of the windows. She laid her head down on the sill as the cars hummed away in the enclosed area.
Fresh Air
Rum had had enough of the late night discussion. It was pointless. His dad had already made up his mind and involving everyone else was merely a formality. Not to mention Cora Hart had blatantly propositioned him in his own home – yet again - and with his wife present no less. And speaking of his wife, she was getting extraordinarily cozy with that swarthy young friend of his brother's.
He needed to get some fresh air.
As he walked around to the gardens he thought he heard something. He went in the direction of the sound and realized it was coming from the garage. It sounded like someone had cranked up all the cars in the building. He opened the door and the heavy toxic air hit him in a wave.
"Good grief!" he exclaimed and taking a deep breath, he ran in to cut off the cars. Several times he had to get out of the building to take in some fresh air and all the while he fought off dizziness. On the fourth trip he noticed the girl curled up under the window.
He couldn't think of her name. "Girl, French's daughter!" he called out to her and grabbed her by the arm, half leading, half dragging her outside. "What's going on?" he demanded.
"Oohh," the girl was woozy. "I was . . . uh . . . checking the spark plugs," she told him lamely.
"Well you shouldn't turn on a car in an enclosed place. The carbon monoxide could kill you," he cautioned her. She looked up at him and nodded dumbly.
"Yes sir," she replied.
"You'd think a chauffeur's daughter would know that. Are you all right?"
"Yes sir," she answered, regaining some of her awareness. She realized that the most fearsome of the Stiltskins was standing talking to her and she drew back. The man was dark and grim and power came off of him in waves.
"Now take some deep breaths. Breathe deep. Good girl. Now, deeper."
The girl followed his directions and . . . crumpled. He barely caught her. It was only for a moment and she blinked her eyes open while still in his arms. She flinched back.
"Whaa . . . what happened?" she asked as he released her and she stepped away from him.
"You passed out."
"Oh."
"Of all the idiotic things, dearie. You know what would have happened if I hadn't come along?" he spoke softly, almost kindly.
"I would have died," she told him in a small voice.
"Aren't you heading off to Paris tomorrow?" he asked her lifting her chin up so she would have to look him in the eyes. "I'd think you'd have some last minute packing to do."
She nodded, her blue eyes large and she elected to bolt away, running up the stairs to the door of the apartment she shared with her father.
Once inside, she stilled her breathing. Most girls would have been excited to go to Paris. She was to study at the Sorbonne. She was a literature major and hoped to go on and get her degree in Library Science.
She would have been excited except . . .
She hated her life.
Two Months Later
"She's posted, she's posted again!" Maurice, who was known to the rest of the staff as Moe, came into the kitchen and turned on the old computer that sat in the corner. Belle posted regularly regaling everyone about her adventures in Paris, her wit, her vivaciousness, her dry sense of humor coming through in her writings and the pictures she posted. She wrote in part to keep communication up with her father but also to maintain a record of her life in France, including her life at the Sorbonne. Moe read her latest posting aloud to Ms. Potts, the family's chef. She often would sit and have tea with Moe while he read.
Belle had found an amazing room at a left-bank building that had a preference for Sorbonne students, the Sorbonne having no dormitories connected to the university. The building she had found was only for female students and she felt lucky to have been accepted, as they usually only took French girls. She shared that she had thought her French was good, but she was learning quickly that it was, at best, so-so. She had made several friends and her classes were all exciting.
She also posted the latest snippets she had found concerning Jefferson. There had been some chatter that he and Tamara may have eloped and there was even more chatter that they'd had a big public fight and had broken up. She wanted to know what was really going on.
The posts kept coming. New friends, new courses, a part time job in a coffee-bar that reminded her of what the beatnik places from the fifties must have been like. She relished the art scene, the philosophy lectures, the essence of life she was soaking up. She shared that she didn't think of Jefferson that much anymore.
Ms. Potts, her father's confident and the head cook, nodded, "That's good."
"Except at night," her father continued.
"That's bad," Ms. Potts shared.
"I decided to be sensible the other day and I tore up Jefferson's pictures."
Ms. Potts nodded, "That's good."
"Fortunately I had some scotch tape."
Ms. Potts shook her head, "That's bad."
Driving into Work
"Good morning, French," Rum greeted his chauffeur early in the morning. Peter was away on a cruise so it was just Rum and Maurice. On these occasions, Rum preferred they used his Tesla to get back and forth to the office.
Maurice French nodded. "Good morning sir. It's a beautiful day, sir."
Rum looked up at the sky as if the state of the weather had never occurred to him. Except, insofar as it affected shipping, as in blizzards and hurricanes, he never noticed the mundane.
"So it is." He was about to get in the Tesla when Jefferson peeled into the driveway in his Maserati.
Jefferson greeted his brother, "Morning. Where are you off to?"
"The office. Where do you think?" Rum asked him.
"The office? On Sunday?"
"Today," Rum told him coldly, "is Wednesday."
"Wednesday?" Jefferson was genuinely confused.
The Tesla quietly motored out of the driveway. Rum was on his phone. "Ms. Gorim, I'm just leaving the house. I should be there in twenty minutes." He disconnected the phone call and then spent some time checking various stocks.
"How is that computer applications company's stock doing, sir?" Maurice asked him.
"It's starting to go up. I've been in personal communication with this group and have given them some advice on marketing and product development. If you're not already in, I suggest you pick up on their stock. It's going to go even higher."
"Very nice sir."
Rum picked up his phone. He began talking into it, "Inter-office memo. Rumford Stiltskin to Jefferson Stiltskin. Dear Jeff, this is to remind you that you are a junior partner in Stiltskin Business Incorporated. Our business is located downtown Asheville at 78 Broadway, at the corner of Broadway and Woodfin. Your office is on the second floor.
"Our normal work week is Monday through Friday. Our working day is nine to five. Should you find this inconvenient, you are free to retire under the company's pension plan. Having been with us for three years, this will entitle you to one hundred forty-three dollars and eighty-one cents a month for the rest of your life."
Rum put his phone down. "Have you heard from your daughter, French?"
"She still loves him," Maurice told him absently.
"What?"
"I mean sir, she loves Paris and going to school. . ." Maurice sighed and added, "I'm sure she'll get over it."
Rum was puzzled but dropped it. Odd stuff.
A Kindly Friend
"I've been noticing you, mademoiselle" it was an older, bald man, a squat, dwarfish figure who came in for coffee every day. He was often churlish and irascible and none of the other staff liked him much. Belle almost always seemed to be the barista who would have to wait on him. Somehow, he seemed to like her. "Your mind is not on where you are, what you are doing."
"No sir," Belle apologized for forgetting to turn on the expresso machine and being tardy with his order. She answered him in her now near perfect French. "I am often distracted, it's true." The other customers complained about her as she would often get their orders wrong. If she hadn't been so pretty, the café owner might have dispensed with her services.
"I would guess that you're in love. And I will venture to go a step further," the man said kindly. "You are unhappy in love."
"Does it show?"
"Very clearly. A woman happily in love, she overfills the cups. A woman unhappily in love . . . forgets to turn on the espresso machine."
"I'm so sorry," Belle apologized. "I'm trying to get over it."
"But why try to get over it? You speak of love like it was a bad cough," the older man had her sit down with him.
Belle felt her eyes filling with tears. "He doesn't even know I exist. I might as well be reaching for the moon."
"Indeed," the older man smiled. "You young people. Don't you realize that we have sent rockets to the moon. We have walked on the moon. So he doesn't know you exist." The older man sat back, "Well perhaps if you didn't look like a young horse." He pointed to her unruly pony tail.
Ten Months Later
Maurice shared another post with Ms. Potts.
"His name is LeRoy de Reve. He is a baron."
"Oh my, she's got a baron!" Ms. Potts was pleased.
"He's in his fifties, widowed and has seven children, all boys. He's completely out of the closet but his lover is out of town for a while. So, he is bored now and has taken me on as a project."
"Oh," Ms. Potts was disappointed.
"He is very sweet and very wise. He has a box at the opera, a racing stable, and his own vineyards. He has two seats for Fashion Week and is taking me to several of the showings."
Jefferson clomped through the kitchen to grab some bread and ham which he made into a quick sandwich.
"Good morning sir," said Maurice rising.
"Mornin'. What's going on here?"
"A new posting from Belle."
"Oh, nice." He sighed and stomped out.
"What's wrong with him?" Maurice asked.
"His marriage to Tamara is beginning to fall apart," Ms. Potts knew all the latest gossip.
"So sorry to hear that," Maurice shared.
Four Years Later
Dearest Papa, began the private text.
I can't believe that my fourth year is ending so soon. I'm graduating with highest honors and have made so many wonderful friends. I doubt you'd recognize me if you passed me in the street. I've changed and not just on the outside with new clothes and a new hairstyle. The changes inside have been more dramatic, more remarkable and more profound than anything on the outside. The Baron, my professors and all my wonderful friends have introduced me to so many amazing things - fine wine, excellent food, quality clothing, and gracious manners. I have discovered my own ability to see beauty and goodness in others and, if it's not there, to put it there.
I have learned how to live, how to be in the world and of the world and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life or from love either – I know that if I do the brave thing, that bravery will follow.
I am taking the plane home and will arrive on Wednesday mid-day, Father. You needn't pick me up from the airport. I'll get a cab and meet you at the Stiltskin Building.
NEXT WEEK: An Engagement is announced
Belle gets a ride home by someone who doesn't recognize her