Billionaire's Dilemma

For the second time since he stepped out of the car onto the pile of snow, and the tiny flakes slowly amassing on everything he could set eyes on, Reynolds adjusted his frock coat and tugged at his head warmer. Perhaps to see if they were still in place.

He was cold. Very cold. He had stayed in Cairo for the past two years and had not been braced for the cold he had to face back in New York. The sun had cracked the sky open and peeked out lazily but did not give warmth.

“Like the English sun during winter. This sun shines but never gives warmth,” he muttered under his breath as he reached for the door of the car.

He had asked his chauffeur, Louis, to never open the car for him—not when he was bubbling with energy and could do it himself—and so Louis always did well to let him open doors by himself.

“What did you say, sir?” Louis asked as he turned to the driver’s seat.

“I was commenting on the weather, Louis. It is nothing to concern yourself with,” he replied dismissively.

Louis knew better than to press the question or even make another comment. He started the car and drove out of the airport.

Reynolds tried several times to convince himself that this was the same New York he had lived in with his father as a boy, before moving to San Francisco for high school and eventually to France where he attended university, and then proceeded to spend a few years in Cairo.

He had liked the sun and the heat and the dryness of Africa, and he had become tanned. He had tanned so much that one could easily mistake him for an Egyptian or one who had resided in Egypt for a very long time. He liked it.

His friends Abu and Vladimir had been the fun-loving tourists who constantly took him into the most rural parts of Egypt for endless tours and camps. He had spent a good two years of his life not doing business—for the first time in ten years—and he had had fun.

As the driver peeled through the busy streets and headed for his home, he found himself looking out of the window intently.

He had been away from New York for twelve years, and in all the years he had been away, he had only seen his father three times when the man came for meetings in France. They had met, and he had felt too grown up to get too close to his father, so he had extended a hand for a handshake, which his father disregarded and instead replaced with a tight and embarrassing embrace.

He sighed. He had missed his father, and now he would wake up every day with the man under the same roof. He could not be any closer.

“A lot has changed about New York, Louis. I have not stepped into this town for the past twelve years, and there have been so many changes I cannot even keep up with the pace. I can’t even spot my favorite waffle houses and kebab spots,” he said.

Louis nodded. “So it is, sir. A lot has changed indeed.”

They rode in silence until they arrived home.

The house did not seem like anything he remembered. It had been remodeled and now wore a new and different look from what he had imagined he was coming back to. He was pleased.

He took the few stairs into the terrace, and the butler opened the door even before he could touch the doorbell. Louis had his bag behind him, and he smiled at every chance he got. Apparently, everyone was glad to have him.

Reynolds was surprised to find that his father had retained the same domestic staff over the years. Most of them had become too integrated into the household for him to have the heart to replace them, and none of them, from what Reynolds saw, seemed to want to retire yet.

Right from when Louis had appeared at the airport with a sprinkling of white hair, a face that had grown a bit saggy, and lips that had thinned from age, he had suspected that his father would never let his domestic staff retire—not when he saw them as family.

The cook, Imelda Clinton, remained as ebullient and happy as ever as she appeared with her apron to say hello to Reynolds. She did not seem to have aged. She had the same color of apron that Reynolds remembered seeing every time as a child.

Imelda had a habit of always being in her apron, and no matter what was said to her, she would always appear with it. They were happy. At last, Reynolds knew he would have good homemade food from Imelda, whose meals always did a good job of tickling his taste buds.

No sooner had he settled in his room than his father called. The man had been in a business meeting in South Carolina and had cursed and sworn over not having anyone good enough to represent him in every single meeting. Reynolds listened only long enough for him to vent.

When the old man returned, Reynolds was tense. He did not know what one said to a father one had not seen in four years.

The old man did not make it any more difficult as he locked him in an embrace and shed a few tears.

“I am glad you are back, son. You mongrel, why stay away from home so long?” he asked.

Reynolds was going to tell him that he was an adult and would visit whenever he wanted to, like he always said over the phone, but he decided against it. It did not make much sense to mention that to his father now.

“I have been working away from home and you know it. The branch in France took me three whole years to set up so it could start functioning on its own independently,” he said instead.

He did not have any excuse, and he knew his father would not stop until he had made him speak the exact words he wanted to hear.

“That does not answer my question, Ray. I asked why you refused to visit home all these years, and you intend to hide under the guise of work?”

“I’m not trying to hide under anything. I have been busy, sir, and the most important thing is that I am here now, just like you wanted,” he said as he lifted his hands up in mock surrender.

His father smiled—the same smile he had only seen a few times on the video calls when he promised to visit home soon.

“Tomorrow, you resume work. Ever since Cheng had to go back and oversee the branch in China, there has been no one competent enough to run the headquarters here in New York. By next week, I will retire.”

***

The first time Alicia had had to wait tables and run errands for Mr. Ford, the owner of the bar downtown New York, she had hated every bit of it.

The stares of the leery men ogling her and the indecent smell of cigarettes mixed with gin repulsed her. She hated everything the bar shoved in her face.

She had hated the job even more when one of the men sitting on a barstool asked her if she would spend the night with him for a measly $50. She had been so angry that she had thrown him a threatening look before stomping off. The man had watched her leave without muttering a word.

At the end of the day, Ford had paid her well—enough for all her pains and discomfort for the night—and she had gone back home with her head banging and her feet aching from having to wear her flats all the time she was at work.

“Where is Tony?” she asked Helen the moment she stepped into their two-bedroom apartment, where she shared a room with Helen while Tony had a room to himself.

Helen was sitting at the dining table, scribbling away in a notebook. She was the bookworm. The one who would go to college and was happy at the prospect.

“He left with Josh and Pete early this morning while you were yet to return,” Helen said without looking up from her book.

“Did he say where he was going with those punks? Told him never to hang out with those two, didn’t I?” Alicia asked.

“Guess you did. Sad that he does not listen to anyone around here,” Helen said as she finally lifted her head and looked up at Alicia. She tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ears and smiled up at Alicia.

“Let us not talk about Tony now. He will mess up our mood. How was work? Was it really as easy as Lucy said it would be?” she asked.

Alicia scoffed. “There is no easy job out there. At the end of the day, it was worth the pay, and that is what I am grateful for. I’ll take only the night shifts so I can do something reasonable during the day. And yeah, Lucy works at McDonald’s now!”