gum-chewing, constantly text-messaging teenage girls.
Well, the house in the Hamptons had nine bedrooms. The beachfront property had
become Jon’s in the beginning of the year, and the past summer had been the
family’s first season at the property. For Jon Bostoff, that summer would
forever retain a magical quality. Sure, they had owned a summer house before,
but their old summerhouse was a mere shack in Connecticut with a whopping
fifteen minute drive to the beach to boot. Jon was no fool; he realized that
many people would give their right arm to have his old, perfectly cozy,
three-bedroom beach house in Connecticut that had since been sold to its new
owner, but, in Jon’s opinion, the shack in Connecticut was not good enough for
Candace, and by extension it was not good enough for him.
“And, Dad?”
“Yes, buddy?”
“For the winter break
we’ll go skiing just like last year, right?”
“Slow down, Ollie. It’s
only September.” Jon grinned. “But yes, we will go skiing just like last year.”
Jon’s mind started doing the calculations, as he tousled his son’s hair. If the
business panned out the way he hoped (and he could think of no reason why it
should not) he just might swing that ski lodge he had been eyeing in Vail,
Colorado. It was bound to be a nice Christmas surprise for Candace and the
kids.
“Ah, Dad, I might have
some Christmas break plans,” Amber ventured.
“Oh?” All at once Jon
awoke from his musings.
“We’ll talk about it,
Amber,” Candace shot a warning glance at her daughter. “You know how important
family time is to us. Your daddy works very hard to make all of this possible.”
Candace made a sweeping motion with her graceful arm through the air.
“But I want to go
somewhere warm.” Amber pouted. “I was going to stay with Christy. Her family’s
got a house in the Caymans.”
Jon gulped. There was a
downside to having your kid attend one of the most prestigious schools in the
state. You were bound to be outdone by the parents of the other kids, and there
was just no way Jon could swing a tropical mansion this year. Maybe next year.
Definitely next year, Jon resolved.
Later that night when
Jon waited for his wife to join him in bed, his mind returned to its usual
activity: tallying things up, as Jon called it, or keeping score. He was
thirty-nine years old. In a year, he would be forty. Things were finally
starting to get on track. At times, he wondered at Candace’s patience. In all
their years together, ever since he first had kissed her at a party at Duke,
she had remained faithfully by his side. Throughout their marriage, she had
never once complained about their starter three-bedroom house in Connecticut,
their kids attending public schools, or her driving a five-year-old Audi
instead of last year’s Mercedes or BMW. Not that her family had been of the
same opinion.
The Covingtons came of
old money made in oil and real estate, and they expected their only daughter to
be married to a man of solid stock. Granted, Jonathan Bostoff had two pennies
to rub to his name, but Bostoff was not the name that Mr. and Mrs. Covington
expected their daughter to carry. At Duke, Candace had many suitors vying for
her attention: wealthy, handsome undergraduates with seven-figure futures all
lined up for them, courtesy of their fathers. And then there was Jonathan
Bostoff, the first generation in his family to go to college, and with a pedigree
that was nothing to speak of. While the Covingtons had accepted Candace’s
choice of a husband, they had made it clear that they were not going to help
the young couple. Candace had a small inheritance left to her by grandparents.
When her parents passed on, she would receive her share of their wealth, but
while they were alive, in no way would the Covingtons aid Jon Bostoff, either
with their capital or with their connections. Not that Jon wanted his in-laws’
help. He wanted to give Candace the life she was meant to have all on his
Well, the house in the Hamptons had nine bedrooms. The beachfront property had
become Jon’s in the beginning of the year, and the past summer had been the
family’s first season at the property. For Jon Bostoff, that summer would
forever retain a magical quality. Sure, they had owned a summer house before,
but their old summerhouse was a mere shack in Connecticut with a whopping
fifteen minute drive to the beach to boot. Jon was no fool; he realized that
many people would give their right arm to have his old, perfectly cozy,
three-bedroom beach house in Connecticut that had since been sold to its new
owner, but, in Jon’s opinion, the shack in Connecticut was not good enough for
Candace, and by extension it was not good enough for him.
“And, Dad?”
“Yes, buddy?”
“For the winter break
we’ll go skiing just like last year, right?”
“Slow down, Ollie. It’s
only September.” Jon grinned. “But yes, we will go skiing just like last year.”
Jon’s mind started doing the calculations, as he tousled his son’s hair. If the
business panned out the way he hoped (and he could think of no reason why it
should not) he just might swing that ski lodge he had been eyeing in Vail,
Colorado. It was bound to be a nice Christmas surprise for Candace and the
kids.
“Ah, Dad, I might have
some Christmas break plans,” Amber ventured.
“Oh?” All at once Jon
awoke from his musings.
“We’ll talk about it,
Amber,” Candace shot a warning glance at her daughter. “You know how important
family time is to us. Your daddy works very hard to make all of this possible.”
Candace made a sweeping motion with her graceful arm through the air.
“But I want to go
somewhere warm.” Amber pouted. “I was going to stay with Christy. Her family’s
got a house in the Caymans.”
Jon gulped. There was a
downside to having your kid attend one of the most prestigious schools in the
state. You were bound to be outdone by the parents of the other kids, and there
was just no way Jon could swing a tropical mansion this year. Maybe next year.
Definitely next year, Jon resolved.
Later that night when
Jon waited for his wife to join him in bed, his mind returned to its usual
activity: tallying things up, as Jon called it, or keeping score. He was
thirty-nine years old. In a year, he would be forty. Things were finally
starting to get on track. At times, he wondered at Candace’s patience. In all
their years together, ever since he first had kissed her at a party at Duke,
she had remained faithfully by his side. Throughout their marriage, she had
never once complained about their starter three-bedroom house in Connecticut,
their kids attending public schools, or her driving a five-year-old Audi
instead of last year’s Mercedes or BMW. Not that her family had been of the
same opinion.
The Covingtons came of
old money made in oil and real estate, and they expected their only daughter to
be married to a man of solid stock. Granted, Jonathan Bostoff had two pennies
to rub to his name, but Bostoff was not the name that Mr. and Mrs. Covington
expected their daughter to carry. At Duke, Candace had many suitors vying for
her attention: wealthy, handsome undergraduates with seven-figure futures all
lined up for them, courtesy of their fathers. And then there was Jonathan
Bostoff, the first generation in his family to go to college, and with a pedigree
that was nothing to speak of. While the Covingtons had accepted Candace’s
choice of a husband, they had made it clear that they were not going to help
the young couple. Candace had a small inheritance left to her by grandparents.
When her parents passed on, she would receive her share of their wealth, but
while they were alive, in no way would the Covingtons aid Jon Bostoff, either
with their capital or with their connections. Not that Jon wanted his in-laws’
help. He wanted to give Candace the life she was meant to have all on his
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