A look crossed her face that I couldn’t read, not clearly. She scrunched up her nose in disgust, but only for a moment. Sometimes it felt like she hated her father as much as the rest of us, but if you didn’t know how to read people, you’d have missed the tics.
Maybe I’d get to see how Lauren really felt about her father. Or maybe I’d see another act. I felt like that’s all they were – an act. They pretended to be a perfect family unit for the press, but something didn’t sit right for me. I was actually looking forward to this opportunity, not just for journalistic integrity, but to see if my gut was right about Lauren really despising her dad, even though she put on a front to the press.
She was, after all, delegated to PR while her brother was being groomed for a career in politics, working as Daddy’s campaign manager. I always wondered how Lauren felt about that, but we weren’t close enough for me to ask.
But maybe I’d get to see for myself.
Ooo000ooo
George and Elizabeth Holt had at least two homes in the Liberty area. One was a smaller house, near downtown, that I swear was just for show. It always looked empty to me, and I believe they only owned it to appear to be living within city limits.
I met them at their other home, the one just outside of Liberty, where there was more land to build their massive estate.
I’d never been to the Holt home before, never had a need. They’d lived in Liberty on-and-off for most of my life, but I didn’t recall them ever really being around that much. And I couldn’t fathom why when I pulled into their circle driveway.
Their home was the size of some small towns. It almost looked like they’d picked up a Southern plantation home and dropped it in the middle of Utah. The home towered over the landscape, nearly blocking the gorgeous mountains from view from the front. There was a wraparound porch around the house, which was three stories, at least. Likely with some underground garages for Daddy’s car collection. He was a known collector of classic cars, much like some people collect knickknacks. He was often seen driving through town in a new car; he had a different one for each day of the month, it seemed. All of them expensive – Porsche, Jaguar, Rolls Royce, Bentley.
I always wondered why someone with his kind of money would return to Liberty. His family had lived elsewhere for years, until about two or three years ago when they started work on their mansion outside of town. Maybe they had decided to retire here, come back home. I didn’t know. I didn’t really care either. I just wished they’d stayed gone. People like them weren’t good for Liberty, I feared.
Especially since George Holt had an agenda for our small town. One that didn’t fit with our beliefs here.
As soon as I parked my car, an attendant rushed over. “Welcome, Ms. Schaeffer,” the attendant said. “I’m happy to park your car for you.”
“It can stay here,” I told him. “I’m not blocking anything.”
“As you wish,” the man said, nodding and motioning for me toward the house. “May I escort you inside?” “Sure,” I said with a polite smile.
The man was dressed as a stereotypical butler. I had no idea they really dressed like that in real life. The fact that they even had help was shocking to me because it was not a common thing in Liberty, outside a nanny or maybe a house cleaner that came out once or twice a month. But the Holts had an entire staff that would rival that of royalty.
In their mind, they thought they were royalty.
I followed the butler up the stairs and toward the gigantic wooden door. It had to have taken several elephants to move that door into place. The door was almost two stories in and of itself, with a handle the size of my head. All wood, thick and strong. As if George Holt and family had to protect themselves from the outside world, much like a fortress.
The butler pulled open the door, thankfully, since it looked heavy as hell. He motioned for me to enter. “After you, Miss.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as I stepped inside, I felt like I had left Liberty and entered a castle somewhere foreign. The foyer led to a spiral staircase that seemed to go up forever, with a landing in the middle to stop and rest upon before proceeding up the top. That landing was bigger than my bedroom. A red and gold runner ran up the staircase. A crystal chandelier hung over us, made up of about a thousand large crystals, all sparkling from the light. It was nearly blinding.
There was also an elevator to the left of the grand staircase. It looked like something from a 1920s hotel. Very classy. I’d never been inside a house with an elevator before.
“Right this way,” the butler said, leading me onward.
We didn’t go up the big stairs or use the elevator, to my dismay. Instead, we took a right and went into an enormous formal living room. It was hard to imagine anyone actually lived here, as it looked impeccable, like something from a magazine. There wasn’t a stray cup or even a book out of place. No television. Just a stone fireplace that nearly took up one entire wall with a family portrait – painted, of course – hanging over the mantle. A series of couches and chairs, all burgundy with gold accents, were strategically placed around the fireplace and an oriental rug was in the center of the room.
“The Holts will be joining you shortly,” the butler said.
He sauntered off, leaving me alone in the grand room that felt as staged and fake as the people I was about to interview.
Keep an open mind, Elle. You don’t agree with his politics, but maybe outside of politics, he’s a nice person.
“Dad will be here soon.” Lauren’s voice caused me to jump; it seemed to echo in the otherwise empty room.
I turned to find her in a different outfit than she’d been wearing earlier in the day. She’d changed into a floral pink and light blue dress that clung to her body, showcasing curves I’d never noticed before. She’d put on a little weight since I saw her last year, and the dress allowed me to see that. She actually looked good with the extra weight, in my opinion. It filled out the dress. But I knew her mother was incredibly thin, and for most of her life, so was Lauren.
She’d always made such snide comments about other women who weren’t thin, so her appearance surprised me. Her hair was down, long and flowing over her shoulders in soft waves that looked professionally blown out. Her makeup was flawless. I consider myself fairly well puttogether, but Lauren looked as if she’d stepped out of a magazine photo shoot.
She sighed as she walked over to the mini bar tucked away in a corner of the room. “Would you like anything?”
“No thanks.”
She didn’t say anything else as she poured herself a glass of red wine – reaching nearly to the top with the glass. She swivelled and walked over to one of the chairs.
“Have a seat, stay awhile.” Her words were polite, her tone offhanded. She looked at me and frowned, then looked around the room. “You didn’t bring a photographer?”
“No, I’m sorry. Kelsey is actually at a Liberty High basketball game tonight.”
“You think anyone cares about that sad excuse for a team? Her time would have been better spent here, with us. But I guess you’ll have to do.”
I bristled at her words. She was probably right; most people probably didn’t care about the basketball team, but it was a tradition for us to cover their homecoming game, and I wasn’t going to break tradition to satisfy a pompous politician.
“I can take photos too. It’s fine.”
“I’m sure you can,” Lauren said dryly. She took a long swig from her glass, then placed it on the end table nearest her.
George Alexander Holt the Third entered, and it was like the air had been sucked right out of the room. He was at least 6’5, a towering presence just like his father. He looked like a younger version of his dad with sandy blonde hair and eyes that were so blue, they almost looked white. He was a handsome man if you didn’t mind the perpetual look of condescension on his face. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile, not once.
He wore a black suit with a black tie, almost like he was dressed for a funeral. It was how he dressed. Always dark colors. Almost always black. Always designer.
“Oh, the prodigal son decides to grace us with his presence,” Lauren muttered.
“How many glasses of wine have you had?” her brother, who went by Alex, asked in an equally dry tone.
“Just two,” she answered innocently.
If the first was anything like the second, well, I could see why she might be acting a little strangely. But I kept my mouth shut. It was none of my business, and in a way, I was seeing them in their true form – as Lauren had wanted. Of course, something had changed since earlier in the day when she insisted I come over. I doubted she would have wanted me to witness this.
Alex went to the bar himself. He didn’t offer me a drink.
He hadn’t even acknowledged my existence.
“Dad will be here shortly, and Mom is just freshening up,” he said.
Lauren elaborated. “Daddy had an important meeting.” She took another big drink, downing about half the glass before slamming it down on the table.
Elizabeth Holt made her presence known, as if the clink of the glass had summoned her, and it was no surprise that she had done her best to make it grand.
She swished into the room with a raspy, “Hello, darlings.”
I couldn’t contain the eye roll, but I did my best to hide my face from her.
Her gown was long and flowing, like something someone would wear to the Oscars, not around the house when trying to appear normal. It was Tiffany blue with crystals encrusted at the top. A matching light blue shawl covered her otherwise bare shoulders.
Elizabeth was nearing seventy but would deny it if you asked. She’d had work done to try and defy aging, but it just made her look plastic. She seemed to have no facial expressions except for perpetually startled. Her hair was colored blonde, the same as her daughter. It was long, but she always kept it pulled up , in a braided crown around her head today.
She strode to me, taking my hand in her pale, delicate ones and smiling down at me. I stood up, but she still towered over me. Like Lauren, Elizabeth was tall and thin. I wasn’t short by any means, but around these people, I felt like a child.
“Ms. Schaeffer, it’s such a pleasure to have you in our home,” she purred. “I’ve always supported the free press and respect our hard-working journalists who don’t get paid nearly enough. It’s a thankless job.”