Delectable Desire

“Lorraine, I need to see you,” her father said.

Her chin dropped to her chest. She was not up for this tonight. Whatever this was.

She turned and walked into the sitting room that served more as an informal office for her father. He had a real office on his and her mother’s side of the penthouse, but he usually entertained business associates in this room.

Her father and her brother both sat in leather wingback chairs, holding highball glasses filled with amber-colored liquid. Her father held a sheaf of papers in one of his hands.

Arnold Hawthorne-Hayes was a huge man. Not fat. Never fat. But he had always been larger than life, with broad shoulders and an even broader countenance. Even though she’d lived with him for nearly all of her twenty-five years, Lorraine couldn’t say she knew the man all that well. He’d always been too busy building his empire; he didn’t have time to bother with something as trivial as being fatherly to his children.

“It’s just after ten o’clock,” Lorraine said. “I still have two more hours before my curfew.” She inwardly cringed. She would gain nothing by intentionally antagonizing her father.

“I don’t care what time you come home, Lorraine. What I care about is this.” Her father held up the papers. “Why are you trying to get a fellowship?”

She stared at the documents, her mouth falling open in disbelief. “How do you even know about that?”

“Because Warner Mitchell is one of the trustees responsible for making the decision,” Stuart piped in. “We were having lunch at the country club today and he wanted to know why my sister would need to apply for an artist fellowship, when the Hawthorne-Hayes Foundation already funds dozens of scholarships. I want to know the same thing.”

“It wasn’t about the money,” Lorraine said. She’d donated five times what the fellowship was worth to the school. This particular fellowship wasn’t just a need-based award. It was also talent-based.

“Do you know how embarrassing it was to have Warner ask me that question in front of everyone?” Stuart asked.

“Forgive me, Stuart—I didn’t know my art was such an embarrassment.”

“I’m tired of this, Lorraine,” her father stated. “I allowed you to pursue your art degree when you should have studied business as your brother and sister did, but I refuse to allow you to bring shame on this family’s name by soliciting fellowship money.”

He ripped the application in half.

Lorraine stared in disbelief at the tattered pages her father tossed onto the glass table between his and Stuart’s chair.

“This had nothing to do with the family name. I didn’t want the family’s name to have any influence over the selection committee.”

“You are a Hawthorne-Hayes,” her father said. “That name will always have influence.” He gave her a pointed look. “Forget the fellowship. This family gives to charity—it doesn’t take it.”

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