Chapter 63: House Warming at The Meadows

Mark

July first finally arrived; it was as though that date had been hanging over the entire family for nine months – the gestation period for our new home. The girls had arranged a huge party at The Meadows. Every construction worker from any trade who had worked on the house, their spouses or partners, kids, and everyone we knew was invited. The party officially started at noon, but my arrival at The Meadows had been announced as one p.m. There was no ending time given.

Elsa, Cindy, Sheila, Melanie, Izzy, and KC all stayed overnight at the house to break it in, and be there to meet caterers and other people helping out first thing that Saturday morning. We had lifeguards for the river swim hole and pool to keep an eye on the kids. Chloe and Zoé were both guests as well as some of our sexy waitresses – a role they enjoyed; they brought eight of their equally sexy friends with them, also scantily clad, yet just barely acceptable enough for family viewing. Only a few of the teenage boys really freaked out.

I arrived in a long caravan of cars that included my limo and two war wagons, along with a motorcycle escort complete with sirens and blinking lights. I thought I’d make a bit of a splash on my entrance. The kids loved the lights and sirens. Of course, as a good will gesture the local chief of police and county sheriff were present at our housewarming.

Greg, Sean, Elsa, Doug, and Alice had the honors of escorting me around the land and then in and through the house. I was effusive with my praise and joy at what I saw, and it was genuine. I loved it. I loved the layout, although that had long since ceased to be a surprise. The decorating was superb. So much had been done in the three weeks since I’d been there last.

Alice was nearly in tears and ripping apart a small handkerchief about whether I’d like the actual look and feel of the decorating. She’d obviously put her heart and soul into the decorating for us. She again was dressed to the nines, and looked beautiful. Every time I saw her she made my heart beat faster just as all my wives did.

I hugged the anxious woman to my side as we walked and tried to get her to relax. I kept telling her I loved it, I loved it, I loved it. Only when we were through and I could hold and kiss her did she seem to relax a little. The last time I’d held her like that we were nude and I’d just made love to her. Alice was one of the people who loved me. The feeling had become more than mutual. In that instant I knew it was the right thing to say and do; I told Alice that I loved her. She cried as I kissed her and kept nodding to indicate she felt the same way.

Several members of the media were racing around taking pictures of everything from every angle. Here was a unique chance to see inside a billionaire’s home. I have to say modest, it wasn’t. On the other hand, it wasn’t overly ostentatious either, well maybe it was given that it cost around fifty million to build, and consisted of forty-two rooms if you were generous in what you counted in the main house. Every room fit into the house and had a reason for being there. With so many of us living in the house, we just happened to have a lot of reasons for needing one room or another.

The ‘Wow’ Factor that Alice created extended to every room. Even the small rooms were dramatic in some way, through paint scheme, art, sculpture, or view. On a side note, we had tucked away the nearly pornographic photographs we owned from Brite Reber given the presence of children and young teens in the crowd. In their place, KC had borrowed some art from her gallery for the occasion.

During the afternoon, Chloe and Zoé used some golf carts we’d bought to shuttle people down to the cabana by the river (really only a short walk), or to the airplane hangar. We had the 210 and Citation shined up and parked on the ramp in front of the open hangar for photo op. The 737 was too large to bring into our small strip, so that stayed at city airport. I had managed to get the tail number for the Cessna 210 as N3MW, to match N1MW and N2MW on the two other planes. John, our chief pilot, was giving tours of the hangar and aircraft to those interested.

One man I didn’t know came up and introduced himself as Jake Warner, Brodaw Publications. I knew they had a portfolio of magazines. He was polite and asked if he might ask me some questions about the house and our family. I was off guard, and my PR gal was tied up with three other media types, so I said yes.

Warner asked about the accelerated timeframe for construction. I referred him to Doug Reed, but did say that I had promised special incentives to finish that day – Saturday, July first. I didn’t say what the incentives were. He asked about the planes, the kinds of trips we took, and seemed especially pleased to learn that I was a pilot and getting my extended ratings. I even pointed out Wes and Scott to him for follow-up, my instructors. I emphasized that Cindy and Elsa were also qualified jet pilots.

Warner went through some of the special purpose rooms in the house and property: martial arts and full gym, basketball court, shooting range, cabana, ten car garage, and then I got an interesting question.

Warner asked, “I saw in the master bedroom, your super king-size bed; it’s magnificent. Why so large?”

Before my brain was fully engaged from the mundane questions he’d been asking, I said, “Because so many of us sleep in it.”

“Who?”

“Well, me, and the girls that live with me.”

Right there I had put my foot in it. I knew it as the words formed in my feeble brain, and yet they still tumbled out of my mouth. I tried to add, “and that’s off the record,” but I don’t think those words held any meaning for a genuine news hound. Instead, they made the revelation that I slept with a number of girls scream for headlines and revelation. Internally, I winced.

Warner said, “Well, I’m guessing that would include Elsa and Cindy – they were in the news a lot because of the shooting incident. Who else?”

By then I was trying to backpedal. “Errr, let’s just say others. Everyone is happy with the arrangement, I might add.” Again, I kicked myself for what he could do with that statement.

Warner wisely moved on to a couple of other benign questions, but I knew it was too late. I warned Rose, my PR gal about what I’d said. After also wincing she crossed her fingers and said, “Let’s pray.”

The afternoon party was a big blowout. I tried to visit personally with every person who’d had anything to do with construction of The Meadows. I’d met many of them during my earlier visits during construction, but I knew it gave some of the guys a special treat to introduce me on a first name basis to their wives or girlfriends or teenage kids. Soon, they’d all get a financial reward for making my tough deadline – Doug Reed especially. I planned a two hundred thousand dollar bonus for him above what he normally earned; I’d never had a man devote himself to any of my projects so singularly the way he had.

By dinnertime, the crowd had thinned down. I got a call from Brita. Her small jet was about thirty minutes out and planned to land at our little airport. Elsa got her handheld radio that covered the frequencies used for aviation, and we started to listen for their tail number when they announced they were on final approach.

Like clockwork, about thirty minutes later we heard, Meadows Unicom, this is Learjet Oscar Yankee Juliet Bravo Tango, on ten-mile approach for your runway two. Please acknowledge and report traffic.”

Elsa instantly responded, “Lear Bravo Tango, no traffic in pattern. Taxi and park near the hangar after landing. You will be met at the hangar. Welcome to America.”

Elsa took one of the golf carts and I took the other, and we rode down the paved path to the hangar. About five miles out we could see the double landing lights of the sleek small jet and watch as the landing gear deployed. As it neared, the sleek swept-wing profile of the jet became clearer.

The plane touched down with a loud squeak of the tires about a quarter of the way down the runway. Immediately, the reverse thrusters deployed with great engine noise, as the plane slowed. At the end of the runway, the plane turned onto the narrower taxiway, and came towards us at the hangar. Elsa held her arms up to indicate the preferred parking area. She’d flown so much she knew all of the hand signals that linemen used to direct aircraft to a parking space. The Lear taxied right to where she indicated. She crossed her wrists over her head to indicate that that was the spot to park.

Brita was out of the plane and in my arms in seconds after the plane stopped and the stairway deployed. She turned and hugged Elsa too, commiserating with her about the shooting and her return to health. The women had obvious talked, but not seen each other for months. Nils stepped out of the plane a moment later with smiles and greetings for all of us.

We joked about customs and immigration at our ‘international airport, ‘ but their little jet had stopped in Bangor, Maine, on the way into the U.S. and been cleared through. We drove the couple up to the house and the rest of the party. After greeting everyone, I gave Brita and Nils a tour of the house. We then got some wine and joined the rest of the festivities.

Later, I saw Warner talking to Brita. He was pointing at the plane, and then I could see the questions start.

I caught up to Brita later and asked, “What did Warner want to know?”

Brita laughed, “Well, he learned who I was to have flown in on the Lear for one. After many other questions, he asked whether I liked the big bed. I’m afraid I told him I did. I think he’s got the list of your bedmates down pretty well. He asked me to verify it, but I just laughed and told him he’d have to ask you. I may as well have said, ‘You got it right.’ He did, you know. I think he’s talked to each of them too, plus Vanessa and Anna.”

I hoped for the best.

Elsa

Mark was upset, ergo we were upset – all of his girls. Truth be told, I wasn’t that upset and neither were the others. I guess a secret part of me wanted another fifteen minutes of fame that didn’t involve a shooting.

Famous, one of the top and most highly read publications on the market, had a feature article about Billionaire Mark Worthington. Moreover, the article was accurate to a fault.

After reciting Mark’s rise to fame and meteoric growth in his personal self-made earnings, the article got to the meaty part of his life – the part that would provoke the most interest.