The CEO of Zenith incorporated, Orian Moon, saw his wealth grow by about 77% over the same March-to-December quarter. Which he gave more than $900 million to the Zenith Foundation and $300 million to a gentrification project in South Africa.
The pace and scope of his charitable giving is staggering. As a publicly active philanthropist, he has given away more than what five of the country's biggest givers have in their entire lifetimes, Forbes calculates.
The tv screen goes black.
I whip around. Mama stands in the archway with her arm outstretched and the remote in her hand. She lowers it to her side with a pointed look on her face.
"Hadie, baby." She folds her arms, and levels a reproving glare at me. "What are you doing?"
"I was watching that," I say flatly.
"No, what you need to be doing is celebrating." Her hands move to her waist, fixing themselves on her hips. Her reproachful stance. "You just cracked that big case, writing that piece on those money-stuffing scoundrels. The feds couldn't even solve it, but my baby did. And now here you are." She jabs a quick finger at the tv. "Out hunting on the next big thing. Just take the time to celebrate this win."
Her eyes are like deep pools of melted hazel, swirling with unabating concern. She moves to place the remote on the acacia wooden case. The head is lined with stands of laminated articles that I have written. And the shelves hold an accolade of awards I have won over the years. Not there by my choice.
My mouth opens to retort. But then I seal my lips back close, silenced by a fragrance wafting into the living room. I look at her urgently, pointing to the ceiling. "Is that? That smell... is that what I think I'm smelling?"
I inhale a deep breath, drawing in the cheesy, mouth-watering aroma of mama's lasagne.
"If you're smelling the world's best homemade lasagne..." Calum strolls into view, leaning his shoulder against the frame of the archway. "You're correct, princess."
My mom lets out a rolling, high-pitched giggle, slapping the air. "Oh stop playing, boy."
"I'm serious mama, M." He moves to her, wrapping her in a one-sided hug. "What we should be doing is celebrating how delicious that dish is. I even stopped taking my anti-depressants, cause now I just eat your lasagne."
She laughs again, her autumn brown skin aglow. Not a single wrinkle to expose her true age. Black don't crack.
I roll my eyes at Calum. "Whilst you flirt with my mama." I walk over to them, heels thudding on the vinyl flooring. "I'm going to go change."
Her laugh dies in her mouth. "You better, looking ridiculous in that damn pant suit." Her hand flicks Calum's arm. "You know she just barged back in here, no hello—nothing, just straight to the tv, watching the latest news on her next target."
Calum throws his head back with a laugh, flaunting a dazzling smile. Two rows of brilliant white. "Let me guess... something about Zenith?"
My shoulder knocks into his. "Whatever." I turn to look back at ma. "And by the way this—" I gesture to my all-black, form-fitting, full suit with a belted blazer and a lapel collar, "—is fashion."
"So is a dress," she says to my back.
My inner feminism shrieks inside. I spin around, tearing my lips apart.
Calum cuts me off with an exaggerated hand gesture. "You know better than to talk back to your mama." He shoos me away. "Keep on stepping."
"That's right."
The two of them high five each other.
I shake my head at them both. "Ganging up on me on my big day, that's just low," I mutter, marching upstairs.
I drift into my bedroom, the second one on the left, yanking out my hairband—an explosion of shoulder-length curls. I take off my heels, holding them by the tip of my fingers as I saunter to the dressing table. I drop the heels. My eyes are fixated on the framed picture of me and my dad when I was still a kid. When he was still alive, and not just existing. But alive.
The years were hard on him, sapping the life from his skin and the fight from his bones. He put himself in the grave trying to provide for a family when he couldn't even do it for himself. He drowned just to keep us afloat.
Thoughtlessly clutching onto the crucifix hanging from my neck. I let it go.
"Got another one, pops." I can barely hear myself say it. "I think... I think you would've been proud."
***
My mom, Calum, and I are seated around the dinner table set with a breadbasket, a side of veggies and the guest of honour. The lasagne. The dish is placed in the centre, covered with a thick coat of bubbling gouda cheese, garnished with fresh green herbs. After ma serves us generous, very generous portions—the kind that will make sure that I work out tomorrow. She extends her hands out to the both of us. We all hold hands. Calum entwines our fingers together. And ma prays.
Calum sneaks a look at me, mouthing, close your eyes.
I narrow my eyes at him. Why are yours open?
"And father God!" ma exclaims, her voice bursting to its maximum volume. "Though we come to the Lord's table to feast in peace. Others chose violence. I have to repent, father God! Forgive me because I'mma bout to beat the black off my daughter. And whoop the white boy so hard, he'll be speaking in tongues if they keep fooling around like damn kids."
Calum snorts a laugh, smothering the others that try to break free. I gawk at my mother, both of her eyes are shut, and yet the woman still sees everything. Witchcraft.
"Amen," she says. She drops our hands, opening her eyes to glare at me. "You lucky, it's your day." She tosses a glance at Calum. "And that we have company."
A wry snort escapes me. "Like that's ever stopped in you the past," I mutter.
"Girl, I swear—"
"Lasagne is getting cold," Calum says, playing peacemaker. "Niente litigi a tavola. Let's eat."
We all jump right in. I fit in a mouthful, moaning with each bite. Italian-style lasagne. The balance between layers of cheese and homemade Bolognese sauce is perfection. My taste buds frolicking with sliced sausage and ground beef, creating a rich, layered flavour with the creamy sauce spilling over my tongue.
Calum wipes a fake tear from his eye. "I should write this recipe in the history books, so generations after us will know that the legend is true."
I grin at him. The lights above brightening his Nordic-gold hair, styled with a middle parting. Very much like a young Leonardo DiCaprio. He looks back at me, mesmerised by that empyrean blue. I gaze into them, enraptured by the vast vessel of happy memories encapsulated in the ocean's gemstones. A living remnant of my childhood, our history preserved in those eyes.
"So, are you going to tell me about the baddies you nailed?"
"Not me—we," I correct. "I wouldn't be able to do what I do without Cal, here." I scrunch my nose at him. "Isn't that right, nerd?"
"True." Voice drenched in a surplus of confidence. "I am her eyes and ears, her Gandalf, that gets her in places where most people can't. I help. But her drive, her achievements." He offers me a long, wholesome look. "That's all you, princess."
I smile at my plate. Diverting the attention, I say, "The bust we made was a massive international weapons trafficking operation. Resulting in the seizure of nearly a hundred thousand firearms and one-hundred and sixty-seven explosives."
Calum swallows, nodding. "Operation pale shadow. Traffickers getting millions on the black market, supplied by criminal gangs."
"They had AR-fifteen rifles, grenades and military-grade weaponry," I add. "Enough to start a war."
Ma's expression fades from intrigue back to concern. A worry line etched on her forehead. "With your condition, I really hate you knowing that kind of stuff."
"Condition?" Calum snorts. "It's more like a superpower. It's why she's good at what she does."
She waves a dismissive hand. "You know what I mean. Cause after she can never unsee those things. But enough of that." She aims her fork at me, then at Calum. "When are you two giving me some gorgeous, mixed, grandbabies?"
I choke—Calum hacks into his fist, beating his chest.
***
After dinner, Calum helps me with the dishes. And after I walk him out as usual, strolling into the travertine-tiled front entrance of my townhouse which is anchored by bespoke horizontal boards that amplify the room's length. The peaked ceiling lends height and drama, and a series of square shapes—the windows, the front door's panes of glass, and the panelled interior door provide a stately rhythm. Calum pauses in the middle of the door, and slants to the side to rest his shoulder against the frame. His eyes boring into mine like I'm the book that only he can understand.
"Don't do it."
I shrug innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about it."
"You're going after Zenith," he says exasperatedly, "Which is stupid because nothing traces back to them, nothing that can be proved. We've tried and failed. Multiple times."
I reach for him, pulling him into a hug, "Night, nerd." Arms wrapped around his neck.
His one arm coiled around my waist. "Your mom is right about this one. Let it go."
I draw away, smiling back at him. "It's not about if I get Zenith. It's when. If at first you don't succeed...."