Surprise! So, this is the first draft of the first chapter to my new Niall story that is currently untitled.
If you would be so kind as to read it, and let me know what you think of it, if you like it, what I should change, ect.
Your reviews and advice help make my writing the very best it can be, and I’d appreciate the help!
THANK YA BBY :))
***
“It’s simply not good enough,” His voice boomed, echoing relentlessly through the dark hallway, an unusual noise to hear past midnight. My father was discussing business labeled ‘urgent’ on the telephone, a typical endeavor required of his seemingly twenty-four hour job.
“The new railroad has to be built and fully operational by March. Anything straying from that plan will be simply unacceptable,” He continued to dictate, the stern and commanding edge to his deep voice reminding me of the times he used to scold me as a child. And just like it had as I was growing up, the way he spoke mesmerized my entire being in such a way that nobody else’s could. My father enunciated each syllable of speech forcefully, placing just enough strained emotion where he needed it to communicate ideas in ways nobody had the nerve to protest. Some say his skillful method of debate and persuasion is the reason he is able to command an entire railroad empire. I say my father is able to command the entirety of the United States military.
I stood against the wall, exhaling a long sigh I had been withholding as I traced my palms against the door frame to his office, not daring to venture any further. I listened to him argue with his colleague over the phone, the silhouette of his burly form leaned over his glossy desk table raked with various papers and vanilla file folders. I toyed with the long string of glossy pearls around my neck as I waited.
“I need at least a hundred more workers on the Eastern seaboard. No more than two hundred, I don’t want to spend more on payroll than I need to.”
He had promised. I made him swear to postpone his vigorous work schedule tonight, just for a few hours, just for enough time to celebrate the holiday. But the value of this phone call seemed to super cede any priceless time spent with the closest of his family and friends. I knew it was a promise he hadn’t intended on keeping, yet a pang of disappointment encouraged my mouth to overturn into a pouted frown. I began to tap my heel impatiently on the freshly polished hardwood floor.
“That’s simply not an answer I’m willing to accept,” I heard an agitated growl erupted in the back of his throat as he slammed his hand upon his desk, “I don’t care where or how you get the employees, Malone. I only care that they’re hired by Monday. Understood?”
My father came from extremely humble beginnings, and the poverty embedded in his childhood placed all odds of a successful career against him. Then as well as now, he refused to accept ‘no’ for a plausible answer. He redefined what it meant to work hard, and rose from nothing to provide himself with a thorough education, later creating the thriving enterprise now named Bastogne Railroad Company. I admired my father, and hoped that I inherited the genetics of a businessman. As much as I desired to reprimand his broken promise, it was his job that was able to pay for the ornate pearls laced around my neck. So I waited.
“I’ll drive to New York in the morning. There’s a new shipload of migrant workers arriving at the port tomorrow. Irish or Italian, could be both. I want a strong bunch of men who will work hard and work cheap, twenty cents an hour. March is our deadline, Malone.”
I heard the familiar clank of metal against metal as he replaced the ear piece back on the holder of the telephone. He sighed as he sauntered toward the door, most likely from a combination of exhaustion and stress. He noticed my presence as he locked his office shut, turning to face me.
“Margaux,” His eyebrows furrowed in surprise as if I were a stranger, then softened guiltily as if he knew of his fault.
“Hi, Daddy,” I offered him a small smile, the hint of sadness visible in my expression.
“What time is it?” He asked, attempting to squint through the darkness to study his new gold-embellished watch on his left wrist.
“It’s almost one in the morning,” I responded with a defeated shrug, “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year,” He repeated musically, pulling me in for a warm hug, “And Happy Birthday. It’s 1924 already? That makes you, what? Nineteen?”
I could tell he was trying, attempting to make up for spending the entire party occupied with his demanding job in his office. I understood those calls were vitally important to keep the company up to its vibrantly flourishing standard, but he never seemed to understand how much it could hurt. If given the choice between a telephone call and his only daughter…
“Nineteen,” I confirmed with a nod, noticing a piece of shiny confetti lingering on my dress and brushing it off with my fingers.
“My little girl,” He gushed, pinching my cheek lightly with his thumb and forefinger, “Not so little anymore. What do you think? You ready to run the company?” He asked with a hearty chuckle, as if he had told the greatest joke the world had ever heard. The sound of his laughter was rare.
“I can do it,” I responded, quirking a challenging eyebrow, “You think just because I wear red lipstick, I’m not tough enough to inherit the railroad?”
“Margaux, if you’re simply a percentage of the woman your mother was, you can do anything you set your mind to,” He tapped my nose endearingly, a soft twinkle appearing in his wide, brown eyes at the mention of my mom.
My father’s favorite word seemed to be ‘simply’. He used the adjective to describe most all things, sprinkling it into his speech liberally. But the word harbored the blackest of ironies, for nothing he described as simple was ever so.
“I miss her,” I whisper my thoughts aloud, feeling a sharpness of longing stir in my chest. And I knew he did, too. He went through great lengths to deflect the painful emotions that accompanied death, and continues to do so every time he answers the telephone. His job became a form of a wife after my mother passed. Dad’s way of coping with the grief of loss was distraction. Mine was shopping.
“Everyday,” He told me, placing a gentle kiss in between my eyes. A solemn moment of silence passed between us, both of us pondering to reflect on the life of Julia Bastogne, a beloved mother, wife, and friend to all. But she’s gone now, so we’re forced to move on.
My father changed the subject, reaching into his pocket and jingling a set of keys in front of my face teasingly, “Oh, and I got you the new Bugatti Royale you wanted,” He said casually, as if purchasing the most expensive automobile on the market was no big feat, “Its waiting for you out in the driveway. I know its late, but you can go ahead and take it out for a spin. Happy Birthday.”
I gave my father an excitedly thankful kiss on the cheek before snatching the car keys from his grasp, sprinting down the winding spiral staircase. By the time I sat myself in the driver’s seat of my new car, the feelings of disappointment had been replaced by joy. I had forgotten that my dad chose to work over attending my birthday party.
But sometimes, when I’m dressed in the decade’s most fashionable designer clothes and driving the rarest of sports cars, I don’t seem to mind at all.
***
I woke up early Monday morning. The birds’ song served as an effective alarm, pulling me from my sleep as my eyes adjusted to the warm rays of sun piercing through the silk curtains draped across my windows. I sat up in my bed that had always been big enough to fit five people comfortably and stretched my arms behind my head.
The first day of the New Year, and technically still my nineteenth birthday, I rolled out of bed with a noticeable amount of enthusiasm, ignoring the chill floorboards beneath my feet as I scurried to my bathroom. Surrounded lavish marble and decadent full-length mirrors, my bathroom was designed to reflect the style of ancient Roman bathhouses, suitable for royalty. I dressed myself in an insulated burgundy Chanel dress and a chocolate brown coat, the animal fur on the collar providing warmth from my neck to combat the cold winds of early January. Following the trend, I threw on my classic pearl necklace and swiped bright red lipstick across my lips, smirking at my reflection in the mirror.
My heels clicked down the driveway as I make my way to my new automobile, my smile widening at the shiny machine appears in my view. My smile faltered for a second as I realized my father’s car was already missing. I vaguely remembered the phone call, and the conversation about selecting workers to construct a railroad. The Port of New York was a little under a ten minute drive, and the Type 41 engine of my Bugatti was begging to be broken in. I twisted the key into the ignition and set my destination for the city.
I arrived promptly at the port before eleven o’clock. I found my father exactly where I had assumed I would, standing beside the company’s vice president Keith Malone. They contrasted one another in a physical sense; my father stood tall and towering at fifty years of age, complete with a thick mustache and an even thicker Boston accent while Keith was just hitting age thirty, built muscular and lean with a youthful smile. Personality wise, they were a perfect match, complimenting each other’s ruthlessness and determination that drove the company to its success.
“Margie,” My dad cooed as I approached, halting the previous conversation he’d been sharing with Keith, “A pleasant surprise. How’s the new automobile treating you?”
“It’s perfect, dad,” I told him with a grateful smile, glancing behind my shoulder at the car parked a few yards away, “I just thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
“No sales at the boardwalk today?” Keith mocked with a smirk, raising an eyebrow as he studied me, his eyes scanning my body from my starting with my shoes and ending with my hair.
“Nice to see you too, Malone,” I narrowed my eyes at him with a scowl, his handsome features contorted with smugness and arrogance, as if he were superior to me in every sense of the word. His arms were folded casually across his chest as he yawned, as if my presence was boring him. He’d treated me with these mannerisms since I can remember, making me feel unimportant and small with nothing more than a cocky quirk of his brow.
My hands clenched into fists by my sides, and I once again attempted to figure out what it was about him that made my blood boil. I wondered why I’d always let one of my dad’s coworkers get such a angry rise out of me… Oh, right. Its because we were fighting for my father’s attention, rallying for inheritance of the company.
We lost interest in each other as the blow of a ship’s horn sounded, signaling the arrival of a cargo vessel from Ellis Island. I’d seen this happen twice before. By the hundreds, immigrants flowed onto the docks, tripping over one another with excitement and anxiety of arriving to a new country, a new home. America, where the streets were paved with gold and promised riches. Their clothes were dirty and worn, but the eager smiles of wonder did not reflect the tattered shreds of their outfits.
I suddenly felt a strange twist in my stomach, as if I was crossing an imaginary line by wearing jewelry and accessories that could have very easily purchased meals for two-thirds of the passengers that scattered before me. I shifted uneasily on my feet, biting the inside of my cheek shamefully as I studied my shoes, avoiding direct eye contact with any of the immigrants. The streets were only paved with gold for some.
I heard my dad’s voice booming over the roaring chatter of the crowd, once again advertising for work at his railroad company. Many eager ears tuned in to hear his offer, many nodding their heads in acceptance. He selected a generous amount of young men who looked formidable, beckoning them into a hollow loading truck where they would exchange their information with regional managers who documented the records of Bastogne Railroad Company’s employees. It all happened very quickly and very efficiently. The immigrants were desperate for the work opportunity my father could provide. Mechanical, without a second thought.
I broke out of my trance with a shake of my head. With a deep breath, I began to make my way back to my car, before I met the piercingly blue eyes of a boy from across the way. I wanted to drop his gaze, but for some reason, it felt magnetically impossible.
His hair was disheveled and blonde, sticking out in every which way as if he’d been sleeping on it. He slung a bulky sack over his shoulder, filled with what I assumed to be his prized possessions and important belongings he’d brought with him on his long journey to America. His clothes were scarce and stained, and I wondered how cold he must be without a substantial winter coat to yield. My first thought was to offer him mine, but how silly would he look in furs? My second thought was that I couldn’t dare talk to a boy like him. We would have nothing in common, and my father would purse his lips at the idea of his daughter associating with a migrant. I was staring at the boy, thinking of the hardships life would ignite if I hadn’t had money pocketed in my purse.
My purse. I hadn’t realized how tightly I had been gripping it; my fingers dug into the leather material as if I was worried it would be snatched away from me by stealthy hands.
I moved my gaze from the purse back to the blonde boy.
He was frowning at me.