Chapter 1
The Nation’s Top Male Model, Mark Antonious Richfield, held his littlest son, Jacob Bentley Richfield, up high in the air. Little Jacob, who had his first birthday on December 2nd, was helping decorate the Christmas tree.
Yes, they were Jewish, so what?
Mark thought the tree was a sweet holiday tradition.
Thanksgiving had come and gone, and soon Christmas would be a distant memory and 2020 would be a ghost of the past.
Jacob laughed as he helped hang colorful baubles and ornaments on the pungent noble pine tree; a tree they had cut down from the forest across from a meadow on their property.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Isaac Milton Richfield, or ‘Zak’, Mark’s middle son, raced into the room. Isaac was going to turn two in February. With the help of their live-in nanny, Blake Hughes, a retired Los Angeles fireman who taught the precious boys daily, Isaac was leaps and bounds ahead of his age group.
Mark set Jacob on his feet and crouched down to see what his beautiful son wanted.
“I made this!” Isaac, with his long brown hair and green eyes, like his model daddy and actor big brother, Alexander, held up a Jewish Star created from cardboard, glitter, and blue and white shining paper. “It’s a staw, Daddy!”
“I see that.” Mark glanced up at his second husband; a strapping man of six-four, with hazel eyes and brown hair. Stan Charles Bergman-Richfield had helped their son make the little star.
“Come. Let’s hang it on the tree.” Mark held out his hand to Isaac.
Zak reached to a high limb. Stan picked him up and helped Zak hang the Star of David on one of the pungent limbs.
Mark waggled an eyebrow at his young husband.
Stan laughed. “We didn’t light a menorah. What the hell. He may as well get something from being in a Jewish family.”
“You’re hilarious.” Mark giggled.
Jacob was finally walking on his own. The little blue-eyed towhead was struggling to keep up with his big brother. Jacob Bentley was the product of an illicit affair between Mark and his ex-fiancée Sharon Tice-Hill; conceived in a Pasadena church whilst Mark’s first husband’s father, Sgt Dick Miller, was laid to rest.
The mansion they resided in was located in Paradise, California; a huge estate at the base of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range. The thirteen-bedroom house was also home to Mark’s first husband, Steven Jay Miller, who helped him run Mark’s deceased father’s garment manufacturing company, Richfield-Miller International.
Mark’s best friend from college, blond-gym junkie and attorney, Jack Charles Larsen, and his talent agent husband, Adam Paul Lewis also lived here.
Blake’s Butte County firefighter husband, Hunter Rasmussen was now training volunteer fireman, after working with the Los Angeles Fire Department for fifteen years. The big firefighter had been the one to chop down their lovely tree.
The estate had a heli-stop, tennis courts, a basketball court, a spa with a weight room, sauna, and Jacuzzi; they had two Olympic-sized pools, one indoor, one outdoor and a stable which housed four horses.
Construction had begun on a detached garage which will contain four automobiles. Above those spaces Mark had designed four bedroom units to accommodate any overflow from the home.
The last time Mark had a huge family gathering was in October. Steven’s mum, Susan Miller, turned seventy, and Mark made a lovely party for her.
But, October was a memory, and Thanksgiving; gone…
The year was advancing so quickly, Mark couldn’t keep up. They were expecting a new baby any day now. Mark and Stan’s surrogate, Becca McKenna, was due to give birth very soon. She lived in Los Angeles with her girlfriend, Natalie Cushman. This child was the product of Stan and Becca’s DNA. Becca had also carried Isaac for them.
Taking a pause from the decorating, Mark allowed Stan to help the boys hang ornaments. He stood by the fireplace mantle and observed. A gas fire was lit and clear glass marbles glistened from the licking orange flames.
Rubbing his right hand gently, one he had broken in a fit of rage a month ago, Mark felt the gaze of his deceased father.
The patriarch of the Richfield line, Milt Richfield’s portrait hung in a prime spot in the huge living room. The twenty by forty foot space had several seating areas, and a bay window, facing the front of the property, where the columned entry was located.
Noise of construction echoed slightly from the workmen who had framed the four-car garage and were continuing the build. But, today would be the last day of work before the holiday weekend.
They had a pink rose quartz driveway which led to an opening in the hedgerow which acted as a blind to the manor house. The rose quartz had taken a beating from the heavy trucks and mud, but Mark wasn’t going to worry about it now. Once the garage was complete, he’d deal with it then.
It was Thursday afternoon, and tonight was Christmas Eve, so today he and his two wonderful boys were decorated the tree before everyone showed up.
The house smelled amazing as their chef, Sierra, baked, cooked, and whipped up a feast, while her husband, Warren, their manservant, hung icicle lights on the eaves of the huge home.
Isaac and Jacob raced around the room, giggling together, and Mark could not wait for baby number three.
