Family Business

She bolted out the front door and into the Tennessee heat. She sprinted over the hill, past the pond, and behind the white gazebo. Seated with her back pressed firmly against the trunk, she pulled a small legal pad out of her pocket. Spanish moss dangled from the oak tree above her head. After scanning for movement near the hill, she began to write. Ink smeared over the page and onto her left hand as her pen flew across the page. The ocean of tears pouring from her eyes didn't help either. Then she heard a booming voice echo through the yard. "Amaya! Get back here!" It was her father. In her panic, she froze. It was over. 

Earlier that morning, she had sat in her frilly pink dress, overlooking the manicured garden, dreaming. Her far-off look and melodramatic disposition drove her father crazy. Mr. Browyn was a businessman. He was orderly, practical, and strict. He didn't let his feelings show, and Amaya speculated that he might not even have any. Amaya rode the waves of her emotions. Usually lost in her inner world, dreaming of a future she knew she could not have. She wanted to leave her parent's house and make a life for herself. She wanted to live in a little cottage in the hills, and spin tales. She wanted to roam the woods, and not worry about keeping her fancy clothes clean and her hair perfect. Clara, one of the Browyn's maids, poked her head into the room. "Amaya, dear, time to get ready!" It was going to be a long Thanksgiving day. 

Amaya and Clara walked up the winding staircase, lined with family portraits. They entered her bedroom, covered in pink wallpaper. There was a small table in the corner, with an frilly lamp resting upon it. She had a large bed, with an embroidered mesh canopy over it. Opening the closet, Clara selected a long beige gown, embroidered with flowers and fringed with lace. The skirt was wide and poufy, making Amaya feel like a snowman. Being 20 years old, she was certainly old enough to dress herself. But despite her age, her parents would be appalled at the thought. They wanted her to look perfect. They wanted her to be proper. To them, she wasn't just a daughter, she was an opportunity. An opportunity for a business deal. 

Once she was dressed and her hair was styled, she had to sit through an hour of Clara doing her makeup. Every inch of her face was covered in itchy powder. Her dress was hot and hard to move in. All she wanted to do was find so place quiet to write, away from all the expectations. Around 11 am, she was taken into her father's office to have a talk with him. She sat nervously in the cold, wooden chair, hands crossed in her lap. Her father was seated across from her behind a large desk. It felt like a job interview. Amaya knew all too well that this was going to be a lecture about the family business. 

The Browyn Law Firm had been in the family for generations. Her great-grandfather's great-grandfather had founded it, and since then the Browyn men had been the most successful lawyers in Tennessee. Her father was especially skilled, winning case after case, which only increased his popularity. Henery Browny intended to pass the business onto his son, but his only child was a girl, Amaya.

"As you know, Amaya, I'm getting older. It's due time for me to retire and pass on my work at the law firm. As you also know, I have no son to continue the business," Lowering his voice and leaning closer to his daughter he continued, "This is where you come in. There's a man named Wellington. Two years ago, he took a ship from England to start a new life here. He has the proper training to take over for me and is very wealthy. He would make a fine husband." 

"But father, I don't want to be married. Not to someone I've never even met."

"Ah, but it's all been arranged, you'll meet shortly, and he'll join us for our Thanksgiving dinner." Amaya sat straighter in her seat, a feeble attempt to feel stronger. She was a Browyn. That meant she had to be obedient, polite, and most importantly, businesslike. But she was also Amaya, strong-willed, and full of dreams. 

"No!" She shouted with all the power she could muster.

As her father came closer to the tree where she sat, still shouting her name, she saw that he wasn't alone. Beside him was a man, tall, wide, and much older than her. "It must be Wellington," She muttered under her breath. He walked closer and closer, with her father just a few steps behind. He wasn't particularly handsome, with a crooked nose and an ever-balding head. He was tall as he was wide, and was wearing a stiff, black suit.

"Amaya, dear, it's lovely to meet you. You're as gorgeous as your father said."

"I will not marry you, Wellington! I would rather die than help continue my father's cursed law firm! Do you hear me? I will NOT!" With fury exploding from every pore in her body, she gathered up her skirt and legal pad, running father into the woods. Her lungs burned as she tore through field and forest. Running far past the family's expansive property. She had know idea where she would go or what she would do. But she knew that she would never turn around. Her will was iron and her body would have to keep up.

Amaya knew that they might catch up with her. She knew that she would have to endure many cold hours in her room, alone. She knew that her father might make the rest of her life miserable. She knew that her father would use every ounce of his will to make her marry Wellington. But she knew that she would never. Not simply for the sake of the family business.