Summer's Crucible- Chapter Five: Low Hanging Fruits

In the first days after leaving Landon, Summer had been convinced that disaster was waiting for her.

She had spent six years believing that his wealth, his family connections, and the impressive house they shared provided a degree of security she could never have achieved on her own.

Without those things, she imagined herself exposed to every conceivable misfortune.

It was a peculiar fear, considering how little Landon had actually done to protect her.

Nevertheless, the anxiety lingered.

For the first week, Summer checked her phone constantly, expecting an angry message from Landon or some vindictive communication from Henri. She half expected to learn that

Landon had filed a police report over the belongings she had removed from the house.

Nothing of the sort happened.

Instead, Landon sent her a text announcing that he accepted her apology.

Summer read it twice.

She hadn't apologized.

A few days later, he informed her that the house felt empty without her.

Then came another message suggesting she return so they could put the unpleasantness behind them.

Summer didn't respond.

Eventually, the messages stopped.

She contacted Charlene once, largely to confirm that the breakup was final and that she had no intention of involving herself with the family again.

Charlene seemed unusually forthcoming.

Apparently, during the same period Landon had been inviting Summer to return, he had continued bringing Paisley around.

Summer wasn't particularly surprised.

The information merely confirmed what she had already suspected: Landon wanted the convenience of having Summer back without sacrificing the excitement of his replacement.

For the first time, Summer found herself grateful for Charlene's inability to keep a secret.

The realization that Landon wasn't going to change provided more closure than any apology he might have offered.

As the weeks passed, Summer's fear of living without him gradually gave way to a different feeling.

Embarrassment.

Not because the relationship had ended, but because she had spent so many years trying to preserve it.

Leaving Landon had been like removing an old adhesive bandage that had remained in place long after the wound beneath it had healed. Pulling it away was unpleasant, but the greater discomfort came from realizing how unnecessarily long she had left it there.

Summer used much of her accrued paid leave to settle into Mimsy's house.

Her mother never missed an opportunity to remind her that she had arrived without an invitation.

“You know, most adult daughters call before moving back in,” Mimsy observed one morning.

Summer looked up from her coffee.

“I can stay with Heather if you'd rather.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous. That apartment is barely large enough for Heather and her turtle.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“There isn't a problem. I'm simply pointing out that some consideration would have been appreciated.”

Summer returned to her coffee.

That was Mimsy's preferred arrangement: she wanted Summer to stay, provided she could remind her that the hospitality was a favor.

Eventually, Summer stopped arguing.

At least Mimsy's complaints were predictable.

Willa's were another matter.

Summer's medical appointments and extended absences had already strained her relationship with Xylloughby and Associate Investments. After the move, the commute from Mimsy's house would have taken nearly three hours each way.

Summer had no intention of attempting it while managing her back condition.

She requested additional leave and asked about temporary adjustments to her schedule, but the firm proved unwilling to accommodate her needs in any meaningful way.

The dispute eventually ended with her employment being terminated.

It was the first time Summer had ever been fired.

She was embarrassed, but not devastated.

She applied for unemployment benefits, though she understood that eligibility would depend on the circumstances of her separation and whether she was considered available for suitable work.

More importantly, she began looking for a position closer to Mimsy's home.

She also investigated her options for maintaining health coverage rather than assuming she could remain insured after leaving Xylloughby.

Her condition made a lapse in coverage an expense she couldn't afford.

For once, she treated those practical matters as more important than preserving appearances.

Mimsy eventually proved useful in an unexpected way.

Through her extensive network of former real estate clients, she learned that an elderly

dentist needed someone to manage the administrative side of his practice.

Summer interviewed and was hired.

The work wasn't glamorous, but it was reasonably close to home and involved familiar responsibilities: scheduling, billing, insurance claims, patient records, and keeping the office

functioning.

The dentist was nearing retirement.

His practice had been declining for years, and he had responded by cutting expenses wherever possible.

His longtime dental assistant had left, followed by his hygienist.

Rather than immediately replacing both, he tried to reduce the appointment schedule and rely on temporary help.

Summer quickly discovered that office manager was a title he interpreted rather generously.

She was expected to handle the front desk, manage billing, coordinate supplies, prepare treatment rooms, and occasionally assist with nonclinical tasks.

Whenever actual chairside assistance was required, the dentist needed qualified help, which wasn't always available.

A properly supervised dental assistant came in on certain days, and a trainee attended once a week. Summer learned to schedule the more demanding procedures when that support was present.

It wasn't an ideal arrangement.

The dentist was frugal to the point of absurdity, and Summer suspected he would rather reuse a paper clip until it disintegrated than order a new box.

Nevertheless, the job had advantages.

It provided income, a path to employer-sponsored health coverage, and experience she could use elsewhere.

Most importantly, the dentist seemed genuinely pleased when she completed her work without requiring supervision.

After Willa, that alone felt like a luxury.

Summer hoped the man would remain healthy long enough to provide a useful professional reference before retiring.

By late spring, Summer had begun to feel as though she were aging prematurely.

She spent her working hours surrounded by elderly patients and her evenings listening to Mimsy discuss the grievances, ailments, and romantic prospects of the local retirement community.

Summer occasionally wondered whether she had accidentally skipped the middle portion of her life.

She began accepting nearly every opportunity to visit Heather.

Her former stepsister had the good sense to avoid Mimsy's house whenever possible.

Summer had also made several practical changes to her own circumstances.

The expensive SUV was gone.

She had traded it for a modest used Fiat that cost substantially less to insure, maintain, and fuel.

The reduction in expenses was a relief.

Her physical therapy and other medical costs still consumed an uncomfortable portion of her income, and she wanted to build savings against the possibility of future procedures or periods when she might be unable to work.

For the first time in years, she was more interested in the balance of her savings account than the appearance of her car.

It was a welcome change.

Heather, meanwhile, still didn't own a vehicle.

That provided Summer with a convenient excuse to leave the house whenever Mimsy hosted one of her increasingly elaborate social gatherings.

Summer had begun to suspect that her mother used Red Hat Society events as opportunities to evaluate other women's husbands for potential romantic usefulness.

She had no evidence of this.

But knowing Mimsy, she considered the theory entirely plausible.

One evening, Summer arrived home to discover that Mimsy was preparing to entertain Kat Tanner, a former competitive powerlifter, and her husband, Possum, who owned a gym.

Summer had met them before.

They were friendly enough, though their habit of making suggestive jokes around Mimsy had always made her uncomfortable.

Then Summer noticed the decorative pineapple displayed upside down in the front bay window.

She stopped in the hallway.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Mimsy looked up.

“What?”

“Nothing. I'm going out.”

“Where?”

“To visit Heather.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes.”

Summer collected her keys before Mimsy could ask anything else.

Once she was safely in the car, she called Heather.

“I need somewhere to hide tonight.”

Heather laughed.

“What happened?”

“Mimsy's apparently decided to become a swinger.”

“What?”

“There's an upside-down pineapple in the front window, Kat Tanner and her husband are coming over, and I refuse to find out whether any of those things are connected.”

Heather groaned.

“That's disgusting.”

“Exactly. Can I stay with you?”

“Sure. Bring food.”

Summer stopped for takeout on the way into the city.

By the time she reached Heather's apartment, she was looking forward to an evening of cheap movies and making fun of Mimsy's social life.

Unfortunately, Heather had something else on her mind.

Summer noticed her mood almost immediately.

Heather accepted the takeout bags but didn't launch into her usual complaints about work,

Morgana, or her neighbors.

Instead, she sat quietly on the sofa, picking at her food.

“What's wrong?” Summer asked.

Heather hesitated.

“Can you keep something between us?”

Summer set down her drink.

“That depends. Is it something that's going to get me arrested?”

“No.”

“Then probably.”

Heather took a breath.

“I've been doing OnlyFans.”

Summer considered that.

She wasn't particularly surprised.

Heather had been managing her bills more comfortably in recent months, and the apartment looked noticeably better maintained.

Even the turtle's habitat had acquired a new filtration system.

“Well,” Summer said, “that explains a few things.”

Heather looked relieved.

“You're not going to lecture me?”

“Not unless you're about to tell me something spectacularly stupid.”

Heather winced.

Summer narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, no.”

“It's not that bad.”

“That's what people say right before telling me something terrible.”

Heather set down her fork.

“I have a customer who's been spending a lot of money.”

“Okay.”

“A lot of money.”

Summer waited.

“He's one of my biggest subscribers. He pays for private content and special requests. He's always paid what he promised.”

“Who is he?”

Heather hesitated.

“I think his name is French or something.”

Summer felt a small knot form in her stomach.

“Henri?”

Heather pointed at her.

“Yes! That's it.”

Summer stared.

“Henri Oettinger?”

“I don't know his last name.”

“Landon's brother?”

Heather's expression changed.

“Oh.”

Summer closed her eyes.

Of course.

Of all the men in the world, Heather had somehow attracted Henri.

Summer was certain he knew exactly who she was.

Heather wasn't so sure.

“Maybe he doesn't know we're related.”

“Formerly related,” Summer corrected automatically.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I do.”

Heather looked down at her hands.

“Anyway, he made me an offer.”

Summer didn't like the sound of that.

“What kind of offer?”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Summer sat up.

“For what?”

Heather hesitated again.

“Promise you won't freak out.”

“Heather.”

“He wants me to make a video.”

“What kind of video?”

Heather stared at the floor.

“He wants me to lick a dirty gas station toilet.”

Summer nearly dropped her dinner.

“He wants you to do what?”

Heather winced.

“Keep your voice down.”

“Have you done it?”

“No!”

“Good.”

“But I'm thinking about it.”

Summer put her head in her hands.

For several seconds, she couldn't speak.

Then she looked up.

“Heather, that's disgusting. You could become seriously ill.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because it's twenty-five thousand dollars!”

Heather spread her hands.

“I could buy a car. I could take a proper vacation with Morgana. I could put money in savings. I wouldn't have to worry about rent every month.”

Summer studied her.

Heather wasn't entirely wrong about the significance of the money.

Twenty-five thousand dollars could make a substantial difference in her life.

That was precisely what made the request so offensive.

Henri knew the amount would be tempting to someone who didn't have access to his family's wealth.

To him, it was entertainment.

To Heather, it represented months of financial breathing room.

“Has he paid you anything toward it?” Summer asked.

“Not yet. He said he'd pay when he gets the video.”

“Then you don't have twenty-five thousand dollars. You have a message from a man promising twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“He's always paid before.”

“That doesn't mean he'll pay this time.”

“I have the messages. If he refuses, I can take him to court.”

Summer gave her a skeptical look.

“Court isn't a magic machine that turns screenshots into money. And even if you could enforce the agreement, how much would you spend trying?”

Heather looked away.

Summer leaned forward.

“Listen to me. Henri isn't offering that money because he admires your work.”

“I know.”

“He wants to humiliate you. The money is part of the humiliation. He wants to know he can pay someone to do something degrading and dangerous because he has enough money to make them consider it.”

Heather remained silent.

Summer continued.

“And if he knows you're connected to me, that's probably part of the appeal.”

Heather shook her head.

“You don't know that.”

“No,” Summer admitted. “I don't. But I know Henri.”

They eventually abandoned the argument and watched a pair of melodramatic television movies.

Summer tried to enjoy herself.

Unfortunately, she overheard part of a telephone conversation between Heather and Morgana later that evening.

Morgana was encouraging Heather to accept the offer.

Twenty-five thousand dollars was too much money to turn down, she insisted.

Heather sounded uncertain.

Morgana sounded impatient.

Summer listened from the kitchen, increasingly disgusted.

Morgana had always been more attentive when Heather had money to spend.

Now she seemed perfectly willing to encourage something dangerous if it meant the possibility of an expensive vacation.

Summer considered intervening.

Then she stopped herself.

Heather had already heard her opinion.

Repeating it would probably accomplish nothing beyond making her feel attacked.

Instead, Summer gathered her belongings and drove back to Mimsy's.

The long journey gave her plenty of time to think.

Henri's request was revolting.

But what bothered her most was how easily he had managed to turn Heather's financial insecurity into a form of entertainment.

Summer knew the type.

Landon and Henri had spent their lives treating money as evidence of personal superiority.

They liked watching other people compromise themselves for amounts the brothers barely considered significant.

Summer wanted to stop Heather from doing something dangerous.

She also wanted Henri to discover, for once, that he wasn't nearly as clever as he imagined.

By the time she reached Mimsy's driveway, an idea had begun to take shape.

Summer parked and sat in the car for several minutes, thinking it through.

Then she smiled.

“Oh, that's interesting.”

She picked up her phone.

I think I have an idea about the Henri thing.

She sent the message to Heather and went inside.

Thankfully, Mimsy's guests had departed.

The upside-down pineapple had disappeared from the window.

Summer considered both developments encouraging.

The following evening, Summer returned to Heather's apartment.

She had waited until Morgana was elsewhere.

Heather opened the door with an expectant expression.

“Well?”

Summer held up a notebook.

“First, you're not licking a public toilet.”

Heather folded her arms.

“Then how am I supposed to get paid?”

“That's what we need to figure out.”

They sat down with coffee.

Summer opened her notebook.

“Remember I used to manage investment accounts?”

“Obviously.”

“One of the businesses I dealt with was a plumbing and home-improvement supplier called

Planet Plumbing and More.”

Heather looked unimpressed.

“Okay?”

“They had an enormous warehouse full of bathroom fixtures. Display models, surplus

inventory, discontinued stock. Some of it had never been installed.”

Heather waited.

Summer continued.

“If someone wanted to make a disgusting-looking comedy video involving a toilet, they wouldn't need to use a real public restroom fixture. They could use a clean prop.”

Heather frowned.

“You mean fake it?”

“I mean stage it. There's a difference between making something look revolting for entertainment and actually exposing yourself to whatever is living in a gas station bathroom.”

Heather considered that.

“But Henri wants a real gas station toilet.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to know what he's actually willing to pay for.”

Heather looked confused.

Summer tapped her notebook.

“Does he want a convincing performance, or is he specifically paying you to put yourself at risk?”

“What's the difference?”

“The difference is whether there's any honest way to make this deal without doing something dangerous.”

Heather leaned back.

Summer continued.

“I know a digital editor named Yang. He does commercial videos, visual effects, and independent productions. I called him about the cost of making a deliberately disgusting scene using a clean prop.”

“You called him?”

“I didn't mention you or Henri.”

“What did he say?”

“He said it was possible, depending on the footage, but we'd need to control the filming environment. Lighting, angles, continuity. He also said the finished video would need to be clearly understood by everyone involved as staged content.”

Heather looked disappointed.

“So he won't help us fool Henri?”

“Not knowingly. And I don't blame him.”

Summer took a sip of coffee.

“I asked for a preliminary estimate. About forty-five hundred dollars for a small production with editing, depending on what we actually need.”

Heather nearly choked.

“Forty-five hundred?”

“That's why we aren't spending a penny until we know whether there's a real deal.”

“What about the plumbing place?”

“They might rent us a suitable display fixture or sell us a discontinued model. We'd need a proper filming location, too. But again, that's something to price out, not something to pay for yet.”

Heather stared at her.

“You've really thought about this.”

“More than I'd like to admit.”

Summer turned the notebook around.

She had written a rough budget.

Item	Estimated cost
Prop fixture and location	$1,800
Filming and editing	$4,500
Miscellaneous production expenses	$700
Total	$7,000

Heather studied the figures.

“So we'd make eighteen thousand?”

“Before taxes, platform fees, and any other expenses. And only if Henri actually pays the full

amount.”

Heather frowned.

“That's still a lot.”

“It is.”

Summer closed the notebook.

“But there's a problem.”

“Of course there is.”

“Henri's offer isn't a guaranteed payment. And if we promise him one thing while knowingly delivering another, he could argue that he was deceived. We could spend thousands making a video and end up with nothing but an expensive argument.”

Heather looked down at the budget.

Summer continued.

“I'm not putting my savings into something that depends on a spoiled rich man being too stupid to notice he's been tricked.”

Heather gave a reluctant smile.

“So what's your brilliant idea?”

“We find out whether he'll pay for a staged performance. He can have something outrageous to watch without you actually doing anything dangerous.”

“He won't go for that.”

“Maybe not.”

“Summer, the whole point is that he wants it to be real.”

“Then the whole point is that he wants you to risk your health for his amusement.”

Heather said nothing.

Summer leaned forward.

“Think about it. If the video is entertaining enough, he might still want it. If he doesn't, then we walk away. No hospital bills, no production debt, and no giving Henri the satisfaction of buying your dignity.”

Heather was quiet for a long moment.

Then she asked, “What's in it for you?”

Summer didn't hesitate.

“I hate Henri.”

Heather burst out laughing.

Summer smiled.

“But I also don't want to watch you hurt yourself for money. And if we can find a way to make something profitable without doing that, I'm willing to help.”

Heather picked up her coffee.

“So what do we do first?”

“First, you ask Henri whether he'd pay for a professionally staged gross-out performance. We don't order props, hire anyone, or sign anything until we know what he's actually buying.”

Heather looked thoughtful.

“And if he says yes?”

“Then we negotiate a written agreement, arrange payment terms, and work out whether the numbers make sense.”

“And if he says no?”

Summer shrugged.

“Then at least we know exactly what kind of man he is.”

Heather considered that.

Finally, she raised her cup.

“To making money without getting sick.”

Summer tapped her own cup against it.

“And to not letting Henri Oettinger decide what either of us is worth.”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

For the first time since hearing about Henri's offer, Summer felt something other than disgust.

She had spent years using her intelligence to make wealthy men richer while allowing them to treat her as though she had nothing of value to contribute.

Now she was considering a project of her own.

Whether it succeeded or failed, at least she would be making the decisions.

And she found that prospect considerably more satisfying than the thought of humiliating Henri.