CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I can tell by my father’s footsteps, when he comes through the door, that he’s angry. Usually, he has a purposeful tread. Mason James doesn’t just slap his feet anywhere. In business, he’s always done well because he moves slowly, taking his time to see what other people don’t. The same is true in his walk. It’s all slow paces interspersed with pauses. But this is nothing like that.
By the time Bridget brought me home, he was already gone. That’s another Mason James thing: He works every day and goes in early, even on weekends. I think that’s the reason he sets these meetings when he does, at 7 a.m. on a Saturday. It’s a test. He wants the meeting, of course. But it’s more about seeing how dedicated the people in it are to making the deal.
There’s only one reason I’d hear what I’m hearing: the meeting wasn’t good.
I’m suddenly certain he knows about me and Brandon. Maybe Brandon told him, in the spirit of confession, figuring he’d be caught in time and choosing to broker with honesty. And that pacing I’m hearing — it’s not just anger at Brandon; it’s anger at me, too. I’m twenty-two, but feel fifteen. Dad will never stop being my father, and I’ll never stop worrying that some day, I’ll disappoint him enough that he’ll stop loving me.
But when he stalks into the living room and I peek up from my book, he’s not glaring at me. He’s not going to demand my side of the story. He’s stomping toward the kitchen, angry about something that has nothing to do with me.
Or at least, something he thinks has nothing to do with me.
I want to hide, somehow still sure he must know. I force myself to speak first.
“Morning, Daddy.”
“Hey, Kid.”
He’s stopped at the end table where he was looking through some paperwork yesterday morning. He’s flipping through it now, but I know nervous energy when I see it. He doesn’t care about whatever’s in those documents; he’s trying to give his hands and eyes something to do until this wave passes.
Another question I don’t want to ask, but feel a need to rip off the Band-Aid: “How was your meeting?”
“Terrible.”
I sit up and set my book aside. “What happened?”
“Brandon happened.”
A shiver runs through me. I’m glad he’s still looking at the papers because my face is surely betraying my emotions.
“What about him?”
Dad looks up. He meets my eyes, and for a few seconds I see the titan that the rest of this town sees inside him. To me, he’s quiet and thoughtful, kind and deadly honest. He’s some of those things to the public, but he’s also a man you’d never cross, because something sleeps beneath the surface.
“Did you two finish dinner last night?”
I hope he’s asking because he wants to know his hospitality wasn’t for naught, not because he knows more than he should. I smile and say, “Yes. It was great. Why? What’s going on with Brandon?”
“He missed our meeting.”
But that can’t be true. Bridget tried to make excuses for him on our drive. I could tell it hurt her to talk, so I didn’t let her say much. But I know enough. I know how much he needs this job. I know that he didn’t forget about the meeting, and that he told Bridget he had to haul out fast in order to make it home to clean up beforehand.
I’m still angry that he loved me and left me. But after talking to Bridget, it became so much harder to hate him.
“Did he show up late or something?”
“He didn’t show up at all. We waited for a half hour, but I couldn’t keep them waiting. Not after that bullshit last night.”
“What bull … What from last night?”
“Oh, you don’t know that gem.” Then he sort of squints. “When did you get in last night?”
I’m not good at lying to my father. But two and two are too easy to add without some fudging, so I hope he was asleep early and won’t challenge me. He’s early to bed and early to rise, plus I have a separate entrance that he shouldn’t hear open and close. It’s a safe bet that I’m fine, and the one who gets to be annoyed if he’s still waiting up for me now that I’m in my twenties.
“Like midnight?”
He watches me for a second then sighs. “Well, it turns out the message that sent me to the Hunt Club? That was a prank. A very specific prank. The idea that someone who knew about the deal would call Margo and joke like that — or would even think to — is really strange. We talked about it a bit today. I hate to think one of my competitors is that underhanded and petty, not to mention stupid. But who else would it be?”
I have an idea who it might have been, like maybe somebody who overheard certain things at dinner while barely saying a word. Things are starting to come together, and I’m not sure if I’m delighted or annoyed by what I see.
“I had to work hard to smooth things over. He was going on and on about a breach of confidentiality. So I bought him a lot of expensive scotch, and we smoked cigars. And do you know how I won the evening? How I turned that negative into a positive?”
“How?”
“I told him all about ‘my new vice president.’ And what a ‘prodigy’ he is.”
The air quotes in Dad’s voice are so loud they’re almost visible. I find myself thinking back to what Bridget said. I know more of their history now, and more than Brandon would ever want me to know about how desperately he needs this job. But it’s not just need. It’s also ambition. I had no idea who he truly was. What he’s been through. How hard he’s clawed. And what a tragedy it’d be if it all fell apart because of me. Because of what we did.
“I talked that son of a bitch up like you wouldn’t believe, Ri. And how does he thank me? He doesn’t even bother to show up!” He finally sits, taps his fingers on the end table, and asks, “What happened last night, Princess?”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“After you were done with dinner. Did you stay with him afterward?”
I lock eyes with my father. Did he just ask what I think he did? Or does he mean it sideways, in a less than literal way, or one that’s dead literal and innocent?
“Did you go anywhere else?”
“We stayed for coffee.”
“Because if you got back at midnight … ” He looks like he’s calculating.
“Don’t, Dad,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t check up on me.”
“I’m not checking up on you.”
“Yes, you are. You’re figuring out when dinner probably ended, how long a ride here would take, and trying to fill in the gaps. But it’s my business what I do, and with whom.”
His eyes narrow. “So you did stay with him.”
“No.”
“Did he go to a bar afterward?”
“How should I know?”
“I’ve heard some things. You know how people are in this town. I didn’t think Brandon is a drunk, but now I’m starting to wonder.”
“It was just one meeting.”
“He’d finally shown up by the time I got back. After the way I’d built him up to the investors, I wasn’t happy to see him.”
“He was just waiting at the office?”
“Yes. And he seemed … off somehow. Like he’d had a long night. Maybe drinking.”
“Dad!”
“I’ve been warned. More than one person has told me Brandon seems like a straight and narrow guy, but he’s got a history. Goes on benders. Gets into fights.”
“That’s not true!”
Dad looks at me, and I wonder why I’m defending him. I try to remind myself how mad I was. I try to dismiss all that Bridget told me. I try to remember that no matter what she said, Brandon still took, then left, me. There’s no excuse for that. I’m not meat. I’m a person. And I’d never be with someone who’d do something like that, whether I think he deserves my father’s wrath or not.
I can only imagine what must have happened when they met after the meeting. My father is fearsome when truly angry, and his office is soundproofed to muffle his rage.
Now, sitting in his chair and tapping his fingers on the end table, he shakes his head slowly. Regretfully.
“I can’t have someone untrustworthy in my company. Not in such an important position.” He sighs. “I thought this was going to work out.”
“It was just one meeting, Daddy.”
“It’s not the meeting. It’s why he missed it.”
Again, I try to steady my gaze. He’s looking right at me, and I wonder what he knows.
“What do you mean?”
“You know Room With a Cue?”
I nod. We passed it last night. “The pool hall.”
“There was a big fight there last night. I’m sure you read about it in the paper.”
He glances at the newspaper, which he brought in from the stoop himself and is still in its plastic bag. I don’t read the paper and never have, but Dad does it so religiously that he assumes everyone knows everything, including me.
“I called Chief Wood this morning,” he says, apparently deciding the point of my reading is moot. “They’re still sorting it out, but the problem was a guy with a beard.”
“And you think it was Brandon?”
“He had a few drinks while we were at dinner. He doesn’t live far from there. He looked tired as hell, Princess. And he had a big welt on his neck.”
A welt, I think. Or maybe a bite.
“It wasn’t him.”
“Honey … ”
“It wasn’t him, Dad.”
“How could you know?”
“I was with him.”
“It happened at 2 a.m., after you were gone.”
I’m considering my reply when he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. You know how I am with these weekend meetings. I’d never expect my people to be as devoted as I am, but I do expect them to be devoted when it matters. And this, today, mattered. I even reminded him last night. I don’t normally do that, Ri. If someone is going to be my VP, he should be responsible enough to know on his own.”
I watch my father. His 7 a.m. weekend meetings are his gauntlets. Fail one, and you fail across the board — especially if you’re a drunk who gets into bar fights.
I could tell my father the truth.
But something tells me that being the kind of guy who sleeps with the boss’s daughter isn’t much better.
“Forget it,” he says, trying on an ill-fitting smile. “I’ll deal with it Monday. How was your morning?”
“Are you going to fire him?” I ask, ignoring the question.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you still considering him for the vice presidency?” In my head, I hear two conflicting voices. The first is Bridget, telling me all I now know. The second is my dignity, insisting that if Brandon is kicked to the curb, it’s what he deserves.
I thought I liked him. He seemed smart and funny. I was drawn to him like ocean to shore. But looking back, I can’t decide if it was all a lie — if that’s his standard playbook for charming his way into women’s panties. Because although Bridget only meant to speak well of her brother, she did confirm much of what Dad said just now: he has a rough past, he’s prone to benders, and he’s been known to get into fights.
“I don’t know,” Dad says. “But I doubt it.”
“You were so sure he was your guy.”
“Not if he’s like this. Not if I can’t trust him.”
And there’s no way to rebut that. Not any way that works, and doesn’t anger him further.
He sighs yet again, this time leaning back in the chair. “He did have some nice things to say about you, though.”
I was looking down at my PJ pants. My head flicks up.
“What about me?”
“He said you two talked about the business after I left. Said you knew more about our operations than he’d ever even heard of.” Dad’s head turns to look at me, and for the first time in my life it’s not my father staring back. He’s looking at me as if I were a peer. “He told me you knew the rough acreage of all of our properties and about the solution Brent came up with to solve the drainage issue at Rycroft Estates. How did you know about that?”
I shrug. He knows how I know because I’ve told him the answer in various forms many, many times. I know because I study. I know because I want this to be my company some day, and in order for that to happen, I can’t see it as rows of pretty houses. I know because I’m interested, because I’m smart, and because I spent the last four years, as I earned my degree, thinking of how any acquired knowledge might apply to Life of Riley.
I know, but Dad has never believed it.
But now, it almost looks as if he’s willing to.
“I pay attention, Dad.”
“He said he’s never met someone who understands long-game strategy so well. He even said that if missing the meeting cost him the promotion … ” He pauses, as if unsure whether to proceed, and I can tell that he’s meant to say this since he came in — once his anger passed, if he could find the guts. “ … that I should give you the vice presidency.”
I don’t know how to respond. Dad watches me, then the serious moment passes, and he smiles a proud father’s smile.
“I’d settle for a seat at your next finance meeting,” I say, turning to the request he’s always, always denied.
“Okay,” he says. “Deal.”