“It looks like the situation in Madison has finally been resolved,” Whitney announced to Austin in passing on the wrought-iron spiral staircase that led from the staff offices.
Austin, heading downstairs on his way to the Martyn, North, & Compeau showroom on Connecticut Avenue, paused. “So it wasn’t murder?”
“I have no idea. I suppose not.”
Whitney Martyn was a tall and lean forty-something. He had recently started touching up his thinning hair and goatee with hair color and taken to wearing polka-dot shirts. Austin attributed the dye job to Whitney’s engagement to Theresa, but what polka-dot shirts signified was beyond him. Today’s offering was white with navy blue dots.
Whitney added, “All I know for sure is the daughter phoned yesterday to say that the police had signed off on the cellar, so the appraisal can proceed.” He added meaningfully, “She asked to speak to you.”
“Who?”
“The girl. Miss Cashel.” He said it as though there was some significance to it, but if there was, it escaped Austin. “We’d like you to leave tomorrow if you can arrange it. There’ve been too many delays already.”
“But I can’t leave tomorrow,” Austin said, startled. “I’ve got the 1990 champagne cocktail party at Café Milano. In fact, I can’t leave this week. Thursday is part four in the wine workshop, and this weekend is the Margaux versus Palmer dinner at Maestro.”
“There are no auctions this week. Theresa can handle all the rest of it,” Whitney said breezily.
“Theresa?” Surprise gave way to alarm. “I host the Maestro dinner. I’ve hosted it for the last four years.”
“Martyn, North, & Compeau hosts the Maestro dinner,” Whitney shot back immediately, which was a pretty good hint that he’d been ready for Austin’s reaction. “After four years it’s probably time to mix things up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Whitney’s eyebrows arched. “I’m sorry?”
“Is there something I should be aware of?”
Whitney responded in true asshole fashion. “I’m sure there are many things you should be aware of, Austin. Did you have something particular in mind?”
This was not the strategic moment to tackle this, but Austin felt backed into a corner by the news he was being sent back to Georgia in what felt like a deliberate move to shut him out of three major store events. Besides, the idea of returning to Madison filled him with nervous anxiety. It had taken him two weeks to stop hoping every time the phone rang that Jeff might be on the other end. In fact, it had taken a month to stop thinking about Jeff on a daily basis. For some reason he could not make sense of, Austin’s brief encounter with Jeff Brady had affected him deeply. The last thing he needed was reexposure to the virus. Even getting another chance at the Lee bottles didn’t feel like enough inducement.
“Is there some reason you’re not sending Theresa to do this inventory?” It was a mistake to let even a hint of his antagonism show. Austin knew that, and yet he was so rattled, he couldn’t help it.
“Theresa doesn’t have your experience at this kind of thing.”
“She doesn’t have my experience at teaching workshops or hosting dinners.”
“All the more reason for her to tackle it.”
Austin’s stomach felt like it rolled onto its side and began its slow descent to the bottom of the sea. “Why would that be?”
Whitney gave him a look that said as clearly as words, I didn’t want to do this now, but since you’re insisting… “Peter and I have made our decision regarding the new position.” He drew a deep breath, so maybe he wasn’t as calm as he seemed. “We’re appointing Theresa senior director.”
“Theresa,” Austin parroted. “Theresa?” Somehow he managed not to say all the undiplomatic things that immediately leaped into his mind—starting with the fact that if Theresa wasn’t leading Whitney around by his peanut-sized balls, there was no way she’d be regarded as a serious candidate. She had maybe a third of Austin’s qualifications for this job.
Perhaps Whitney knew what he was thinking—maybe because it was what everyone would be thinking. He said sharply, “Certainly Theresa. She’s eminently qualified.”
Austin had known this was coming, but he still couldn’t believe it. It was so blatantly, flagrantly unjust. He had worked so goddamned hard over the past years, and his efforts had paid off. Martyn, North, & Compeau’s stodgy, conservative rep had been replaced by a new hip, edgy image. These days they were DC’s number one wine shop, and a large part of that was due to Austin’s efforts and the following he was building. It wasn’t any secret either. Whitney knew it as well as anyone. Knew that everyone internally and externally believed the new job would be—should be—Austin’s.
“You don’t think you’ll be accused of nepotism?” Austin inquired as politely as he could manage. “I mean, she is your fiancée. And the least experienced or qualified person on staff.”
Whitney’s face went red and then white. “That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Oh, she’s not your fiancée?”
Whitney swallowed. “Be careful, Austin. In case you’ve failed to get the message, you’re not by any means irreplaceable. You work for us, not, as everyone here seems to believe, the other way around. Your continued employment following our restructure is contingent on your willingness to work under your new boss.” He added, “And speaking of nepotism, let’s not forget that you originally landed your position here because Peter and your old man are good friends.”
“I was a credentialed master of wine when I was hired. Theresa is one step from a restaurant hostess.”
Okay, that wasn’t quite fair, but neither was this.
“One more goddamned word,” Whitney said, starting to shake, “and you’re fired. And if Peter has a problem with it, he can talk to me.”
Austin opened his mouth to say the one more goddamned word—two goddamned words, actually—but he remembered he was driving out to the house in Frederick for his father’s birthday party that evening. Having to admit to the entire family that he had failed yet again was unbearable. He couldn’t do it.
But how the hell could he stay? To roll over and accept this—accept being passed over in favor of Whitney’s fiancée—was humiliating. It was insulting. It was demeaning. And given his years of enthusiastic hard work, it was plain old hurtful.
He couldn’t stay.
He couldn’t leave. This was his world. His life.
But he couldn’t stay.
Whitney was glaring at him, waiting for him to say it, quivering with anticipated righteous indignation.
In the end, that was what saved Austin: knowing how badly Whitney wanted him to quit. “Excuse me,” he managed. “I’m expected downstairs.”
* * * * *
“Haaaaapy birthday, dear Harrison, haaaaapy birthday tooo yoooou!”
The exuberant, off-key singing trailed to a straggling stop as Harrison Gillespie drew a deep breath, leaned forward, and efficiently blew out every one of the sixty candles on his birthday cake.
There was a noisy round of applause, and Harrison looked around, smiling broadly as he accepted his dues. He reached out to Ernest, who reluctantly left Austin’s side to stand self-consciously within the ring of his father’s arm.
“That’s my boy,” Harrison said.
Ernest coughed and politely covered his mouth.
Though Ernest was small for his age and a deceptively fragile-looking child, there was a marked resemblance between father and son. They had the same fierce, dark eyes, sallow complexion, and aquiline features. Harrison had been a puny, sickly child with a powerful imagination and a will of steel. He had not let anything stand in the way of his desire to become an investigative journalist, and against the odds, he had succeeded beyond even his own dreams. According to all the biographies Austin had read, anyway.
“Presents!” Debra was a petite, pretty, and energetic woman just a couple of years older than Austin. Viv, Austin’s public-prosecutor sister, referred to Debra as the “Nazi cruise director.” Debra did have a tendency to try to manage people who were getting along fine without her help, but Harrison seemed to take it all in stride. But then there was no question about who wore the pants in Harrison’s home.
“Here you are, Harry.” Bella, Stepmother #2, offered a square, flat parcel in recycled paper.
The parcel turned out—unsurprisingly, as Bella always gave books—to be a biography of Norman Podhoretz. This was the signal, and everyone pushed their presents forward. Harrison exclaimed at their generosity and accepted his due with the placidity of baby Jesus receiving the wise men. The gifts ranged from a vintage Rolex watch (Rebecca, Stepmother #3) to an exercise video (Bryant, Stepsister #1). Harrison exclaimed graciously over each and every gift.
Austin’s offering was a Kindle wireless reading device.
“Well, well,” Harrison mused, holding the box up. “Electronic books, eh? That’s very thoughtful, Austin.”
Ernest’s gift was a computer game called NIER. Harrison chuckled and hugged him. “You’ll have to teach me how to play this, Son.”
After the presents came the cake and ice cream and the annual speech from Harrison about his real legacy being his family. His legacy patted him on the back and kissed the top of his head and urged him to hurry up and cut the cake.
Austin listened and ate cake and watched his smiling stepmothers and sisters and brother—and felt like a stranger staring through a window. This was his family. He loved them. And yet he didn’t think he could feel more alien if he had been one of those white-haired, angular-faced characters in Ernest’s video game.
What was wrong with him tonight?
Partly it was his anxiety at the idea of returning to Ballineen. As much as he’d love to know if the Lee bottles were in that dusty dungeon of a cellar, he dreaded the possibility of running into Jeff again. He was embarrassed when he remembered how worked up he’d gotten over the one night they’d spent together. Sure, the sex had been terrific, but…Austin had carried on like it was love at first sight. He went cold every time he remembered the things he’d blurted to Jeff. Clearly he was not cut out for casual flings. Clearly he was a lot more romantic than he’d realized. Clearly he was a lot lonelier than he realized.
No, he definitely didn’t want to risk running into Jeff again.
Forefront, though, was the worry about what to do over the situation at the wine shop. The more Austin considered the blatant dis of Theresa’s promotion over him, the more convinced he was that he needed to do something, needed to react strongly, decisively. React as Harrison would if Harrison had elected to spend his life pursuing something as peripheral as wine consulting—and someone had the balls to challenge him. But the only something left open to Austin was to leave Martyn, North, & Compeau, and the idea of that scared him silly.
Without the clout of MN&C behind him, he was just another guy with a blog and an opinion. And who would care about his opinions if he didn’t work for MN&C?
He could try for another position at another wine shop, of course. Start over somewhere. Or he could try for a job at a winery. Or a restaurant.
Or even go for something completely different.
He didn’t want to go for something different, though. He loved his work. He loved wine. He was proud of his achievements, even if they didn’t feel like much compared to those of his family’s.
Every time one of his sisters or stepmothers asked him in that tactful way about how his job was going, he was deeply relieved that he hadn’t resigned that afternoon. Having to try to explain why he had quit… No.
So maybe he should just accept Theresa’s promotion with good grace and be grateful he still had a job.
“I’ve decided not to sue Mother and Harrison,” Ernest informed him when Austin went upstairs to say good night.
“I think that’s a wise decision.”
Ernest wore green pajamas with dinosaurs. He was brushing his teeth, and he let the toothpaste boil out and spill over his chin and spatter his pajama top. Austin sat on Ernest’s bed and watched, fascinated. Ernest didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, and Austin envied him that. He’d been a neurotic mess of insecurities at Ernest’s age. He was probably still a neurotic mess of insecurities compared to Ernest.
“Not because I wouldn’t win,” Ernest said, foaming at the mouth. “I would. But you were right about my birthday and Christmas. I don’t think Mother and Father will let me build a reflecting telescope in the attic if I sue them.”
“You’re all heart, Ernesto.”
Ernest made an ar-ar-ar sound like a laughing sea lion. “Humor, earthling!” He nearly choked on toothpaste and had to retreat to the bathroom, where he was wasting gallons of water running the taps at full blast.
Austin was still chuckling when Ernest returned dripping but foam free.
“I’m going to make them let me come home on weekends.”
“Oh?” Austin said noncommittally.
“Harrison will do that for me,” Ernest said, supremely confident. Maybe he was right. Harrison wasn’t traveling much these days, and it wasn’t like Ernest was a child who required a lot of parental interaction.
Ernest’s small, wet hands locked on Austin’s shoulders, and he gave Austin a quick, damp kiss on his forehead. “I’m going to bed now. Good night.”
Amused at his clear dismissal, Austin rose. “Right. Night.” He dropped a quick kiss on Ernest’s spiky, little-boy-smelling hair and went to the door. “Lights on or off?”
“On. I’m going to read.” Ernest picked up a copy of An Introduction to Modern Astrophysics and crawled between sheets featuring The Jetsons. The sheets were Debra’s choice. Ernest disapproved of The Jetsons.
“Nighty-night,” Austin said and left him there surrounded by his mobiles of distant galaxies and assorted glow-in-the-dark models of planets and stars.
“Your father wants to speak to you,” Debra said when Austin arrived downstairs. “He’s in his study.”
Austin nodded, ignoring that flare of foreboding, and headed for Harrison’s study, where he found his father reclining in the big leather chair behind his desk, enjoying his habitual after-dinner cigar and brandy.
“Help yourself, Austin,” Harrison instructed.
Austin loathed cigars—few things were more effective at spoiling palate and nose—but he poured himself a brandy and took the chair on the other side of his father’s desk. Now that he thought about it, most of his meetings with his father took place either across this desk or meal tables. He could count on one hand the number of hugs he remembered receiving—even including when he was younger than Ernest. But Harrison had mellowed with age. He was more sentimental these days.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” Harrison said, studying the tip of his cigar. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Everything’s fine, Dad.”
Harrison’s dark gaze moved to Austin’s face, scrutinizing him. “How’s the job?”
“Fine.” More than ever, Austin was glad he had not quit in a fury that afternoon. Peter was liable to phone Harrison with the news. No way would Austin’s resignation have gone unnoticed. He had an uneasy feeling not even his recent run-in with Whitney had gone unnoticed.
“I see.” Harrison was silent. Austin felt his nerves tighten. “You know, Austin,” Harrison said at last, “you’re getting to an age when it’s time to make some decisions about the future.”
Austin sipped his brandy and waited, nerves on edge.
“You rejected the idea of journalism, even though that’s what you majored in and that’s what you’ve got a degree in. You wanted to try music and then modeling. Well, your mother was a model, so I guess that’s not as strange as it might otherwise have been.”
“I did the modeling for spending money. It wasn’t ever a career choice.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. Or would be, except for the fact that you don’t seem to have ever settled on any career choice. At nine, Ernest has a better idea of what he wants to do with his life than you do at twenty-nine.”
Austin could feel the blood draining from his face. It had been a long time since they’d had one of these father-son chats. He’d have been happy to go the rest of his life without another one. “I have settled on a choice. I’m a master of wine—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Harrison burst out. “That’s a hobby. That’s not a career. What the hell kind of job is that for a grown man? Master of wine. That’s one step from claiming you want to be a Jedi knight when you grow up.” Harrison broke off and seemed to struggle for a more reasonable tone. “I understand you have some resentments, but it’s time to pull yourself together. I can get you a starting position at the Washington Post the minute you say the word.”
“I don’t want to be a journalist.” Like it wasn’t hard enough living up to the legend? Try competing in the same field.
“Then why the hell did you study journalism in college?”
“Because you wanted me to.”
That took Harrison aback for a moment, but he recovered quickly. “You didn’t know what you wanted to do with your life then, and you still don’t. Sometimes I even think this whole matter of your sexual orientation is just…” Harrison let that go.
Austin asked evenly, “Is just what?”
Harrison’s eyes were as black and hard as jet. “I’m not sure. Fear of competition? A bid for attention? Adolescent rebellion?”
Well, he’d asked. Now he knew. He should probably be furious. Oddly, he just felt numb. Numb and more depressed than he’d ever felt in his life. Austin set his brandy snifter on the desk and rose.
“I’m not an adolescent, and I’m not aware of any particular resentment. I’ve always been proud to be your son.” Harrison’s face changed. He moved as though to speak, but Austin made himself finish. “My sexuality doesn’t have to do with anything but me. It’s not a choice. I’m sorry the choices I have made with my life disappoint you, but better you than me.”
“Austin—”
“Night, Dad. Happy birthday.”