“Hmph.” Agnes slowly stands, hands clasping the bar of her walker. “Okay, Carol. Let's call Cassie and bang out a deal. She needs something good in her life after the whole police academy mess, so I'm willing to take whatever offer you have–even without a pool boy–if it helps my granddaughter. Why not hire her full time? She can snoop and drive us around and do the smartphone thing and probably work even harder on other stuff for this crazy corporation.”
Agnes' business instincts mirror mine. Not sure whether to be impressed or horrified.
“Why do you call it crazy?” Carol asks, bemused.
“Because you're offering to hire us. Anyone who offers employment to a batshit old woman is crazy.”
“I'm so glad you're embracing calling yourself old, Agnes,” Corrine gushes as they shuffle toward the door.
“I was talking about you, Corrine,” Agnes grouses.
Carol turns to me, finger in my face, teeth bared. “I get four hours of comp time for taking this over. And maybe a raise.”
My stomach gurgles, a fluttering sensation making me halt.
“What?” she asks, eyes wide, looking like her mom again.
“I think–I think there are a bunch of bubbles in me.”
She grins, then moves to the door, clutching the manila folders, as Agnes and Corinne argue about using Agnes's flip phone. “Call Andrew. That's not gas.”
“What is it?”
“You just felt your babies move. Congrats!”
And with that, she takes over with the old ladies, and I stare at my bulging belly.
Bubbles never felt so good.
8
Andrew
“I am sure you're wondering why I asked you to lunch, Andrew.”
“Because you're my father and you love me and want to spend time getting to know me better?”
We both snort.
“Good one,” he mutters around a highball glass filled with ice cubes and the remains of his pre-lunch cocktail.
“You want to talk about the Dong-Wei deal, don't you? The sheetrock for the Australian resort was a problem, but the customs officials said–”
He's obviously ignoring me, waving his empty glass in the air like a really bad lacrosse player going for the ball.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to get more lunch.”
“How about we order actual food?”
“If they add three olives to this, that should count.”
The server appears, an older gentleman in a white jacket and black tie. “Mr. McCormick?”
Everyone here knows Dad. A very regular customer, he has his table in his corner and his wish is their command.
Also, Anterdec owns the place.
“Another, Paolo.”
“Of course.” His eyes catch mine. “And will you be ordering lunch, sir?”
I don't even need a menu. “Two tenderloins, both rare, mine with the balsamic fig glaze, his with the bleu cheese reduction. Grilled Brussels sprouts and two watermelon radish salads.”
“You're making me eat that crap?” Dad grouses. How many drinks has he already had?
“Very good,” Paolo says, taking his leave as I wonder what kind of dressing down I'm about to get.
Silence prevails as Dad looks anywhere but at me until his fresh drink arrives, accompanied by my own vodka and soda. It's one in the afternoon and I have back-to-back calls until six p.m., but if I'm a little loose for my two o'clock, the world won't end.
If I endure this conversation without a little liquid sustenance, though, it might.
“I asked you to lunch because it's time to talk, man to man, about being a father.”
Oh, boy. Where's Paolo?
I need a second drink already.
“Okay,” I say slowly, then drain my entire cocktail in one smooth gulp.
“You're about to have twin boys.”
“Yes.”
“Which means you'll be raising men.” The way he says that last word makes my gut clench.
“Mmm.”
“You were so close to the Olympics, Andrew. So close. This time, we have a chance of making it.”
We.
“Amanda's tall, but not quite as long-torsoed as your mother. Her genes plus mine gave you the perfect swimmer's physique. And if it weren't for–you know,” he says, slugging down the rest of his drink. The “you know” is understood:
My mother's death of anaphylactic shock from a wasp sting.
And my own near-death experience from the same.
I don't make a sound. Don't move a muscle. Don't even breathe.
Because my father can be highly unpredictable in emotional moments. Hell, in any moment. And right now, I don't have the bandwidth for James McCormick to get some bull-headed idea in his stubborn brain and expect me to be a minion in its perfect execution.
“You have a chance to get it right with these boys. I built Anterdec from the ground up, so you and your brothers got a head start in life from me. But the third generation is where people like us have the opportunity to really shine. Sometimes they do. Sometimes they fall apart completely.”
People like us.
“How so?” I ask, noncommittal, but my jaw won't unclench. I crick my neck, something popping.
Probably my b.s. detector, breaking from overuse.
“You can make certain your boys get it all. Private coaches. Baby swim lessons. If they don't have the physique, we can test them to find their own talent, then nurture it from childhood. You can achieve what I couldn't.”
Paolo appears with bread and a charcuterie board. Dad layers prosciutto on rosemary focaccia and takes a bite.
I let his words hang. I'm not buying any of this.
So I make a different choice.
“Did you have this conversation with Declan?”
“What?”
“When Shannon was pregnant with Ellie, did you talk about this?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's different.”
“Because she's a girl?”
“That.” He takes a sip of the dregs of his drink, not even acknowledging the sickening sexism. “But also because Declan never had the sports success you did. You were my crowning achievement, Andrew. You. And now your boys will be a new opportunity to–”
I stand before I realize I'm doing it, feet flat on the ground, palms sensing every fiber of the tablecloth as I lean on it, hovering over my father, who is seasoned enough not to flinch.
“My children are not opportunities. My children are not chances. My children are not experiments.”
He does a slow eye roll, the kind that takes its time. It’s infused with contempt but suppressed enough to make sure I know he's not investing enough emotion in me to react more. “Simmer down. You're making a fool of yourself in public.”
“I don't care. It's better than being a tone-deaf idiot in private.”
That makes him flinch.
It also makes me feel like crap, not that he doesn't deserve it.
“I'm trying to talk to you about legacy.”
“So am I.”
“My legacy, Andrew. Not yours.”