“Ohhh, my lad. I’m gonna enjoy this.”
I’m telling Uncle Cormac and the assorted family we could gather (with thirty minutes notice) what I’d learned from Sam. Predictably, my father is first out of his chair, sending the expensive leather Grady Dublin piece smashing into the wall.
“Now that ye know where the fecker’s hiding,” he says, “I’ve got some bunker-buster missiles I bought off the Russians. I’ve been saving them for a special occasion, and this is-”
“Lachlan.” Uncle Cormac pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, a common response with my father. “Will ye sit the hell down and stop smashing more holes in the conference room walls? Let’s hear the rest.” He nods to me. “You’re taking point on this. What’s your plan, then? And no pretending ye dinnae have one because I’m sure it burst fully formed from your brain on the drive over here.”
“Oh, like Athena, the God bursting fully formed from Zeus’s head,” Mom says approvingly. “Very clever, Cormac.” She insisted on being here, along with my cousins Michael, Logan, and Kai.
“The timing has to be meticulous,” I start. “Because-”
“Meticulous?” Michael scoffs, “Why-”
“Meticulous, cousin,” I explain, “it means showing great attention to detail, very careful and precise.”
“I know what it means, ye arsehole!” he says.
“I wasn’t sure,” I say, “you sounded like-”
“Oh, for feck’s sake, you’re just winding me up and-”
“Can we please get this meeting back on track?” Kai asks, “I’ve got sniper rifles to collect.”
“Oh, yeah,” Logan agrees. “Ye know Da’s got some epic shite we can gather from the warehouse. In fact-”
The sound of a gun firing sends most of us under the conference table.
Uncle Cormac is on his feet, holding his smoking Beretta. Plaster showers down from the crater he shot in the ceiling. “Before ye collect enough weapons to start World War Three, could ye kindly allshut the feck upand let Mason finish? His wife’s safety is on the line, if ye recall?”
Chastened, everyone returns to their seats, though Dad can’t stop himself from mumbling, “I thought ye said no more holes in the conference room,brother.”
***
“Are you going to tell Afton?”
Mom’s walking with me to the elevator, arm in arm, which is her gracious way of holding me back long enough to see if I’m still under control.
“Of course,” I say instantly. “She deserves to know.”
She eyes me thoughtfully. “There was a time I might have disagreed, but after seeing her in action? My daughter-in-law is tough enough to handle hearing the truth about her father.”
“The pity here is that I doubt it will surprise her. Hurt her, yes.” I punch the down button, dreading this conversation.
“The truth can hurt sometimes.” Mom steps into the elevator with me. “But we all have these shitbirds in our family trees. Like Uncle Bastard, killing my parents.”
“It’s not a competition, Mom.” At her glare, I hasten to add, “But of course, you would win if it were.”
The door opens and my father’s there, leaning against his Bugatti and as always, his face lights up at the sight of Mom. My sisters and I used to groan behind their backs - well to their faces, actually - about their painfully obvious passion for each other and could they moon over each other somewhere else where we didn’t have to witness it? It is inspiring, though. To know two people can love each other that much after marriages and murders and the general mayhem that is guaranteed in the life of a MacTavish.
“Come, my love. I’m taking ye out to dinner.” A grin that can only be described as a leer stretches across my father’s face. “And dessert.”
“Oh, for god’s sake, let it end,” I groan under my breath.
Mom frowns, “We’re going to have time for dinner? Your flight to Belfast takes off in ninety minutes.”
Dad’s leer is back. “We’ll make it a quickie… dinner. Takeaway. We’ll get some of that.”
Wrapping me in a fierce hug, Mom whispers, “Go home to your wife. Tell her the truth. All the truth.” She leans back, looking up at me. “Including the truth about your feelings. Never wait to tell someone you love how you really feel.”
