My mother sighs. “Oh, I would love to,” she says. “I was actually thinking we could go tomorrow and maybe—”
My father cuts in smoothly, “We probably won’t have the time.”
My mother’s mouth closes.
I stare at him. “You don’t have the time,” I say flatly.
He lifts one shoulder. “We’re only here for a five days, Porter. Our schedule is packed. There are meetings. Investors to see.”
I set my glass down. “You should make the time.”
My father studies me.
“It’s only twenty minutes from the hotel. I could have one of the staff drive you over. Or you could take my car.”
My mother glances nervously between us.
“Maybe next time,” Barron says.
I lean forward. “You never know when you’re going to run out of next times, Mom.” The words leave my mouth before I even realize I said them.
My mother freezes.
Because she knows exactly what I mean.
Josiah isn’t getting younger.
None of us are.
A quiet moment passes at the table.
My father exhales slowly through his nose.
Then he lifts his wineglass as he watches my mother. “We’ll try to stop in before we leave.”
Not enthusiastic.
But it’s something.
My mother smiles faintly. “Thank you.”
The waiter arrives to take our orders, which gives everyone a second to reset.
Steak for my father.
Pasta for my mother.
And salmon for me.
When he leaves again, my father steeples his fingers on the table.
“So,” he says thoughtfully, “have you made any progress convincing the old man to sell?”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “No.”
His eyebrows lift. “No?”
“Not even close.” I shake my head. “He’s not leaving that place.”
