‘Tony’s going to Italy,’ he responded.
‘With his family?’
‘I guess.’
‘Because family’s important.’
‘Mom, don’t get upset,’ he said as she dabbed at her eyes.
‘You’re giving me no other option.’ She sniffed. ‘Since your father passed?—’
‘Stop.’
It was one short word but he’d said it with enough power to call a halt to anything.
Oliver sprung from his chair. He headed towards the full-length windows, leaning one arm against the pane of glass, looking at the buildings surrounding the Drummond offices. The pain in his chest was making itself known again as he tried to concentrate on the metal and steel in his sightline. The Chrysler Building. Art Deco like the Empire State but completely unique with its ornate arches leading to the spire at its pinnacle. Spikes of industry, sharp shards of ironwork – the ache in his torso stabbed harder.
His mom had no idea how he felt. None whatsoever. It wasn’t just the memories; it was his future, or rather his lack of it. She may be living without a husband and her eldest son, but he was living with a ticking time bomb. He didn’t want to be her crutch. She had to get used to loneliness because it was going to happen to her again. And this time, there would be no one left. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, blocking out the wintery cityscape.
‘Oliver, if we don’t ever speak about your father and your brother, it will be like they didn’t even exist.’
He could hear her tears now but he couldn’t turn around and face her. He couldn’t have this conversation. He leaned his weight heavily against the window, letting it hold him up, bear his strain for just a moment. He kept his eyes closed and all his deepest memories, vivid pictures from the past, rushed his brain at once.
His father, Richard, tall, thickset, with a sweep of dark hair that had always taken some taming. Eyes that had constantly twinkled,in fun, or shining with a new idea or a triumph to share with the family. Heavy jowls that vibrated when he talked, and that smooth, commanding voice that had issued instructions to his employees as brilliantly as it had given praise and encouragement to his children. Richard had been comfortable in any role. Dressing up as one of Santa’s elves for charity, speaking at the funerals of their friends and family or negotiating million-pound software contracts. He had been much loved and much admired.
Just like Ben. Oliver’s big brother. The tall, strong, dark-haired boy he’d grown up with and looked up to. Ben wasn’t just the image of Richard; he had replicated their father’s professionalism and poise perfectly. He’d inherited that instinct and ability to adapt to any situation he found himself in. Or, sometimes, situations he’d found Oliver in. One time involved trespass and the police when their parents were out of town. Ben had cooled the police officer down as effectively as throwing a cold bucket of water over him. Nothing had fazed him.
They’d lost Richard just last year, right before Christmas, and Ben had died five years before that, just three days before his thirtieth birthday. Just like their paternal grandfather. And that was the Drummond curse, a genetic fault. Richard had made it to sixty-five. And that made him the exception. The lucky one. Which meant, to Oliver, that his days were numbered. He turned thirty in just a few months.
‘Come home for Christmas, Oliver. We’ll have turkey and I’ll arrange a tree.’
Now he’d let these memories in, there was no stopping them. All he could see, cluttering up his mind, were images of his father, his brother and him from their last Christmas together. They’d had far too much turkey dinner then had wrapped up in four layers of clothing to descend upon the neighbourhood, throwing snowballs, sledging, and making snowmen with the kids. Not anagenda or an iPad in sight. Laughter, red cheeks, hot breath in the air and running until their toes went numb.
He couldn’t lose it here. He couldn’t let her know how it affected him. He was the one who had held the business together while the rest of the world gave in to their grief. And that’s why he was an emotionless stalwart. Because caring was pointless and would only do more damage in the end.
‘I can’t,’ he stated coolly.
‘Oliver…’ Cynthia started to counter.
He turned then, facing her but not looking at her. ‘I really can’t, Mom. I’ll be working.’ He knew his voice was cold but that was what this situation required him to be. He clenched the muscles in his jaw.
‘On Christmas Day? Really?’
‘The business doesn’t ever switch off.’ He held his stance.
‘The offices have never opened on Christmas Day since your grandfather founded the business.’
‘And he dropped dead two weeks later.’
‘Oliver!’
The exclamation was shrill, the same tone she’d used on him when he was a kid getting into things he shouldn’t. He should apologise. His words were uncalled for. It was a low blow when she was already emotional. His mother was getting to her feet but he wasn’t going to stop her. This needed tough love. He had to be cruel to be kind.
‘If you won’t spend Christmas Day with me then you leave me with no other choice,’ Cynthia said, slipping the handbag over her shoulder then rolling the tissue inside the sleeve of her jacket.
This didn’t sound like a better option. This sounded like she was about to launch a grenade his way. He met her gaze then and waited for her next words.
‘It’s the Christmas fundraiser for the McArthur Foundationcoming up. As well as organising the whole event and sweet-talking the local dignitaries for donations, they’ve also asked me to speak this year.’ Cynthia took two steps towards the door. ‘Thank you for nominating yourself in my place. I’ll email you the details.’
