Gramps shakes his hand. His nod, when he gives it, holds a hint of respect. He might not like that Caesar stood up to him, but he can appreciate his courage. “Likewise,” he says.
“I’ll leave you all to hammer out the details.” Caesar continues around the table until he’s standing by the door. He opens it, looks at me, and says, “Dr. Rutherford?”
Somewhat shakily, I get to my feet. As the rest of my family exchange curious glances, I follow him out of the boardroom and along the corridor. He stops by a closed door and opens it, then gestures for me to precede him. I go in, and he follows, then closes the door behind him.
I walk part of the way into the room, then stop and slowly turn around, taking in the decor. Ohhh… I think this is his office. It’s mostly neat and organized, apart from a table against the wall that contains items a working scientist might have: soil samples in labeled jars, a prototype collar sensor, drone imagery of farmland, and pasture maps pinned to a board.
I stop by an enormous painting of rolling hills and paddocks and look at the caption. It’s his family farm in Cambridge. Then I study a sole photo on the opposite wall of three children, easily identifiable as Caesar, Marcus, and Aurelia with her red hair. Marcus must be around nine, Aurelia six or seven, both of them on horseback. A teenage Caesar, maybe fourteen or fifteen, handsome even at that age, is standing by a large oak tree in rubber boots, a farm dog at his feet.
I graze my fingers over the books on the shelves, mostly worn copies, probably from his uni days, heavily used and annotated, with tabs sticking out to mark important pages. There are volumes on soil ecology, grazing science, climate resilience, and a couple on naval military history. I didn’t know that was another of his passions, then recall his comment on splicing the mainbrace.
There are no awards on the walls, no trophies, even though I’m convinced he must have won them. He’s resting on his desk, waiting for me, and I stop there and examine the contents. It’s neat: a closed laptop, a notebook and pen, a pile of manilafolders. But there are also a few giveaways that it’s not always like this: protein-bar wrappers in the bin, a couple of empty coffee cups, a half-empty pack of headache tablets, a hoodie slung over the back of the chair, maybe for if he’s working late and the temperature drops. A small, carved wooden sheep rests in the corner of the desk looking as if it’s stepped out of a Wallace and Gromit cartoon.
I lift my gaze to his. There’s a small smile on his lips. “Finding out all my secrets?” he asks softly.
I look around again. “I feel as if I’ve peeked behind the curtain and caught a glimpse of the wizard.”
He gives a short laugh. Then he gestures to the gray sofa and chairs in one corner of the large office. “You want to sit?”
I nod, and we go over to them. I lower myself onto the sofa, and he sits in one of the armchairs and leans back, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He surveys me evenly.
I feel suddenly shy, unsure why he brought me in here. I pick at my nails nervously.
“So,” I say eventually, when it doesn’t seem as if he’s going to speak. “Um… did you want to talk about the new division? I’m… um… not quite sure where to start… I haven’t done anything like that before…”
“There’s plenty of time for that. We’ll work together on the details and make sure you have all the support you need, don’t worry.”
“Oh. Um. Okay.” I shift on the sofa. He’s still watching me, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I rub my nose. “Marcus said that you insisted I run the division. I want to say thank you for standing up for me. I’m sure my grandfather wasn’t happy about it.”
“He wanted more control. But we made it clear we were only interested in the science.”
I nod and wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. In the end, as the silence stretches out, I say, “For God’s sake, you’re making me nervous.”
He leans forward at that point, rests his elbows on his knees, and studies his hands for a moment. When he finally looks up at me, he’s frowning slightly. “I want to apologize,” he says.
My eyebrows rise. “For what?”
He sighs then. “For everything.”
It’s my turn to frown. “You have nothing to apologize for. It’s me who should apologize. I’m the one who lied about being pregnant. I should have trusted you with the truth.”
“And you didn’t because you were afraid. Not because you were guilty of seducing me.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I confronted your grandfather and accused him of using you, and he didn’t deny it.”
I swallow hard. “Oh. Wow. That must have taken some balls.”
He gives a short laugh. “He’s not the easiest person to talk to.”
“Tell me about it.”
He holds my gaze. “I still don’t know how to do this properly.”
“Do what?”
“Trust someone enough to let them hurt me. But I want to.”
