“I gave her the night off. It’s her husband’s office holiday party.”
Holy shit. He really is mellowing. The Vincent Dow I grew up with would never have given his assistant time off for something as trivial as an office party. I remember once he made Pam stuff and send out VIP reader boxes on the day of her daughter’s high school graduation. She only made it to the ceremony on time because I was home from college for the summer and broke the land speed record to get her there.
My father gathers his things and we hit the first bar we find, an Irish pub. We grab two seats at a table in the back and order a couple of pints of Guinness.
“So.” I lean back in my chair, my gaze flicking to the rugby union game on the TV above the scarred oak bar. “You wanted to talk.”
“There’s no easy way to say this.” He scrubs a hand across his jaw, which I notice up close is dotted with stubble, uncharacteristic for my normally fastidious father. “Fiona lost the baby.”
I’m ashamed to admit that my first reaction is relief he won’t have the chance to screw up another kid. But it’s followed by shame, then sadness. For my father. For Fiona. For me. I was kind of looking forward to having a little brother or sister. Sure, the age gap between us would be huge. But that might not be such a bad thing. I could babysit. Teach the kid how to play video games. Dungeons and Dragons. Chess.
It would be like getting a second chance at some sort of functional family unit.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. And I’m surprised that I really am. Our drinks come, and I wait for the waitress to leave before continuing. “How’s Fiona handling it?”
“Not great. She’s with her sister tonight. I wanted her to come into the city with me. Even offered to let her run up my Amex Black card at Tiffany. Take her to for dinner at Le Bernardin. But she said she’s not up to being out in a crowd yet.”
“And you?”
“I’m trying to be strong. For her. But inside—” He breaks off and takes a healthy slug of his beer, like he’s searching for some liquid courage.
I follow suit, needing a little courage of my own. “Is there anything I can do?”
“You don’t mean that.” My father’s tone is flat, resigned. I start to disagree with him, but he holds up a hand, stopping me. “And I don’t blame you. I was shit for a father. Still am.”
It’s true, he was—is—but I’m not about to pour salt in the wound. Like Brie said that day we all had lunch together, it’s up to me to be the bigger man.
Brie.
My heart stutter-steps over her name. I reach for my beer again. Anything to numb the pain of losing her. Pain that’s as fresh and raw today as the day I walked away from her.
It must show in my face because my father is staring at me over the frosty rim of his mug, looking at me like I’ve got an alien growing out of my head. “What’s wrong with you?”
I lift my beer to my lips and sip. “What do you mean?”
“You look even worse than I do. What’s got you down? Did something happen between you and your girl?”
“One, she’s a woman, not a girl. And two, we’re not talking about me now. We’re talking about you.”
He rests his elbows on the table, cradling his mug in his hands. “If there’s trouble between you and your gir—woman, you should fix it. She’s a keeper. It’s not everyone who can put me in my place.”
“We’re talking about your life, not mine. Remember?”
“Fine, then learn from my bad example. I had the love of a good woman. And I was too stupid to recognize it.”
“You’ve had the love of a lot of women,” I quip.
“This is serious.” He takes another, fortifying sip of beer then sets his mug down on the table with a dull thud. “When your mother got sick, I reacted badly. I only thought of myself, not her. Or you. My first book had just hit the New York Times bestseller list. I’d gotten a six-figure advance for my next one.”
“I remember. I was twelve, not two.”
“All that attention made me arrogant and selfish. And I think, deep down, I was terrified of losing her. I thought it would be less painful if I left her before—”
He breaks off, but I know what he means. Before the disease took her, and Mom left us.
“So I walked away,” he continues, staring into his beer as if the amber liquid held the answer to all life’s questions. “Maybe not physically. Divorce wasn’t an option for a whole host of reasons. But emotionally.”
“You think that’s what I did with Brie? Walked away?”
