The table went quiet, because Steven couldn’t respond without saying something mean, and having Dalton’s attention on him with that patient but expectant smile trapped him.
“Because people can’t change?” Dalton pushed.
“Dalton—”
“No, Dad, I want to say this. Dinner has been great, Detective. I’m glad you suggested it. But I think you need to hear that my dad’s never been anything but good to me. He didn’t have to listen or want to connect when I showed up on his doorstop. He wasn’t a part of my life before, didn’t even know I existed. But despite all that, dismissing me never crossed his mind.”
The way he turned to gaze at Ford was so heartfelt and pure, even the ex-thief looked disarmed, and Steven cleared his throat of any biting remarks.
“I’m grateful, Detective, that you were one of the people who gave my dad a second chance,” Dalton continued, “but then don’t let it only be about a deal. He really is trying, and he deserves to have his second chance mean something.”
“He even donates to abuse shelters,” Andrew added.
“No need to paint me like a saint.” Ford scowled. “You run in certain crowds, meet certain people, some need to be taught a lesson, others need a helping hand. Quid pro quo doesn’t make me Robin Hood.”
“You were a foster kid who went through a lot growing up,” Dalton said. “You wanted to prevent other kids from experiencing the same thing. I can think what I want.”
Even Kevin looked convinced that he might have pegged Ford wrong.
Candace was harder to read, but Steven looked honestly cowed.
“I suppose I have a bad habit of assuming the worst,” he admitted.
“You mean likeall the time,” Andrew said. “Once, you almost—”
“We don’t need examples,” he cut him off, causing most of the table to dissolve into snickers that eased the remaining tension.
“You know what else about Ford?” Andrew said to change the subject. “He likes jazz. Even the crappy stuff you like.”
“It’s not crappy just because it’s instrumental,” Steven snapped, but then looked to Ford with curiosity. “You’re a fan?”
“I appreciate the greats, but especially Ellington.”
“Our mother loved Ellington,” Stephen softened further. “Andrew hates those records.”
“I know.”
“You do? I didn’t realize you two were so close.”
Andrew feared that would turn things sour again, but Steven continued.
“It’s nice having someone at this table who appreciates talent.”
“I don’t hate all those records,” Andrew defended. “I just haven’t found one that moves me. I like the singer being the focus, not seven minutes of trilling piano or wailing saxophone.”
“Plenty of jazz focuses on the singer,” Ford said.
“Not the ones Steve listens to.”
Even Candace snickered at that. “Remember that time Steve was trying to school you on ‘the classics’, and you fell asleep to that awful record—”
“Hey,” Steven pointed a finger at her, “none of my vinyls are awful.”
Everyone laughed then.
“Maybe after this thief is caught, we can do a karaoke night,” Dalton said. “Dig up some good jazz with classic singers.”
“Oh!” Kevin jumped on the bandwagon finally of this not being a complete awkward mess. “Even better, when Andrew gets really wasted and starts howling ‘Welcome to the Jungle’, they usually have to cut him off.”
