Stuart didn’t like the sound of her lovely name on his father’s tongue, didn’t like the way he referenced her by her first and last name, as if Stuart wouldn’t have understood whom he was talking about, otherwise.
“How did you hear?” asked Stuart.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, actually.”
“Chaz told me.”
“The chief?” Stuart would have liked to hide the look of consternation on his face but he had a poor poker face. Was Chief Bryant so deep in his father’s pocket that he’d come running right over to The Covington as soon as he’d gotten word that Florence had drowned?
“He was worried about you.”
“He could have toldmethat.”
In response, his father lit a cigarette.
“You can’t keep interfering like this,” said Stuart.
“Since when did extending sympathy to one’s son become interfering?”
“I must have missed that part.”
“What part?”
“The part where you offered your sympathy,” said Stuart, pocketing the candy wrapper and reaching for a glass paperweight that sat on the corner of the desk.
“I’m very sorry, Stuart. I am.”
“Perhaps you should have led with that.”
“Stuart, really. You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being ridiculous?I’mbeing ridiculous? I’m not the one who’sso intent on keeping tabs on my twenty-four-year-old son that I paid off his boss to get him reassigned to my beach.”
“So that’s what this is really about?”
“You had no right to get me reassigned to the Kentucky Avenue stand. And you have no right to pretend to care about how Florence’s death is affecting me. You had no use for her when she was alive.”
“She was a perfectly fine girl. I just thought you would have been better off lavishing your limited attention elsewhere.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stuart realized he was squeezing the paperweight so tightly that his hand had begun to sweat.
His father didn’t say anything, just tapped the end of his cigarette against an ashtray that was very much in need of being emptied.
“What you meant to say,” said Stuart, “was that I would have been better off lavishing my attention on someone who wasn’t Jewish.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, well, you might as well have.”
“Do you know what I think?” his father asked.
Stuart didn’t answer, just replaced the paperweight on the desk and stood to go.
“I think it suits your purposes to think of me as a villain. As long as you do, you feel justified spending your days in the sun and your nights at the club.”
“What would you know about my purposes?”
