Page 59 of Last Resort

“The projections for Ocean’s Edge Resort aren’t good. Ford and Ledger and the accountants have gone over them with a fine-tooth comb. They’ve spent days trying to make them work in our favor, but between the asking price and the cost needed to turn the resort around, we’re looking at a considerable length of time to recoup our investment.”

“I’m more than aware what the numbers are.”

“Besides, it’s far from being the Sharpe brand. It doesn’t fit with our portfolio. It’s—”

“Are you implying that if something isn’t up to Sharpe expectations that we shouldn’t put value in it?” He quirks an eyebrow, the reference to me and my screw-ups over time noted.

“Our point of this dinner tonight was to reject the deal. To walk away from it. Remember?”

He nods and looks at me, but a hollowness is in his eyes, and it feels like he really doesn’t see me. It’s been happening more and more these past few months.

He lifts his glass and takes a sip of his drink before pushing it away. “This isn’t what I ordered. I don’t even like scotch.”

I glance at the drink and a sinking feeling hits me.

He’s getting worse. What started as forgetting things every now and then is now becoming more frequent. Then there are holes in his memory about certain events in his life. Some days those moments are remembered, other days they are not.

He begged me to play it down to my brothers. Asked me to let him retain his dignity while he waited for the medication to do its trick, but it’s harder than fucking hell to stand by and watch whatever it is, take piece after piece of him.

Including his favorite scotch.

“Dad?” I ask and wait for him to orient himself toward me. “What would you like to drink?”

“Scotch,” he says. “You know what I like.”

“It’s right here,” I say with a smile and push the glass he just rejected toward him.

He lifts it and takes a sip. “Perfection.” He hums and closes his eyes as he savors the taste on his tongue. “Talk about hitting the spot.”

When his eyes look back up to me, they are clear and lucid. I sigh in relief that the episode appears to be over and was shorter than most as of late.

“Good. I’m glad.” I force a smile that I’m more than certain doesn’t wash the concern from my eyes. He doesn’t see it though because he’s too busy staring at the contract on the table in front of him that I’m slowly pulling away from him and toward me.

“What are you doing?” he asks as he reaches out and puts a hand on the bound stack of papers, preventing me from taking it.

“We agreed not to accept their offer, did we not? You wanted to make a show of bringing the paper contract, sliding it across the table unsigned as a rejection. You said it was better this way,” I explain. I don’t know why we couldn’t have done this in an email, but the man is as old-fashioned as old-fashioned can be. He’d make every deal a handshake if he could.

“Why would we do that when I want to sign the offer? I want to buy the property.”

“Dad,” I groan in frustration, more than pissed that I was left to babysit this dinner tonight. Technically he can cast the final vote as the majority shareholder so why the hell am I here anyway? You have to protect Dad, Callahan. Protect him from making unsound business decisions. We’re counting on you. Ford’s words were not subtle.

“Do you know that was where your mom and I took our honeymoon?”

“No, it wasn’t. You went to—”

“I was there, I should know,” he snaps in a way I haven’t heard before. “I know I’m losing my mind, Callahan, but don’t you dare tell me I don’t know or remember this. It was your mother’s choice, her pick, and I told her someday I was going to buy a patch of land there and make it everything she wanted. I failed her. I didn’t do it when she was alive, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make amends now. That doesn’t mean I can’t still do it. Today is that day, son.” He gets a soft, faraway look in his eyes and smiles. “Do you know I can still picture her standing on the beach with a flower in her hair, smiling at me, and posing for the camera?”

I study him, unsure what to say and uncertain if I remember correctly what had been said to me in the past.

What the fuck do I say?

How do I convince him otherwise when he seems so adamant he’s right?

“Dad. We need to discuss your change of mind with—”

He reaches out and grips my forearm. “Give me this, son. Please. The company, the business, is what is helping to keep my mind clear. And I need to know while I still can remember that I fulfilled my promise to her.” He squeezes. “No one else will understand this but you. Screw the numbers and projections and spreadsheets. Sometimes you have to go with your gut and your word.”

His words hit hard. They’re words my brothers won’t understand or respect. Just one more reason for them to treat me like shit.