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I frowned. “Brant, our first event at the Investment Summit starts at twelve thirty. You did see the schedule of events, right?”
“Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I didn’t memorize it?—”
“Never mind. Layla might need your help with preparation, so let’s meet at ten.”
“In the morning? Dad, I’m still mostly on West Coast time…”
“Fine,” I conceded. “Noon, then, at the Tavern. McGee’s picking up a rental car, and I can have him grab you at eleven forty-five?—”
“McGee.” Brantleigh said my driver’s name sourly. “Not necessary. I have a rental.”
“Alright.” My lips twitched. I’d never liked the animosity between McGee and Brant, but if it spurred Brant to take more personal responsibility, that could only be a good thing.
I changed into a suit, and pausing for only half a second outside Reagan’s closed door, I made my way back downstairs for dinner with the Wellbridges.
Faint murmurs of conversation floated out of the living room, overlayed with Patricia’s much-louder voice as she held court on something those Honeycutts had done, but before I took a step toward the door, Trent spotted me and silently beckoned me down the hall to his wood-paneled study.
“Thatcher,” he said, clapping my shoulder warmly once we were inside. “Great to see you. Drink?” Without waiting for a reply, he moved toward the built-in bar on one wall of the room and poured me a scotch. “You must be glad to be off the road. Those trips can be exhausting, especially at our age.”
I refrained from pointing out that Trent was at least a decade older than I was. “It’s even less fun in winter,” I said, accepting the crystal low-ball he offered. The smoky scent hit my nose before I took the first sip. “Seemed like you were busy when we arrived.” Too busy to greet your own son. “Problem with the campaign?”
Trent shrugged dismissively and gestured me to a leather club chair before taking his own. “Not a problem, exactly. Just something we need to keep an eye on.” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink thoughtfully, watching me with blue eyes ten shades duller than his son’s. “Speaking of which… Reagan,” he sighed, in much the same way I imagined he’d say “…taxes,” or “…woke politics,” or some other harbinger of societal collapse.
I remembered him saying Reagan’s name just like that many times. But I remembered, too, standing with Reagan outside the Newport Grille in Wichita and vowing that I’d never again hear that sigh without speaking up to let Trent know he was wrong. Annoyed as I was at Reagan, I wouldn’t stay silent.
“God, yes, let’s talk about Reagan,” I said. “Trent, I think you’ve been holding out on me. The man’s incredibly talented—you should see the uptick in engagement since he took over our social media accounts—and he’s a hell of a hard worker, too.” I took another slow sip of scotch.
Trent’s eyes narrowed for a moment like he was trying to puzzle out some hidden meaning in my words, and then his face brightened. “Ah, I see. You’re trying to make me feel better. I know my son, Thatcher. You don’t need to bullshit about him just because of our friendship. That’s above and beyond.”
I clenched my back teeth together to keep from sputtering the expensive drink. “It would be, yes,” I said flatly. “But I’m not bullshitting. I don’t keep nonperforming employees on the payroll, even for the sake of friendship.”
He smiled wryly. “Patricia and I appreciated you putting him on the payroll in the first place… not to mention all the help you must’ve given him since. To be honest, we expected Reagan home before Christmas. He’s always been a bit… high-spirited, as Patricia calls it. Follow-through’s not his specialty.” He stared down into his drink glumly. “You know, Thatcher, children are like the stock market.”
I blinked.
“You can do as much preparation as possible,” Trent went on, “invest in their education and extracurricular opportunities, monitor them diligently—I mean, you couldn’t ask for a more loving and involved mother than Patricia?—”
I coughed into my scotch.
“—but still, sometimes they underperform.” Trent took a considering sip of his drink. “Ah, well.”
Meanwhile, I clutched my glass in shaking hands and tried very hard not to throw it. Underperform? Were we talking about the same Reagan?
“On the plus side, though,” Trent continued more brightly, “Patricia and I make good-looking children, and the boy’s great for optics. Housewives love him, and the young voters can’t seem to get enough. He’s… what’s the word? Relatable.” He let out a little laugh. “My campaign manager says the click rate’s astronomical when Reagan’s in a campaign photo, whatever that means. They tell me it’s a positive thing.”
The liquor burned in my chest and gut. “Your son is more than a pretty face. He’s incredible with people—seriously masterful in a crowd—not to mention creative and knowledgeable and funny—” I broke off, afraid I was speaking too passionately, giving too much away. “He’s wasted on photo ops. And he’s ambitious enough to want more?—”
“Ambitious?” For a moment, Trent looked confused. “You sure you’re not confusing him with JT? Now, there’s a go-getter. Would’ve made vice president in the city if he hadn’t fallen in with that Honeycutt?—”
“You mean Flynn.” My eyelid began to twitch. “Remember, I like Flynn. I believed in his meadery enough to invest in it.”
Trent nodded. “Of course, of course! It’s great for Honeybridge, and it’s good for Maine. We need more young entrepreneurs like Flynn.”
He sounded like one of his own campaign ads. Like a parody of himself, talking out both sides of his head. Had I really never noticed this side of him before? Or had I simply not cared until now?
“Did you know Reagan is an entrepreneur?” Though I tried to stay calm, I couldn’t keep a thread of anger from my voice. “He has a lucrative social media business with over a million followers across multiple platforms. Lifestyle brands throw sponsorship opportunities at him left and right?—”
“Of course I know about his social media thing.” Trent looked more confused than ever, like he could hear my anger but couldn’t understand the reason for it. “I just don’t think receiving free sweatpants with a giant logo on the ass qualifies him as an ‘entrepreneur.’ Mainstream media would love for you to believe a social media guru can make grown-up money, but I’ve seen the truth firsthand. Reagan receives packages of free stuff all day long, but it’s not cold hard cash. I know they’re throwing him a few bucks here and there—he made quite a scene about paying his own way when his mother expressed concerns about him moving to New York—but in a few months, he’ll be bored of ‘adulting,’ as the kids say, and tired of commuting to work by bicycle from whatever Hoboken hovel he’s rented. Then he’ll come home to Honeybridge and lay in bed staring at the ceiling until Patricia offers to send him off to the Amalfi Coast. Trust me, Thatcher, I’ve seen this before.” He stared down his nose at me and repeated his words from earlier. “I know my son.”
