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“Had this handy button installed a while ago.” She gestures with her foot at a black pad beneath her desk. “Does the same thing. But if the others ask, tell them I’m just that good.”
I laugh. “You are, dear. You are.” Dad’s office is the largest, of course. Expansive windows, an arched ceiling, plants to make it feel less lifeless and yet failing to do so. The entire room is gray, as if he’s never tired of Boston’s muted colors.
When I was a boy and imagined how I’d redecorate it, color was the first word that came to mind. A red wall behind my desk. Furniture with life to it. But over the years, I’ve wondered if I would splash color all over the place or not. Whatever choices I make, it will not be something Dad would like. Hell, I could keep it the same as him, and he’d find a reason to complain.
Dad sits at his desk, gesturing for me to sit in his guest chair. I hate that thing, but expected no different. It’s even less comfortable than Alan’s guest chair. Doesn’t matter. Hopefully, I won’t be here for long.
“What is going on, Anderson?”
“I made a donation to the Chamberlain Mansion, and Alan decided it wasn’t up to his standards for giving. He says you gave him the reins on my accounts. Would you like to explain that?”
“I am not in the habit of explaining myself.”
“No, you’re not. But if you want me to follow in your footsteps one day, I should learn your thinking on matters like this, shouldn’t I?”
A smile spreads his lips. “Splendid answer. Alan is correct. I gave him the reins on your accounts.”
I grit out, “Why?”
“Understand, it is not that I do not have faith in you, Anderson. You have shown remarkable improvements over the years. But your spending has become reckless, and we must tone that down. You must be more responsible, not only in your work, but also in your personal matters. This includes your spending habits.”
“What I do with my money is my business, Dad. No one else’s.”
He laughs once. “Come now. I did not raise you to be this naïve.”
“You didn’t raise me at all. That was the nannies and Mom.”
“And they raised you under my guidance. It’s the same thing,” he brushes off the possible parental guilt and moves on, just like always. “Running a company is just as much about what we do as it is about what people think we do. If you run around spending your money like you’ll never run out of it, then your employees will see this and think you are spending their bonuses. The shareholders will think you are blowing through their investment.”
“Ah,” I nod my head, as if it’s only just occurring to me, “so that’s why you and Mom live in a shoebox apartment, wearing scraps from thrift stores and eating fast food, right?”
“Your petulance is tiresome, Anderson.”
“So is the bullshit about how I spend my money.”
He leans forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. “Tell me this. Every business, no matter how successful, goes through tough times. What happens when there are lay-offs and employees, carting out boxes of their belongings, ask how you could spend exorbitant sums on building preservation instead of their salaries? How will you tell someone we must cancel their project for a lack of funds, when you just bought the newest model of a car you don’t need? Frivolity feels good in the moment. But I need you to think of the long term. Every person in this building needs you to think of it, too.”
He always picks at me. Whatever I want, whatever I wear, whatever I say, none of it is ever good enough. It’s a poor reflection on him. Or on the company. Or on the family name. My interests do not matter to him. They never have. When I took up archery, it wasn’t proper enough to please him. He said I could have taken up falconry or polo if I wanted to pursue a true gentleman’s sport. My clothes were designer, but not the designers he liked. It’s always been this way. But now, he is fucking with my funds, and if I try to defend my past purchases, this will devolve into a hell of an argument. The one he is baiting me into.
I will not take the bait. I will not give him yet another reason to avoid retirement. We have played this game too many times for me to not know the rules and how to evade them.
“Understood. So, maybe you would do me the honor of listing who else has a CEO title and a money nanny.”
“You are not CEO yet, son.”
“As you keep reminding me,” I mumble under my breath and pick an imaginary piece of lint from my trousers. But then I smile at him. “How am I to learn to manage my money in a responsible way, if I don’t have access to it?”
“That is a better question.” He smiles. “But the best question is, how will you become a reliable leader if you don’t commit to a woman?”
I face palm, then scrub my hand over my face, as if I’d planned to all along. “We’re back on this?”
“Until the point no longer remains, Anderson.”
“I told you I am seeing someone.”
“And I told you to bring her to supper. But did you? No. And I’ll tell you why. Because there is no June Devlin. You made her up, didn’t you? Just trying to get the old man off your back. I used to let your white lies slide when you were a boy, but you are a man, and I?—"
“I didn’t make her up, Dad. Is that what this is all about? You think I lied about June, so you had Alan put a hold on my accounts?”
