Dad steps into the light, and it’s like some sort of weird vampire movie where the monster makes his grand entrance. Only, it’s just Dad, his greying hair slicked back and his face tired and worn instead of his usual mask of calm.
“Tell him,” Margot demands, her voice practically a shriek. “Tell him, or I will.”
“That’s not your place,” Dad flares. “It’s your mother’s alone. Not yours, and not mine.”
But Margot heaves another broken sob, fresh tears streaming down her face as she rips herself away from me before throwing the door open, exiting before anyone can stop her.
The heavy French doors swing shut behind her.
“Dad?” I hear the warning note in my voice.
He sighs and walks to the desk. “I’m going to have a scotch. Join me?”
Like I have a choice—it’s hereditary.
This is how Scott Brightly learned to deal with his problems. Have a drink, a nap, and hope they go away in the morning. Toooften, they do, all cleaned up by someone else willing to get their hands dirty.
It’s a habit of privilege I hate to admit he’s passed down, because I just nod and watch as he pours. He hands me a glass and we stand together in silence.
He sighs, looking as old as some of the books in this room.
“There was no delaying it forever. I suppose it was always inevitable.”
“What, Dad?”
“Your mom said you found the letter. Why in God’s name that old man ever stuffed it away instead of burning it like an intelligent person…”
“The letter, I—shit. Will you just tell me? Or do I have to ask her what the big goddamn deal is? It didn’t go well when we brought it up.”
“It’s hard for her,” he says raggedly, drawing a hand down his face. “There’s a reason she didn’t get along with the old man. All that friction, the distance, they had their reasons, Ethan. Wealldid.”
Friction, yeah.
Like I could forget.
The way Mom turned into a short-fused grouch before we’d leave for our summers with Gramps in Portland. She resented our trips away like a root canal.
But she wanted his money, so she let it happen.
That’s what I assumed.
I figured they must have had an understanding. Perhaps they argued over money at some point, or me and my sister, or some combination of the two.
And fuck, I hated the fact that she put money over family, again and again.
Why couldn’t she justtalkto her father?
Why couldn’t they make peace and sort out their crap before it was too late?
Dad takes a long drink, and I sort through my thoughts, turning them over until I know I’m in control. Enough to speak and ask the right questions.
“Why did she hate him?” I ask. “I know Gramps thinks he screwed up. He said it in the letter we found.”
Dad stares blankly at the windows, our washed-out reflections staring back at us, his eyes heavy.
“Before I say anything else, Ethan, I want you to know,” he whispers. “I want you to know I love you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I shake my head.
