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Swallowing hard, she added, “I don’t really want to, but Dad’s been sweet talking the dean of Harvard all three years I’ve been in Ireland. He says that the dean for the program was in the same MBA class as, well, you guys.”
I ignored the awkward reminder that, if Seth eventually found out, he’d end up having both of our heads on a platter. “Who?”
“Alexander Maxwell.”
“Oh, yes.” I remembered him well.
Alexander had always been an officious toady back then, and he’d tended to trail after both Seth and me and the clique we had run. He’d never fit in, but now maybe he saw his chance to finally make an impression with my friend. It also amused me that he was teaching instead of actually running a company. Alexander had suffered from lackluster grades at best. What was that old saying? Those who can’t, teach, right?
“Well, it’s like a foregone prophecy that one day I’ll take over Kilshimer Developments. My brother’s younger, but he was supposed to do it until he embraced the rock and roll lifestyle. He has like this wannabe successful funk band always playing at venues in Baltimore. Not the right thing, so Dad’s put all the pressure on me.”
“What do you really want to do?”
“No one’s asked me that in a long time,” she said, pausing to take a generous sip of her wine.
I hated to see her like this, to see the defeat in the slump of her shoulders and the light dying out of her eyes the more she talked about the life she was being conscripted into when she got back to the U.S. It was clear the girl couldn’t stand it. I knew the specs on Seth’s company, had done a few deals with them for property outside of D.C. It was obvious he had a talented board of directors and VPs working under him who could take the reins. It was smarter to get the company into capable hands who wanted to be there than shove it into children who resented the whole thing.
What had happened to my friend that he’d developed such tunnel vision?
How had he hidden it from me for so long?
“Well?” I prodded, my voice going quiet and soft. She was like a skittish horse, and I wanted her to relax, to feel like she could confess anything she needed to me. “What would you do if you felt you could? What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”
“Write.”
I frowned, almost sure I’d misheard her. Her voice was so low and quiet. “What?”
She blinked up at me, and her soft, doe eyes seemed shiny with unshed tears. “I want to be a writer, but Dad says that’s a ‘waste of time and potential.’ I even was registered for a creative writing course my first semester at Trinity. When he got the bill, he called me and threatened to call the president of the university to get me out of the class, personally, if I didn’t trade it for economics. For something practical.” She seemed to choke on those words as she spoke them.
“And you did?” I asked, my heart breaking for her.
“Of course. Dad’s already crushed because David is the rebel. I didn’t want to add more stress. And he’s not wrong. It’s very impractical. This is a good education, and the company does matter. He’s worked for decades to build it. I should be able to help him run it and then make sure someone who cares is guiding it.”
“But you don’t want to.”
She shrugged, and her voice was calm and measured. That was what broke my heart the most for her, that she’d given up already on everything. As if it was all set in stone. “What I want doesn’t matter, not when my family might suffer. So yeah, I think I finally gave in and was wild because I never am. In a year, I’ll be locked into classes at Harvard and then to the boardroom, and this was my last chance—my only chance—to do something for me.”
“Or someone,” I said, arching my eyebrow at her.
She tossed her napkin at me, and that light returned to her gaze. Laughing, she said, “You didn’t just say that.”
“Oh, I did. Still,” I said, reaching out and gripping the back of her hand. “You’re wrong. Writing is never a waste. What kind did you want to do?”
“I…poetry. You can see why Dad freaked.”
Seth was nothing if not practical. Somehow it was unfathomable he’d raised a funk band rocker and a poet. Then again, having met Rachel more than once, I knew the kind of ethereal grace and kind-hearted creativity she exuded.
It was sad to penalize the children for being just like what must have drawn their father to their mother.
“Yes, poetry doesn’t make numbers and math sense.”
“Dad calls it the surest route to an illuminating career in food service.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s a direct quote. I know it’s not practical.”
“Well, sod practical. Sometimes the last thing you need to do is be bloody practical. Let me tell you something. Poetry was what got my wife through her last days with cancer. She was a huge fan of the classic poets, and I read to her for hours each night, anything to help her deal with the chemo first and then with her body shutting down.”
