Page 11 of Reeves

I straighten my spine, lock my shoulders, and prepare for the performance.

Ridge standsto my left with his back straight and his shoulders squared, the posture so familiar it could have been drilled into him at birth. Give him twenty more years, and he’ll be indistinguishable from our father.

He's stepped into the role without hesitation, absorbing attention and authority as if he’s been preparing for this moment all along.

Cain anchors the other side, offering that easy, practiced smile as he clasps hands and accepts condolences. He leans in when people speak, nods at the right moments, and says exactly what they need to hear.

Keller moves between the crowd and us with quiet confidence, reading each approach before they even speak. He knows when to step in, when to deflect, when to disarm. Charm is his weapon, and he uses it cleanly. He runs private tables thesame way by controlling the temperature without anyone realizing it.

Wells lingers near the edge of the tent, cigarette nowhere in sight, but the faint scent of smoke clinging to him anyway. His gaze doesn’t rest on faces so much as patterns. He watches and catalogs who stands with whom, who leaves early, and who watches instead of speaks.

He misses nothing, even when he pretends to.

Rhodes shifts at the end of the line, the only one of us who still looks young enough to resent the suit. He’s here from Loyola for the weekend, jaw tight, shoulders restless. Even though he's only fifteen minutes away, he isn't around much.

He hasn’t decided yet whether he wants to be part of this machine or burn it down.

The Mississippi moves beyond the treeline at the edge of the lawn. It doesn’t pause for memorials or power shifts. It keeps going. So does the line of black cars stretching down the drive and along the street, engines idling in quiet procession.

The woman in pearls is married to the man who owns half the port authority. The gray suit beside her sits on three boards my father chaired. I know this because I grew up learning faces the way other kids learned state capitals. I didn’t memorize these details out of interest, but because Robert Stone treated ignorance about money as a character flaw.

A woman with more plastic in her face than the Atlantic grips my hand with both of hers. “Your father was a visionary. What he’s done for this city is incredible.”

“Thank you for coming.” The response comes without effort.

A man in a tailored khaki suit steps forward next. “Robert was the most disciplined businessman I ever worked with.”

“We appreciate your support.”

Another handshake. Another voice. “He could be ruthless when necessary.”

“Yes, he could.” I temper it too late. My father is the only man I've ever known who could charm the pants off everyone in the room and instill fear. It's usually one or the other trait, but he had them both in spades.

Heat gathers beneath my collar. Sweat traces a slow line down my spine beneath the jacket. The white tent traps the humidity and the scent of cologne and perfume until the air turns dense.

Bodies press closer as the line tightens. My gaze shifts without thought, measuring distance to the end of the row, calculating how long this formation will hold.

Noise and movement, I can manage. Standing still while strangers dissect my father tests a different kind of endurance.

Ridge leans slightly in my direction without breaking his handshake. “Ten minutes until the eulogy,” he says quietly.

I nod once. Ten minutes is measurable.

The priest calls for attention, his voice carrying across the lawn. The crowd shifts toward their seats in an orderly sweep, dark suits and dresses folding into neat rows beneath the tent.

The line dissolves, and my shoulders lower a fraction as I take my place in the front row beside my brothers.

My father’s portrait dominates the front of the tent, larger than life in its gilded frame. The artist captured him mid-expression, chin lifted, gaze direct, as if he’s already evaluating the turnout. It’s the same look he wore at board meetings and Mardi Gras galas, the same look he gave us when we lined up after our mother’s funeral.

We stood in formation then, too. We were all smaller, more uncertain. He told us that day that Stones do not bend under pressure. We hold. We lead. We outlast.

The priest speaks of legacy and commitment, of men who build things that stretch beyond their own lifetimes. The wordsskim across the surface of the crowd and settle over us like a mantle being passed down.

Ridge steps to the podium next. He doesn’t hesitate. “My father believed in loyalty above all else,” he says, his voice carrying cleanly to the back of the tent. “Family wasn’t just blood to Robert Stone. It was responsibility.”

Responsibility.

The word sucks the air out of my lungs. I've been gone for six years by choice. I deployed because I needed distance, because motion makes sense to me in a way boardrooms never have.