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We agree to drive Sin’s car back to her place. We ride in silence, a comfortable but poignant absence of conversation. When I park around the corner from Shake Shack in Logan Circle, she doesn’t ask where we’re going. I walk around to open her door and offer my hand as she climbs out. She takes it and links her fingers with mine as we walk to the restaurant. It’s colder than normal, and she wraps her wool coat tightly around her even once we’re inside.
She orders for both of us without asking what I want and remembers exactly how I take my burger. We sit across from each other, holding hands, not speaking until our food is delivered to our table.
She wolfs down her food and finishes before me. I can barely eat. I’m dreading this conversation, but it can’t be put off any longer.
She wipes her mouth and puts her napkin down.
“Why did you look so scared when he asked what your name was?”
“My father’s name is Al Palmer.” The words spill out like air from a shaken-up soda can.
She furrows her brow in confusion and then her eyes widen and she covers her mouth. “Oh my God, Al Palmer,the owner of The Golden Palms, is yourdad?”
I grimace at the nickname. I nod. “Yes. I didn’t know the connectionto your parents until the day I came over and he was on TV.”
She groans and her eyes slide shut. “Nowonderyou left so fast that night and didn’t come back.”
I flush hot under my collar at the memory. “I mean… I’m used to getting a reaction when I say his name. People have questions, opinions, and a great investment he needs to get in on. I knew he was polarizing in the Ghanaian community, but I didn’t know why until that night.”
“Oh my God. I’m sorry about the things I said about him,” she says, her eyes full of angst.
“Hey, no. It’s okay. You were saying how you feel.”
“That’syour dad? Holy Shit. You grew up at The Palms?”
I snort a derisive laugh. “I know.”
“How come no one knows you’re his son?”
“Oh, plenty of people know. Everyone who knows him personally, anyway. But he’s never advertised having a son. It’s not that uncommon. Do you know Steve Jobs’ kid’s name? Or how many kids he has?”
“No, I guess not.”
“It was more about safety than anything else at first. People with that kind of money are always targets for kidnappers. He didn’t have me until he was in his forties because he was worried about having that liability.”
“Liability?” She sounds horrified.
“Essentially. Yes. They may have been public figures, but they only showed what they wanted to. Even before he had money, he was superstitious and secretive. It was a way of life. All I knew.”
“Wow. He was in the papers all the time when I was growing up. Both here and abroad. You must have had more moments like the one at my parents.”
“Oh yeah, anytime I’m in DC or in Ghana. I can’t describe how intensely uncomfortable it is to have conversations with strangers who feel like they know my father and not be able to say anything.”
“I can only imagine.” I can feel her biting her tongue, trying to respect my privacy, and I fall all the way in love with her.
She’s a reporter and naturally curious. For all his notoriety, my father never gave a single interview and never allowed any press onto the estate where he threw the parties he’s now most known for.
She blows out a breath. “I don’t blame you but honestly, I know so little about him. He was a legend that everyone talked about at Outdoorings and Independence Day parties.
But in our house he was a third rail we didn’t touch. I couldn’t helpbeing fascinated by the idea of him—especially because he was so private. Taking an active interest in him felt like a betrayal. And honestly, I don’t find billionaires particularly compelling unless they’re changing the world with their money, and as far as I could see, he was just throwing parties.”
I don’t correct her assumption about how he spends his money and loosen my grip on the fear that kept me from sharing this with her. “So…you’re not going to ask me for a tour of The Palms or an invite to Palm Sunday?”
She blows a raspberry with her lips. “Listen, I’m a journalist in Washington, DC. I write for the Lifestyle section. The Palms is one of the most iconic properties in the country and no photographs of the inside have been seen since your dad bought it. OfcourseI would love a tour and love to be the reporter that gets the first interview with Al Palmer. But no, I’m not going to ask.”
I let out a breath I’ve been holding since I met her. “I promise the myth is bigger than the man, anyway.”
