Page 13 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

KILLIAN

I’m fucking exhausted.

The meeting ran two hours longer than it should have and the entire back half of it was Evelyn.

Not visibly. She’s too controlled for that. She sits at the end of the table in whatever she’s wearing this season, says the precise minimum required to redirect an entire conversation, and then watches everyone else adjust around her like she’s done nothing at all. Twenty years of marriage and however many years since and I still can’t decide if I admire the skill or find it exhausting. Both, probably. Mostly the latter.

The board voted to delay the east wing expansion pending another review cycle, which is Evelyn’s language for I’d like to continue having leverage over this decision and I’m not ready to release it yet. There’s no productive argument to make in that room when she’s decided something. I’ve learned to pick the battles that matter and absorb the rest, which is also how I survived the marriage.

I could have her removed. I’ve thought about it. The practical reality is that Evelyn spent years working this vineyard during a period when I was building the international side of the business and she didn’t have to, and the board knows it. Cutting her out purely because she’s become professionally inconvenient would be bad business dressed up as something personal, and I don’t make personal decisions inside a boardroom. She stays. I put up with it. Sophia, who has no idea how often her mother and I are in the same room professionally, is better off not knowing.

I loosen my tie in the hallway outside the conference room and check my watch. Dinner was an hour ago.

My phone buzzes. Asher.

Asher: Pool. Sophia, Lorenzo, Raphael, and Harper are outside if you want to come find us.

I know Lorenzo. Lorenzo has been running customer operations here for five years and has the quiet competence I look for in people I intend to keep. Raphael I know well enough, good at what he does, easy with people, reliable for the events rotation.

Harper.

I scroll back up to the group photo Sophia sent before takeoff. I’d looked at it briefly when it came through, registered that everyone was accounted for, and moved on. I open it again now and zoom in.

She’s standing between Asher and Raphael with Maddox behind her. Raphael is on her other side with his arm around her shoulders and she’s laughing at something, head slightly turned. I’d clocked it as a couple when it first came through. Raphael with someone. Not my business.

I look at the photo longer than I need to before I put my phone away.

Maybe I shouldn’t make assumptions.

The pool terrace wraps around the south side of the main house and catches the last of the evening light until well after nine in summer. I can hear them before I round the corner. Sophia’s laugh first, bright and immediate, the sound I’ve been hearing my whole adult life and still haven’t gotten used to being away from.

She sees me and she’s out of the pool before I’ve fully stepped onto the terrace, wet feet on the stone, and she hits me somewhere around the ribs the way she’s been doing since she was tall enough to reach them. I wrap both arms around her and hold on for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.

She’s been in Florida for three years. Before that, four years in New York for university. Seven years of Sophia existing primarily at a distance and I have not adapted to it the way I told myself I would.

“Dad.” She pulls back and looks up at me. “You look like your meeting tried to kill you.”

“It made a reasonable attempt.” I smooth her wet hair back from her face out of reflex. “How was the flight?”

She waves a hand. “So frustrating. The flight attendants were practically throwing themselves at Uncle Asher and Maddox the entire time.”

My nostrils flare before I can stop them.

Sophia’s face splits into a grin. “Kidding. I’m kidding. It was great.” She pats my chest twice. “Although I did pass out for basically the entire flight and left Harper alone in the cabin, so.”

“Who’s Harper?”

She gives me the look she reserves for questions she considers beneath me. “Remember my college roommate? First year. The one who actually sat me down and taught me what balancing a checkbook was?”

“Yes.”

“That’s her.”

“So she’s the one who convinced my daughter that shopping wasn’t a credited course.”

Sophia scoffs. “Oh, that’s very funny, Dad.” She turns toward the pool. “Harper!”

I’m looking at the water when she surfaces.