Page 24 of Don’t Go Stealing My Heart

Maxwell David shrugged, the slow slump of his frail shoulders gutting Jack. “New treatment starts tomorrow. Wasn’t sure when I’d get out again. Any progress?”

He should insist his father leave, rest up for whatever horrors tomorrow would bring, but he understood the need to feel vital. Useful in the face of a disease neither of them could control. “The optics keep stonewalling us. Every time we add the extra layer to the substrates, it falls apart.”

Maxwell scanned the sterile room, pausing on the microscopes and customized test chambers. “Have you tried re-integrating the LCD process?”

“A million times.”

“Adjusting the ITO electrodes?”

“Of course.”

His father leaned heavier on his cane, his lips flattening into a grim line. “This can’t be a repeat of the Ant Man Project.”

As amusing as that project name was, there was nothing funny about his father’s jab. Maxwell David the Second was the epitome of conservative. Always had been, always would be. His staunch focus had built their business and lens factory. Sure, Jack’s first attempt to advance them and miniaturize their lenses had failed. It was part of the reason they were in financial limbo now, but Jack hadn’t given up. He’d been sure their technology had been too expensive to grow with the times, so he’d worked his ass off to shrink and leverage their current lenses until they’d been efficient and cheap enough for cell phones. Jack’s work had been some next-level engineering, taking David Industries global. It had been exhilarating. Ego inflating.

This project, however, was testing his patience. There was no coasting in business, only improving. “I’m close,” he said. “It’s dogging me, but I can feel it.” He just couldn’t untangle it.

“If it fails, everything falls apart.”

“It won’t fail.”

“Time is running out.”

“If you would sell the house or tap into your funds, I could hire more people and work faster, and—” He clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “Sorry. It’s just late, and I’m stressed.” And his recent bank loans wouldn’t last forever. Loans that had to be repaid.

His father pulled up to his full height. Even bald with skin sagging over his frail bones, he could be formidable: the Great Wall of Maxwell David the Second. “This will be the last time you suggest using more of my money. The estate will go to your mother. My savings will support her and your sister and your sister’s kids, and their goddamn kids, God willing. I won’t budge on this, Jack. It’s the only peace I have.”

To provide for his family when he’s gone. Guilt and helplessness thickened his throat. Jack understood his father’s vehemence, but the bigger picture haunted him, too. A derelict town with broken windows and mangy dogs, the factory closed, unemployment sucking the life from Whichway. “I won’t mention it again,” he murmured, feeling boxed in.

He wouldn’t suggest selling his assets, either, a solution he’d offered before. His father had kiboshed that as well, red faced and frustrated, telling Jack liquidation was as good as putting up a billboard, advertising their business’s demise.

Maxwell nodded and smiled at his son. “How’s the rehearsing going?”

His father may be formidable, but he excelled at breaking tension. Jack wasn’t sure how he’d say goodbye to him one day. “Good. Hard to find the time, but good.”

“I always loved it, you know. Seeing you on stage. Sorry I’ll miss it this year.” His rheumy eyes misted.

Jack’s eyes burned. So fucking unfair, how disease felled the best of them. Made him want to punch a wall. “So don’t miss it. Let’s tell the board you’re sick. They deserve to know, about that and what Gunther did. They’ll understand and vote to put more money into my research.”

“Jack—” He swallowed, the slow action looking like it pained him. “You know we can’t. If Gunther backstabbed us, anyone could. I’m not willing to risk more secrets being sold off. And we don’t know when our competitors will go public with their new technology. That news on its own would be destructive. That news coupled with my illness would be catastrophic.”

People could panic. Their stock could drop, and every employee owned shares. Jack doubted it would go that far, but David Industries was still his father’s company and he was as obstinate as ever.

“I’ll work harder,” Jack said, his only option. If bullfrogs went months without sleep, merely resting their eyes, surely he could do the same. “I’ll finish the research by next weekend. We’ll announce the breakthrough and come clean about your illness, and you’ll be at the show.”

So help him, God.

“Sure, son. I know you will.” It was a nice sentiment, but that had been a pacifying sure. Not a hopeful sure.

Jack would prove his father wrong and show the board he could lead David Industries and Whichway to success. They didn’t trust Jack the way they trusted his father. They were old bloods who preferred conservative management to projects like Ant Man that had hurt their bottom line. Jack’s more recent success hadn’t erased that screw-up from their minds. They wouldn’t all be pleased to see him at the helm, unless he proved his worth.

“I’m going to visit my office for a bit.” His father turned to leave but paused. “Promise me, Jack, when this is done, you’ll make time for a life. As proud as I am of what I’ve built, I wish I’d spent more nights at home. More time with all of you.”

Maxwell shuffled out, and Jack’s mind drifted to Clementine. Spending time with her felt like a breather of sorts. Like the stirrings of a life. If only things were that simple.

* * *

The next evening, Marco stepped out of his truck as Jack pulled up to their regular haunt: Whenever Bar. Friday night beers with Marco was a ritual. One he should have canceled. Working until dawn had left Jack more drained than usual, but he hadn’t been able to shake his father’s words last night: Make time to have a life.