Page 37

There are programs for this sort of thing that save you from the harrowing DIY of it all, in places like… Switzerland, Vermont? And Oregon, Alex recalls from watching a 20/20 special about some poor guy withering away from ALS. He has no idea how any of it works, though.

“Okay, why don’t I… investigate some… options.” Alex has no intention of doing this. He’s counting on the fact that Poppy will forget this whole idea and this whole conversation in a matter of minutes.

“Thank you, son.”

“There’s actually something I need to talk to you about that’s pretty serious too. About the business.”

It’s horrid timing to bring this up now, but there’s never going to be a good time, so he might as well bite the bullet. His brain tortures him with the horrible pun. Poppy meets his eyes, his suspicion further cutting through his confusion, like the sun burning through a cloud.

“What about it?”

“We’ve received an offer to buy the company. A substantial one. From a PE firm, NorthStar Retail. They want to acquire Hartwell.”

Alex braces for an explosion, for rage, for disappointment. His stomach tenses for a blow that doesn’t come.

Poppy blinks and nods slowly. “Things got away from me toward the end,” he says, shoulders curling inward.

Alex is shocked to find that Poppy looks downright contrite.

“I’m sorry.”

The apology is even more shocking. It may be the first time in Alex’s thirty-eight years that his grandfather has ever offered one to him, and it gives him the fortitude to plow on. He’s never had the upper hand with his grandfather before, it’s a little like trudging through piles of snow in too-tight boots. You’re happy to have them, but it’s still hard to walk.

“So you see why we need to sell, then? It’s the best thing?”

Poppy is silent for a long moment, his head bowed as deeply as it can be, so deeply Alex worries he’ll nod off.

“Okay.”

Alex is struck by the unfamiliar sight of resignation in the old man’s eyes. The irony isn’t lost on him—how many times he had wished to see Poppy yield, to acquiesce in even the most minor battles. Yet now, when Alex should be relishing a sense of vindication, or at least validation, he’s instead thrown by witnessing such a force of nature reduced to passive acceptance. This isn’t the titan whose approval he’s spent years chasing. This is as close to defeat as he’s ever seen in Poppy, and somehow, it’s Alex who’s deflated, like he’s won a game, but only because of a technicality, or because the opponent forfeited or got lost on the way to the field. Any sense of triumph falls flat when a victory is achieved through no actual effort of your own.

Poppy reaches out for Alex’s hand, yet another shocking development. Beyond the occasional firm, professional handshake, he’s had exactly three hugs from the old man his whole life, and two were on the day his parents died. “Make them keep the Hartwell name, though. Promise me that. The name means something. It’s all I’m leaving behind.”

His obvious desperation is as unprecedented as everything else unfolding today—a rare vulnerability that strips away years of boardroom battles and cutting remarks. His grandfather’s fingers, once firm in their handshakes, now grip with the weak urgency of a man facing his own mortality. This isn’t just a business request; it carries the solemnity of a final wish. In this unguarded moment, Alex sees not the intimidating patriarch, but simply an old man afraid of being forgotten.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Alex promises.

He squeezes Poppy’s hand back. There’s so much he wants to say, so many questions that may never get answered.

“Thank you, son. You’re a smart boy. You study hard. You try so hard. You’re gonna ace that chemistry exam.”

“The what?” But Alex knows what’s happening before the words leave his mouth. Poppy’s mind has traveled into yet another timeline. Back to Alex’s senior year in high school, when he was desperate to pass AP Chemistry, something he never managed. The door officially closes on the flickering moments of lucidity and this time it is a relief, because Alex can’t tolerate much more in the way of this sort of heart-to-heart for which there’s no precedent and they’ve had zero practice. It’s like being called to deliver a speech to thousands in a language you don’t speak.

By the time Alex has ferried the breakfast dishes to the sink, as much to have a breather as to clean up, Poppy has nodded off. His chin has sagged back down to graze his chest.

Picking up his grandfather and carrying him to the sunroom would be another unthinkable breach in the old man’s pride, but he’s knocked out and thus blissfully unaware of any humiliations, so Alex carries him down the hall cradled in his arms, much like he carries Langston to bed when he falls asleep in front of the TV. This is manageable, since his grandfather has shed enough weight to almost match Langston’s.

He lays him on the Queen Anne love seat and brings a blanket up right under his chin. Spent from the effort of carrying Poppy and making it through breakfast, Alex collapses in the matching recliner next to the love seat.

Everything about the last hour has depleted him. If he can take a few deep breaths and regroup, all of this will be less overwhelming. He eyes the bar cart in the corner with a full decanter of Glenlivet, and debates with himself—It’s eleven a.m.; too early. He promised himself he would ease up. But the counterargument is that it’s been a brutal morning and he just needs a little something to get him through. That one turns out to be the most persuasive, and Alex downs a glass so fast it’s hard to give himself credit for hesitating at all.

With a belly and brain settled by booze, he remembers he also has a Xanax deep in his pocket, procured from the bottle the doctor prescribed for Poppy for his episodes of agitation. He pulls the small white pill from the reaches of his jeans and swallows it down greedily. As he’s nodding off, Alex remembers the gun again. He has no idea how serious his grandfather was this morning, but he should find and hide it somewhere.

Then he’s dreaming he’s Chuck Norris in Walker, Texas Ranger, holding a cold revolver, chasing down a bad guy, shaking him as he wrestles him to the ground. Suddenly, he’s not dreaming. It’s Simone’s hand shaking his shoulder with more force than necessary.

“Alex? Alex? Wake up! Where’s Poppy?”

The mention of his grandfather sends Alex bolting upright. How long has he been out?