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Chapter Fifteen
Archer
Nate, Benji, and I are standing on the covered porch near one of two tall space heaters. The heat and cold battle each other, but hovering in between both isn’t a bad sensation. My brothers are chatting about a new restaurant that just opened at Grand Marin, and how slippery the restaurant business can be. I understand. Nightclubs come and go too. I’ve had to close the doors on a few when profits turned upside-down.
Dad steps outside to join us, a pair of unwrapped cigars in hand. Rather than insert himself in conversation with Nate and Benji, he offers me one of the cigars. I accept, wary, still waiting to have a pseudo-conversation ending in heated debate like every other time I come to dinner.
“When I started Owen Construction,” he says, “I envisioned it differently than it exists today. I thought it’d be…bigger.”
I can’t help chuckling as I clip the end off my cigar. “Bigger than a multi-billion-dollar company with its hands in various projects?” Nate’s live-works, my nightclubs, and soon, spas. Dad heads up projects of his own, including and not limited to shopping malls, amusement parks, and restaurant franchises.
“I thought I’d be retired by now.” He lights his cigar. I light mine. We puff in silence, watching the smoke mingle with the chilled night air. Nate laughs, the big sound echoing off the ceiling of the large portico. He and Benji are facing away from Dad and me, maybe to avoid our pending verbal scuffle. Or maybe it has nothing to do with me and they’re content keeping each other’s company. “I’m too involved in Owen Construction to retire.”
His tone is self-effacing, and I allow my shoulders to relax. I know I’ve bitched about us butting heads, but my dad’s a good guy. He is a blood/sweat/tears guy. He created Owen Construction with a nest egg and a dream, and here we are. It’s damn impressive.
“If I was better at delegating, we’d be all over the country instead of the Midwest and East Coast.”
“You have time, old man.” The stars are out in droves tonight, pinholes in a navy blue sky. I inhale the crisp, cool air, content to stand here in silence, when he drops a bomb on me.
“Talia Richards. She’s pretty.”
Tension returns in a blink. An old reaction from former circumstances. Back when waves of disapproval rolling off him sent me into a tailspin. And, if you remember my mentioning, that happened whenever I showed up with a woman on my arm.
“She’s more than pretty,” I say, my tone a warning.
“You’ve known her a short while. I’ve only just met her. How can you know?”
“Because I know. If you don’t trust my judgment, look around. Everyone likes her,” I tell him. “Even you. Admit it.”
Talia swept in here tonight, her head high, her smile bright. I remained close to her side so she’d know I was here for her, but honestly? She’s here for me. I’ve been on a razor’s edge with her in tow. She’s important, and I refuse to allow my father to categorize her as anything less.
His eyebrows lift in a show of surprise at my reaction. “Why wouldn’t I like her? She seems lovely, and Vivian and Cris think she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
That comment draws my attention. I watch him carefully, but his eyes are where mine were a moment ago—on the night sky.
“Is she?” he asks.
Yes.
“She’s an asset, for sure.” I try for casual, redirecting the topic to business since I am in no position to admit that whopper aloud. “Once we open the night spa, she’ll return to Miami. I might hire her to work on another if the wellness industry expands like I expect.”
“It’s a red ocean, but then you’ve always been a risk-taker.”
The dig is subtle, but I’m triggered. By “red ocean” he means bloody, like a hungry shark in a herd of seals. It’s his way of saying the industry is overcrowded. It’s a speech I’ve heard before—how tough it can be to stand out, to stay alive in that environment.
“Growth requires risk. A night spa is a good idea.” That came out more defensive than it sounded in my head.
“A night spa is a glorified bar.” He inhales his cigar, the warm orange glow highlighting his bone structure. He’s getting older. I’ve noticed before, but tonight his age stands out in sharp relief. In the fan of lines at the corners of his eyes, and the brackets around his mouth. He’s still good-looking, with a nose slightly larger than mine, his build a touch wider. The gray at his temples is thicker than ever. While he doesn’t look fragile, there is something softer about him. I can’t put my finger on it.
It should be the end of the conversation. Could be if I let him have the last word. I could stand here, smoke, ignore the tension strung between us. But I don’t.
“Why the hell do you bother commenting on what I do, anyway?” I snap, earning a curious head tilt. He doesn’t seem angry—not yet. “My passions have never been your priority. I can’t gain your approval no matter how great my earnings are or how much positive publicity I lend to this company.”
“This isn’t about approval, Archer,” comes his stern reply. “It’s about you finding a niche worthy of who you are. Nightspots are—”
“Save it. We’ve had this discussion how many times? You don’t like what I do. I get it. But you also haven’t kicked me out of the company yet, so you must be A-okay with the money I bring in.”
He faces me, his arm rising, cigar scissored between his fingers. He looks angry now. I square my shoulders, ready for a standoff. “Son, this has fuck-all to do with money. It has everything to do with how much I love you.”
