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“Thanks,” I said, gunning for the gin I’d left on the coffee table.
“Where’s your rug?” he asked, entering the living room behind me.
“Had to get rid of it,” I answered, keeping it simple, but nothing’s ever simple with Leland.
“Why?”
“It was stained.”
“What kind of stain?” he asked roguishly. I gave him a look conveying how much I wasn’t in the mood for his ill-timed humor.
“Sorry,” he said. “Look, I figured you might not want company, but I’m here anyway. Figured we could do our Christmas gift exchange early. I even made my famous chicken Florentine you love so much. It’s keeping warm in the oven.”
God bless him and hishorriblechicken Florentine. “Thanks,” I said, realizing I’d meant it. I didn’t want to be left alone with my thoughts.
Leland scrunched up his nose, pointing at the bottle in my hand. “Is thatgin? You can afford to use aged Chateau Lafite’s as mouthwash, yet you continue to drink gin?” He tskd in mock disappointment. “Where’s the good stuff?”
I laughed in spite of myself, and Leland smiled in return. “In the kitchen. Second cabinet to the right of the sink.”
“Can’t you have a proper bar like normal rich people?” he asked, walking backwards.
“Bars are gaudy and send a bad message,” I said, falling into our usual banter.
“What? That you’re an alcoholic?” He opened the cabinet as I took up a stool.
“No. That I want people to stay long enough to share a drink.”
“I hopethose peopledon’t include me,” he said, reading the label on a bottle of scotch.
“No, you’re always welcome, Leland.” I left him to plate the food as I went to change, building myself up to eating the dish with a smile and keeping it down, too.
The phone on the bedside table rang. The concierge needed permission to allow an unlisted visitor up.
“Send him up,” I said resignedly, after she announced my father’s name. Perching on the end of the bed, change of clothes forgotten, I quickly ran through what his presence would mean.
The soft chime of the elevator sounded, and I hurried down the hall in time to see him step off as he surveyed what he could see of my home.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” I asked.
Glass shattered in the kitchen, followed by Leland’s muttered curse, and my father’s head swiveling sharply in that direction.
“I’m alright!” Leland called out.
My father brought his attention back to me, his gaze uncharacteristically unsteady. “Can’t I want to be with my son for the holiday?”
“Ah, yeah. Of course. It’s just I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yes, well, I thought surprising you might be best.”
In other words, he left me with no choice in the matter. He removed his coat, handing it off to me as if I’d asked for it. He wore a severe, dark suit underneath, reminding me so much of myself, of how similar we were. He peered over my shoulder, eyes widening before resuming their normal, unflinching state.
“Mr. Kincaid,” Leland said, coming in next to me.
“I told you to call him Franklin,” I said, because my father wouldn’t.
“Yes, please call me Franklin,” he echoed, shell-shocking me.
Leland scurried past with his head down, getting to his coat.
