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23
Mr. Templeton was charming throughout the rest of the evening. He told us stories about things that would have blown my mind back when I lived in a crappy apartment in Hollywood: scuba diving in Micronesia, skiing in Switzerland, wine tasting in the Bordeaux region. He expounded on the Metropolitan Opera and the Mariinsky Ballet and other hoity-toity things, but I never got the feeling that he was using his interests as a perch to look down on me. He seemed to be genuinely sharing things he had a passion for.
We occupied two totally different social spheres, but he treated me kindly. Talking with him was like a window into an alternate reality I knew existed, but had never seen for myself. I mean, Connor had shown me a world of wealth and privilege, but we’re talking Vegas and Manhattan and a couple of trips to Paris, London, and Hawaii. Mr. Templeton’s existence encompassed the skyscrapers of Hong Kong, the peaks of Everest (which he’d scaled before Connor was born), and the rainforests of Madagascar. It was a whole ‘nother level of Whoooaaaa.
There was one strange moment, though. He was starting to tell a story about Venice, Italy, and then he suddenly stopped and got a strange look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I used to like Venice. Tokyo, too. But a couple of recent developments have more or less ruined them for me.” He smiled grimly. “At least I was never planning on visiting Tanzania.”
“What?” Connor asked, as bewildered as I was.
Mr. Templeton seemed to realize he had derailed the lightness of the moment and brought everyone down. “Nothing, nothing. Florence is far more interesting to me than Venice, anyway.” And then he launched into a story about the Medicis and how they were misunderstood. I soon forgot the whole weirdness over Venice.
All in all, I had a wonderful time. Pretty good for dining with the devil. Or the father-in-law of the devil, anyway.
As he was preparing to leave, Mr. Templeton pulled out his cell phone and tapped out a short text message. Then he put it back in his jacket.
He saw my questioning glance.
“Just letting my bodyguards know I’m coming.” He smiled at me. “I had a very nice evening.”
I beamed. “So did I.”
“Thank you for having me in your home tonight.”
I gestured to Connor. “Well… it’s his home. I just stay here.”
Mr. Templeton got a mischievous look in his eye. At that moment, I could see the resemblance to his son more clearly than ever before. “Somehow, I don’t think it was him who wanted me here.”
Connor was a little incensed. “Hey – ”
“Just a gentle ribbing,” Mr. Templeton said.
“Yeah, well…” Connor grumbled.
“Please come back,” I said. “Anytime.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Call first,” Connor added sardonically. “But… yeah. We should do this again.”
Mr. Templeton looked at his son – and for the first time since I’d met the older man, he seemed at peace. His smile was genuine as he said, “Yes, we should. I look forward to it.”
We watched as he walked towards the elevator.
And then he was gone.
