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“Great! I’m working on an assignment now, but I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up,” I say.
“Are you free this afternoon? I have a lecture to prepare for, but I’m willing to spare an hour for my favorite nephew.”
I smile despite the very old joke. I was his only nephew.
I glance at the time and figure Ava will most likely be preoccupied with her meeting for another hour or so. By the time we’d emerged from bed, it was closer to lunchtime now.
“Yes, I can spare some time today,” I say. “Where should I meet you?”
“I’m staying at the Bazel Hotel near Columbia University. I’ll meet you at the Bazel Café around one.”
Bazel Hotel was a favorite of my father’s when he lived in New York. Said it was one of the few places that made a decent cup of tea this side of the Atlantic. Didn’t realize Uncle Jonathan liked staying there as well.
“Sounds perfect. See you soon,” I say. The conversation is not sitting right with me, and I startle when the technician tries getting my attention.
Any reminder of my father distracts me, and it brings my mood down considerably every time I’m reminded of him. It’s why I’ve avoided all memories or any news about James Eastwood. Much as I adored my uncle, sometimes the similarities were too much.
After reviewing multiple cameras and sensors on the windows, I walked the technician out and began making my way uptown to meet Uncle Jonathan.
I arrive at the Bazel Hotel facing Central Park West, my snowy footsteps trailing behind me in the lobby.
Fortunately, Bazel’s famed restaurant is nearest to the entryway, and I quickly make my way to the host’s stand, noting that I’m a few minutes late.
“Reservation, sir?”
“Yes, under Eastwood,” I say and the host marks something on the screen in front of them.
“Your party is here. Follow me.”
An odd anticipation rips through me. Uncle Jonathan was always a pleasure to see. The only bright spot in my bleak childhood. Why do I feel anxious right now?
Probably because he looks identical to that blighter who sired me, and any reminders of him are always difficult.
He’s sitting by the window facing Central Park West. The view reminds me of a shaken snow globe. Flurries of snow blanket the city, and it’s a perfect winter day.
I exhale a deep breath, but it escapes unevenly. I shouldn’t feel this anxious about seeing the one decent member of my family, but I’m uneasy and eager to get this luncheon over with.
“Brandon,” Uncle Jonathan says in greeting, getting up a lot slower than he used to. In his late sixties now, he still looks strong, but around the eyes lie dark circles and deeper lines than what used to be there in the years since I’d last seen him. “Look at you! Handsome devil, just like your old man and me.”
I hide the wince at mention of my father. “Good to see you. It’s been too long,” I return, leaning into an embrace in his outstretched arms.
The hug this time doesn’t feel warm like I remember. No, this time the hug is stiff. Cold. Reminding me too much of the rare embraces my father displayed when we were in the presence of others.The Eastwoods: one pretend happy family.
After catching up on the goings on in our respective lives, we both order Earl Grey tea and shepherd’s pie—Bazel’s best. Like always, Uncle Jonathan regales me with all the research he’s completed and the reason he’s here in the city, guest lecturing on Ancient Greece for Columbia’s Department of Classics.
After the server collects our dishes, we both remain, finishing our tea. Uncle Jonathan’s expression turns serious, and my hackles heighten, realizing there was more to this outing than a catch-up.
“Your father is desperate to talk to you,” he begins. “I told him I would try my best once I met up with you.”
I sigh and take a large sip of my now lukewarm tea. I need a moment before I respond in anger.
“He’s been calling me constantly since his prison release several months ago. Did he put you up to this?”
Uncle Jonathan’s eye enlarge at my outburst. Thankfully, the café isn’t busy at this time.
“No, he didn’t, Brandon. I told him I’d be here for a few weeks, and I would try my best to talk to you. I know you and him haven’t had the best relationship?—”
I laugh at his hyperbolic way of describing my father and our relationship. “You know he was an abusive bastard, who only cared about money and appearance. Then he stole all that money from investment clients. No one was sorry to see him in prison. Now he’s been extradited back to England, and he’s not my problem.”
