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My father chuckled. “That’s dark, Marie.”
“You know what I mean.” My mother shoved him playfully, since it was a running joke that she wanted him to retire next year. Unfortunately, the king was in no hurry to give up the throne.
“Happy birthday, Dad.” Gabby set the gift down and my father smiled, shaking off his bad mood. He loves presents, which is something I love about him. And Idolove him, even though he’s a hard man to love. He’s an even harder man to disappoint.
My father turned to Connor. “Which should I open first, the card or the present? I think the card, don’t you?”
“No, Pop! The present!”
“Don’t you want to see the card?”
“The present! The present!” Connor giggled. He was an adorable four-year-old with a scattering of freckles and a mop of blond hair. He loves my father, who’s great with kids. I still don’t know why he wasn’t great with me.
“Let’s see.” My father took off the wrapping paper and handed it to my mother, who folded it by force of habit. When we were growing up, she used to save wrapping paper and give us blank birthday cards so they could be reused. The first time she signed my birthday card, I knew we were rich.
“My God, will you look at these!” My father ran a hand over the gift, a set of Winston Churchill’sA History of the English-Speaking Peopleswith old-fashioned red leather covers and gold-embossed spines. “These are beautiful, just beautiful.”
Gabby smiled. “They’re first editions, printed in England.”
“Where did you find them?”
“John did, at a rare-book dealer.”
“Wonderful.” My father opened the front cover, marveling. “They’re not books, they’reartifacts. Really splendidartifacts. Churchill was an excellent writer, you know.”
“We know, Dad,” Gabby said, since, thanks to my father, we knew more about Winston Churchill than most Americans. Or Brits. Or historians.
“Great gift, kids. Thank you all.” My father beamed at us, even me, and a childish sort of happiness came over me. I flashed randomly on one of our best times as a family, maybe when we were little, on vacation down the Jersey Shore. We’d go on the rides at night at the boardwalk, and our favorite was the bumper cars, with their weird odor of burning rubber.
Come on, TJ!My father would dare me to crash into him, and I would hit the gas and plow into him, giving us both whiplash and sending us into gales of laughter.
Gabby, watch out!My brother would bump into my sister, and my mother would chase us across the dark floor of mysterious metal. We’d all bomb around and bang into each other, with electrical sparks showering us.
When the ride stopped, my father would wipe tears of laughter from his eyes and we’d climb out of the cars, shaky and wobbly, then chatter all the way home, reliving every collision. We were such a young family back then, when joy could be bought for a booklet of tickets that my mother used to say were expensive, but were, in fact, invaluable.
I remembered it now, swallowing hard and watching my father hug Gabby and shake Martin’s hand, all of us beaming—even John, his smile masking his secret.
I felt a sudden rush of love for him and my family, imperfect though we were. My brother had gotten himself into trouble, and I’d help him, for his sake and for all of us. My family had rallied for me not long ago, and it was time to do the same for them.
I would start tonight.
Chapter Five
We said our goodbyes in the driveway, with my mother giving me a warm hug and whispering in my ear that I deserved a better woman than Carrie, when I knew the opposite was true. My father waved goodbye from the doorway, his large figure filling its frame. His remoteness told me he suspected I wasusing.
I went to my car, opened the door, and waved. “Happy birthday, Dad!” I called, but he didn’t reply.
I told myself he hadn’t heard me.
That’s quality stuffing, right there.
•••
I pulled into the parking lot of the emergency department at the hospital nearest the corporate center. If John had injured Neil Lemaire, the accountant might have driven himself here. I’d found a photo of Lemaire on the Runstan website and he looked about my age, thirty-five, with clipped red hair and a face like the Keebler Elf, if the Keebler Elf embezzled cookies.
I jumped out of the car and headed toward the hospital’s entrance.Its glass doors slid aside, and I made a beeline for a reception desk. There was a large waiting room to the right, and I scanned the occupants for Lemaire, but he wasn’t there. It was mostly families and a young girl in a lacrosse uniform with a bloody knee. Oddly, the sight of the girl made me wonder if I’d ever have a daughter.
You’d be a great father, Carrie used to say, in the beginning.
