Fake Empire(93)

“Thank you. But between that and the Sullivan acquisition that’s supposed to go through right before then, this mess is the last thing I need to be worrying about.”

“The Sullivan acquisition is set to go through in April.”

“I know.”

Oliver counts backward, coming to the same conclusion I did when Scarlett’s doctor shared the conception date during our first visit—I knocked her up one of our first times. “Damn. Impressive work, little bro.”

I roll my eyes. “Keep it to yourself. I haven’t told Dad yet.”

“He’ll be fucking thrilled. More future CEOs.”

“I know.” And that’s why I haven’t told him, because some part of me wants him to be excited about becoming a grandfather, nothing else. I know that’s why Scarlett hasn’t told her parents either. “Deal with Candace, okay?”

Oliver nods. “Yeah, yeah. I will.”

Everyone else is already at the table in the formal dining room when Oliver and I walk into the room. I take a seat next to Scarlett, grabbing her thigh and giving it a quick squeeze. Her eyes are filled with questions she can’t ask and I can’t answer. Not here.

The servers bring out the first course.

My father appears to be in good spirits, which I’m surprised by. I’ve never gotten the impression he wanted more kids. He and Candace have only been married for a year, and I was surprised he chose to get married again at all. I didn’t think the news Candace is expecting would be welcome. And it complicates the possibility it’s not even his kid a whole lot.

Dinner is filled with forced pleasantries and discussions of the itinerary for the coming week.

“Can you ski?” I ask Scarlett, while my father presses Oliver about something involving golf. I’ve never made much of an attempt to understand the sport.

“Like a penguin,” she replies.

“So, you waddle?”

She rolls her eyes as she takes a bite of salad. “They navigate snow successfully, okay? Yes, I can ski.”

“Well?” I challenge.

“Let’s go on a black diamond tomorrow, and you’ll find out.”

“Deal,” I reply, although there’s no chance I’ll be allowing my pregnant wife to ski down anything other than a bunny hill. I know that’s a battle we’ll have later—and elsewhere—considering Oliver is the only one who knows and she doesn’t know that he knows.

Dinner is followed by Torta di Pane, a lemony bread pudding that’s almost as good as the chocolate-covered biscuits I get here, and then everyone disperses. Candace claims jet lag and goes to lie down. Oliver disappears, hopefully to talk with Candace. Scarlett goes to let Teddy out. My dad takes a phone call.

I wander around the first floor until I end up in the study. I haven’t been to the chalet since last winter. This is my father’s favorite property, so I tend to avoid it. The holidays are usually the only time of year I visit.

The bookshelves and leather furniture look the same. I pour myself a drink from the bar cart in the corner and take a seat in one of the armchairs, looking out the glass doors that lead to the back patio. It’s snowing out. The exterior lights illuminate each individual flake as they drift down from the sky.

Scarlett comes into view, decked out in down and trudging through the foot of snow already piled on the ground from a storm before we arrived. Teddy bounces behind her, barking happily. I smile as Scarlett throws an orange tennis ball and Teddy bounds through the drifts after it.

The door to the study opens and my father walks in. He halts when he sees me, obviously expecting to find the space empty.

“I can go,” I offer. Knowing him, he has work to get done.

He surprises me by saying “It’s fine,” and taking a seat in the other armchair. “You’ve already made yourself at home,” he adds, nodding toward the drink in my hand and sounding more like his usual self.

I watch Scarlett throw the tennis ball for Teddy again.

He follows my gaze, taking in the view of the snowy yard for the first time. “Seems like things are going well between you two.”

“They are.” I pause. “She’s pregnant.”

My father’s smile is wide and full and more genuine than I’ve seen in a long time. “Well, how about that? Nice work, son. Congratulations.”

I shift uncomfortably. Never did I ever think I would have to say this next part to my father as an adult. “Congratulations to you too. Candace seems excited.”

My father is silent for a few minutes, adding layers of awkwardness to what already existed. Finally, he speaks. “I had a vasectomy shortly after your mother died.”

“Oh.” Rather than address the implications of what he’s really saying—because fuck—I ask, “You didn’t want more kids?”

“Only with her.”

In the twenty-five years I’ve known him, it’s the most sentimental statement I’ve ever heard my father utter. “Mom would probably find that romantic.”

Everything about this moment is bizarre: the small yet genuine smile on my father’s face, talking about my mother like she’s more than a ghost we stopped acknowledging as soon as her funeral ended, how it’s come about by way of his current’s wife revelation.

“No.” He swirls the whiskey in the tumbler, a move I recognize. A move I copy. “She’d be disappointed. So, so disappointed in me. Losing her was the worst thing I’ve experienced. I shunned everything that reminded me of her.”