Into the Fire(61)

“I’m not doing anything, Dad. Except standing here.”

A sudden flare of anger. “I did my best, okay? I did what your mother would’ve wanted me to. And maybe if you had a kid of your own, you’d understand how hard it is, that you can’t be perfect no matter how much you try.”

The words echoed between them. Maybe if you had a kid of your own.

Terry shoved the heel of his hand to his forehead, eyes wrinkled shut with dismay. “Oh, God. I didn’t mean it like that. I swear I didn’t. Christ, I’m sorry. I can’t say anything without feeling like an asshole. Look, I didn’t mean you shouldn’t be here. I just meant you’re not dressed for it. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know the reception was today. I was coming to…” Max paused. He’d sensed why he was coming but hadn’t considered it head-on. It sounded so foolish now.

Through the open gate, he could see clutches of people around the infinity pool. Tealights floated in the aqua water on origami rafts, and paper lanterns had been strung along the pergola. Elegantly dressed women sipped chardonnay from voluminous wineglasses probably suited to the varietal. A string quartet fronted a bank of roses by the greenhouse, trickling notes across the yard with muted reverence.

It was all so ridiculous. Not the reception, but Max’s being here beholding it.

And then he spotted Michelle. She was sitting on the back end of the diving board, her dress shoes off, rubbing her feet. They got sore when you were pregnant—he remembered that from Violet. It took a toll, making a human.

Seeing his niece sitting quietly amid all the movement, Max felt a stab of pride in knowing that he had kept her safe. He had kept them all safe, and there was a private kind of honor in that.

He looked back at his father, the answer suddenly clear. “I came to tell them.”

Terry’s eyebrows hoisted. They were fuller than Max remembered, a few rebellious strands twisting out. His father’s rugged, handsome face was just starting to transform into that of an old man. Max felt the awareness like a fresh cut. The years were pouring through his fingers, and he couldn’t do anything but watch.

“Tell who?” Terry said.

“I don’t know. Jill, the cousins, Nona.” You.

“Tell them what?”

“That what happened to Grant wasn’t my fault,” Max said. “That he pulled me into the mess, not vice versa, and I kept it away from the family to protect you. All of you. And I did. I protected them.”

“How?”

Max looked through the gate again, saw his grandmother sitting on a cushioned deck chair in a dour funeral dress, various grandkids playing at her elbow. The purse in her lap looked like a bowling bag. Life in ordinary motion.

Max shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Grant’s business?” Terry said. “The stuff he uncovered that got him killed? You cleaned it up?”

“With a lotta help. But yeah.”

Terry looked into the backyard. “And you were gonna tell the family. But?”

“I don’t want to now.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Max started to walk back to the taxi, his dirty shoes crunching on the designer wood chips.

“Son?”

Max turned.

Terry tugged at his mouth. “I’m proud of you.”

Max swallowed and then swallowed again, something simmering inside him, rising to the brink, threatening to spill. “I don’t need you to be proud of me now.”

Quickening his pace, he weaved through the juniper cones, stepping onto the front walk.

And coming face-to-face with Violet.

She wore a black dress with long sleeves—always long sleeves—and she looked a bit wobbly in wedge heels. Her mouth was ajar, her eyes flared with surprise, and Max thought if she came at him hard after his run-in with his dad that he might just come apart altogether.

“Max.” She stepped back, away. “I … I guess you have more of a right to be here than I do.”

“I suppose that’s one perspective.”

“Oh. You weren’t…” She couldn’t quite get out the word “invited.”

“You know how it is, Vi.”

“Are you out of danger? Or whatever?”

He nodded.

“So you’re good?”

She’d always been able to read him at a glance, and right now especially he felt like he had no control over what his face might show. He didn’t know where to look. Had her eyes always held that much yellow? A tendril of hair twisted down her cheek, touching the edge of her mouth. Her perfume—orange blossom and vanilla—brought him right back to that casino floor, sitting next to her for the first time.

Can I sit here?

I’m having an unlucky run. If you’re smart, you’ll get as far away from me as possible.

Don’t worry. I’m not that smart.

He forced his gaze downward. “I’m good,” he said. “You doing okay?”

She laughed. “I live in South Pasadena. I’m working for my parents. My parents. Overseeing housing units. And I’m doing my best making sure the tenants have what they need, you know? Making sure we’re good landlords to them, at least better than my dad would be, but it’s still … I’m in this job I hate in a life I hate and I swore I’d never be here again and it’s all my fault and all my own choices and here I am wondering how the hell it happened.” She wiped at her eyes. “So no. If we’re being honest, I’m not very good.”