Chapter 13 #3
On the one hand, he was hurt and furious, but on the other hand, he was worried. And while he had indulged in the hurt and the furious during the train ride from Manhattan, by the time his father picked him up at the train station, it was the last part that had settled in to ache.
While not as stiff-necked as a New Englander—or as close-mouthed as Joey Carlyle—rich people had their own reserve.
People in Gideon Chadwick’s family did not talk about their feelings.
The only reason Gideon knew his father cared for his stepmom was because he got this baffled, melty expression whenever she asked him to do something for her.
Gideon had often thought that it was a good thing Trish was a good person, and the things she asked for were trips to the store or for a new trash can or sometimes even a new kitten, because if she ever asked Gideon’s dad to knock over a bank, Gerald Chadwick might be in the middle of a heist before he realized exactly how that had happened.
So imagine Gideon’s surprise when, in the car halfway from the train station in Philly, his father said, “Anything going on that I should know about, son?”
While for some parents, that might have been a regular occurrence, for Gideon, the last time he could remember his father asking him such a thing had been after his mother died, when he was seven, not-so-promptly followed by Gideon’s mostly private decision to enlist in the military after his first stint in college.
The end.
Gideon glanced at his father, taking in the same narrow frame and hatchet nose that Gideon had sported his entire life.
But Gerald wore his with a certain dignity, a certain peace.
None of the subversiveness or restlessness that Gideon had always possessed.
Gideon had seen things wrong in the world, and he’d been supremely aware of his privilege.
It was his job to fix those things. For the first time in his life, he saw the slight stooping, the enhanced sharpness to the cheekbones, the crow’s feet at the corners of his father’s eyes.
His father was over sixty, and while not old, he was certainly older.
And the sideways glance he cast Gideon was almost wistful.
His father had been a prominent, successful businessman who, while not unkind, had always worked prominent, successful businessman hours. Lots of trips, lots of late nights, one night out as a family for dinner, and the occasional vacation to someplace warm with lots of sun.
Not distant, not cold—but not overly involved.
When Gideon’s mother passed away, his father had hired a series of nannies and kept the same schedule, until Trisha had arrived.
Gideon may not have been the warmest child, but Trisha—who had started out as his father’s admin when Gideon was in junior high—had often told him that his rare smiles had been like a fully fleshed out performance review. “Excellent” rating.
Trisha was the reason Gideon had returned either to the house in Mountain Lakes or Lake Erie for holidays (they switched off—Trisha was reluctant to part with the Lake Erie estate, and Gideon had fond memories of the lake as a teenager), but seeing his father having reasoned, adult conversations with him had been his reward for opening up to another human being after that long, windswept silence of his childhood.
His father had retired in this last year, and Gideon wondered if he’d started to regret—or at least rethink—some of the emotional habits that he’d inherited from his father.
He must have, because he didn’t let Gideon’s stunned silence stop him.
“See, Trisha, she’s starting to worry about you being alone so much. Now I know you’ve probably got friends in the city, but see, nobody you’ve cared for enough to tell us about. But….” He trailed off, glanced at Gideon again since they were at a light, and sighed. “You just look… worried.”
Gideon blinked and decided to throw his old man a bone. “I am, sort of. My—” Partner? Friend? Lover? “—colleague? He, uhm, is not looking forward to visiting his family for the holiday.”
His father snorted. “Colleague?” he echoed, and Gideon winced. Not involved—but not stupid.
“Friend?”
And his father rolled his eyes in that supremely superior, sarcastic way that Gideon was aware he’d inherited straight from the old man. “Weak shit, son.”
Gideon managed a chuckle. “Weak shit? Did you hear that from Trisha?”
His father’s expression—almost eternally closed—softened. “She listens to podcasts,” he said mildly. “Very liberal podcasts.” He sobered. “It doesn’t bother us, you know, if your ‘colleague’ is, you know, male.”
That touched Gideon. “Thanks, Dad. Of all the things I’m worried about, that wasn’t one, but thank you. It’s nice to know.”
“So why are you worried? About him. Your ‘colleague’?”
It was Gideon’s turn to snort. “Because he’s so emotionally closed off he makes us look like open fire hydrants.
And because I offered to go with him, and he pretty much said he didn’t want his father to put a hit out on me.
Or you. Or our unit. So, uhm, yeah.” And then, because his father had given a harsh bark of laughter—but had not told him he was being crazy or overreactive or, well, any of the things he might have said when Gideon was younger—he added, “I asked him to come with me instead, but he seemed to feel that would get him the same result.” Gideon sighed. “I… you know. Wish he felt safe.”
Gerald nodded slowly, as if digesting all of that. “Do you really feel safe, visiting home?” he asked, and Gideon could hear the hope in his voice. Bless you, Dad. You really do try.
“Yeah, Dad. You and Trisha make a nice home.” He smiled. “Homes. I hope you shower that woman with presents and praise, because she really is more than the two of us deserve.”
His father’s smile was… boyish, and fond, and Gideon realized that, in spite of the very pricey and rare pocket watch he’d packed as his father’s gift, his real gift had been that statement right there, heaping praise on the person who had saved Gerald Chadwick from a lonely life as King of the Hill.
“She is,” Gerald said. “What did you get her for Christmas?”
Gideon grinned. “Tickets to the Tonys this year. I got her two, so you’d better be nice or I’m going with her.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” His father’s face lit up. “How did you spring that?”
“Well, a different colleague of mine is buddies with Toby Trotter, who’s—”
“Manhattan’s hottest DJ?” his father supplied and then laughed. “Don’t look so surprised, son. You know Trish reads the entertainment blogs.”
“Yeah, well, I had Crosby ask his friend for the hookup. He was pretty happy to do it. He’s a good guy.”
“But not the good guy.”
Gideon’s cheeks heated. “Well, not my good guy.”
“Why not?”
They were nearing the house now, and Gideon realized he only had a small pocket of this seemingly magical honest time to give a real answer.
“Crosby’s a nice guy,” he said after a moment. “And I am… not always. Carlyle isn’t always a nice guy either. I don’t have to worry about hurting him with my lack of niceness.”
His father made a distressed sound. “You seem nice to me and your stepmother,” he said.
Gideon gave a weary sigh, the kind that reminded him why he’d come home after his last deployment and slept for a month before going off to school.
“You and Trisha haven’t done horrible things to other people,” he said softly. “If I’m grateful for nothing else, Dad, I’m grateful that you’re both unequivocally on the side of the angels.”
His father hmmed slightly as he made the left turn up the long driveway to the solid, sweeping brick house. “I don’t know about angels, son, but you look tired. How about you nap in your room before dinner.”
Gideon nodded. “But first I hug Trish.”
“Who says you’re not a good boy?”
GIDEON’S “OLD room,” which Trish had set up for him during high school and college when they’d visited the house in the summer, had been converted into a guest room about six months after he’d deployed.
It sported a queen-sized bed with warm flannel sheets and a snuggly comforter with a linen duvet in the summer and a flannel covering in the winter.
It had been done in warm, masculine colors with a soft carpet and pad under his feet, and he almost wished he’d let Trisha do his room as a kid, because the comfort here could not be denied.
He did settle himself down for a warm winter’s nap before dinner, thank you, and he’d awakened trying hard to figure out if the darkness meant he’d awakened in the crotch of dawn or in the dark of the long winter afternoon, when his phone buzzed in its charger on the end table.
He picked it up and squinted at the text.
Made it. Fought. Left. Sleeping here instead.
The picture showed an almost idyllic snowscape, with a shallow divot carving its way into the side of a hill.
A cave.
I’m napping in flannel sheets with a floor heater under the bed, he typed back. Join me instead.
Sadist, Joey replied. But he didn’t say he wouldn’t, which meant he really had spent his day fighting with his father.
I’m just trying to present you with viable options, Gideon texted. Don’t shoot the messenger.
Your life might not be so peaceful if I showed up at two in the morning.
Gideon’s chest seized. He didn’t even want to know how Joey would get from the wilds of Boston to Lake Erie, but he wanted him there badly.
My folks wouldn’t care, and I’d consider it my Christmas present.
Your Christmas present was my T-shirt so you didn’t forget who you belonged to.
I’m not forgetting. Come here and belong to me back.
His phone buzzed, and he hit the Call button.
“He wants me to quit and join the family business,” Joey said softly.