26. Charlie
Charlie
I arrive fifteen minutes early to Meridian, my father's favorite restaurant. The ma?tre d' recognizes me immediately, escorting me to my father's usual table by the window with its amazing view of Elliott Bay.
I order a sparkling water and check my emails, my knee bouncing under the pristine white tablecloth. These lunches with my father always leave me feeling like I'm back in prep school, waiting outside the headmaster's office for yet another lecture on living up to my potential.
Last night with Tess floats back into my mind—her body against mine, the shared joy of her new position with the Seattle Symphony, the quiet intimacy of dinner afterward.
At precisely 12:30, my father strides through the restaurant doors. Bill Astor moves like a man who's never doubted his place in the world, his tailored suit sitting perfectly on his tall frame, silver hair expertly cut. The staff practically trips over themselves to greet him.
"Charles," he says, extending his hand for a firm shake before sitting down.
"Bill," I reply, forcing a smile. "How are you?"
"Fine, fine." He waves away the question, signaling to the waiter. "The usual for me. Charles?"
I order the salmon without looking at the menu. We've had this same lunch a dozen times.
"So," he says once the waiter disappears, leaning back in his chair. "How's the paper supplier situation?"
Of course. Straight to business, straight to the problem he called me out on last week. I feel my shoulders tense beneath my sports coat.
"Resolved," I reply, keeping my voice even. "They backed down on the price increase after I threatened to switch suppliers. We're getting a two-year guarantee at the old rate plus a ten percent discount on the first six months."
My father's eyebrows lift slightly—the closest thing to approval I'm likely to get. "Good. And Chicago?"
"On schedule. The location's secured, renovations start next month, and the management team is nearly in place." I take a sip of water. "We're actually below budget on pre-opening expenses."
He nods, his eyes assessing me. "Minneapolis?"
"Still finalizing the location. We have three options, all with pros and cons. I can email you the analysis if you'd like to weigh in."
The waiter returns with bread, and we fall silent while he places it between us. My father takes a slice and begins buttering it methodically, his movements precise.
"I hope you're delegating properly," he says after a bite. "You can't micromanage everything, especially now."
Something in his tone catches my attention. "What do you mean?"
"With a baby on the way." He says it casually, like he's commenting on the weather.
My water glass freezes halfway to my mouth. I glance around to see if anyone appeared to be listening but no one is looking in our direction. My father watches me, his expression unreadable.
"How did you—" I start, then stop, setting down my glass carefully before I drop it.
"Your mother told me." He dabs at his mouth with his napkin. "Apparently Jane mentioned it to her last week."
Jane. Of course.
"It wasn't supposed to be common knowledge yet," I say, my voice tight. "We were waiting to tell people until after the first trimester."
My father shrugs, unconcerned with what we were "supposed" to do. "Well, your mother wasn't supposed to tell me either, but we've been married for forty years. She can't keep anything from me for more than a day."
I stare at him, trying to process this new reality where my father knows about Tess's pregnancy before we were ready to share it. A pregnancy that's complicated enough already without my father's opinions.
"Are you upset?" he asks, and for once, I can't read his tone.
Am I upset? I'm not sure what I am. Shocked, certainly. Anxious about my parents knowing. But my father asking about my feelings is so unexpected that I don't know how to respond.
"I'm...surprised," I say finally. "We just weren’t ready to announce it yet."
"Announcements." He waves his hand dismissively. "I've never seen the point of making a production out of these things. A baby is coming. Life will change. No need for fancy cards or social media posts."
Typical. My father reducing one of the most significant events of my life to a practical transaction. I should have expected nothing less.
"It's twins, actually," I say, surprised that Jane didn’t include that important piece of information. Or maybe she did but my dad wasn’t listening when my mother told him the news.
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "Twins?" For the first time in recent memory, Bill Astor looks genuinely surprised. "Well. That's...efficient."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it, the tension of the moment cracking. "Efficient? That's your take?"
A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Two for the price of one pregnancy. Sounds like good business to me."
Our food arrives, saving me from having to respond to this bizarre observation. We eat in silence for a few minutes.
"I didn't realize you and Tess were so serious," he says finally, his eyes on his plate.
"It...developed quickly," I reply, choosing my words carefully.
"She’s an excellent choice for you."
"She is," I agree. "We’re a good match."
"Good," he says awkwardly. "That's good."
Another silence falls. I take a bite of salmon, barely tasting it as I steal glances of my father across the table. He seems different today—less critical, more thoughtful. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see.
"Your mother is thrilled, naturally," he says after a moment. "She's already talking about baby names."
The image of my elegant, reserved mother getting excited about baby names makes me smile.
"She'll probably have a list of suggestions for you by the end of the week." He cuts a piece of steak with surgical precision. "She's always wanted grandchildren."
"I know." The guilt I've been carrying – about the unplanned pregnancy, about not telling my parents, about all of it – shifts uncomfortably in my chest.
"And you?" my father asks, his eyes meeting mine directly. "How do you feel about becoming a father?"
The question catches me off guard. My father has never been one for discussing feelings. Facts, figures, results—these are his currency. Not emotions.
"Terrified," I admit before I can stop myself. "Excited. Overwhelmed." I swallow hard, staring at my plate. "I have no idea what I'm doing."
I expect a lecture. About responsibility, about planning, about how I should have been more careful. Instead, my father does something completely unexpected.
He laughs.
Not mockingly, not dismissively. A genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes in a way I haven't seen in years.
"Welcome to fatherhood, son," he says, and there's a warmth in his voice I barely recognize. "None of us has any idea what we're doing."
I lay my fork down as I stare at my father, this stranger who looks like Bill Astor but speaks with a warmth I barely recognize.
Something shifts inside me—a door cracking open just wide enough to let a dangerous thought slip through: maybe, just maybe, I can tell him the truth.
The whole messy, complicated truth about Tess and me, about how what started as a desperate lie somehow turned into the most real thing in my life.
"Dad," I start, intentionally using the word dad instead of Bill, my voice lower than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "There's something you should know about Tess and me."
He sets down his knife and fork, giving me his full attention—another rarity. I mean, did he fall and hit his head or something? Usually, he's half-listening while mentally reviewing spreadsheets or planning his next meeting.
"I'm listening," he says simply.
I take a deep breath. "Our relationship didn't exactly start the way I told you. We weren't dating when I brought her to the Whidbey Island wedding."
My father's expression doesn't change, but curiosity flickers in his eyes.
"We had an arrangement," I continue, the words coming faster now that I've started. "I needed a suitable date for these weddings to get you and Mom off my back. She needed some assistance with getting a audition with the Seattle Symphony. So we agreed to fake date for a couple of months."
I wait for the explosion, for the disappointment, for the lecture about how our family doesn't lie. It doesn't come. My father just watches me, his face surprisingly free of judgment.
"But then...something happened," I say, staring at my water glass.
"We got to really know each other. And I started to feel things I didn't expect to feel.
Then we found out about the pregnancy, and everything accelerated.
" I look up at him. "I'm not lying about how I feel about her now.
That part is real. The most real thing in my life, actually. "
My father is silent for so long that I start to wonder if he heard me. Finally, he sighs—not angrily, but like he's releasing something heavy.
"When I was twenty-seven," he says, his voice thoughtful, "I was terrified of becoming a father."
This is not at all what I expected him to say. I blink, thrown off balance.
"Your mother was ecstatic when she found out she was pregnant with you.
I smiled and said all the right things, but inside I was panicking.
" He takes a sip of water. "I had no idea how to be a father.
My own father was..." He pauses, searching for the right word.
"Distant. Cold. Success was the only currency that mattered to him. "
I've never heard my father talk about my grandfather this way. He died when I was young, and in family stories, he's always portrayed as a business genius, the man who turned a small family business into an empire.