27. Beau
BEAU
My aunt has made enough roast chicken for an argument that could last several days.
I sit opposite my uncle while two relatives arrange themselves around the table with the careful expressions of people who intend to be reasonable on somebody else's behalf.
“We just want to clear the air,” my aunt says.
“Then let's start with the chicken. It's getting cold.”
She looks at me, surprised. I take the serving fork and pass the dish after helping myself. For a few minutes we eat. My uncle asks about work, and I answer the ordinary parts.
“Celeste's had her baby,” my aunt says. “I hear they're both doing well.”
“I'm glad,” I say.
One of the relatives puts down her glass. “She knew exactly what she was doing with you.”
“Yes,” I say. “So did I.”
“You thought she was in danger.”
“She was at a hospital. Her sister was coming. I knew both before I left.”
My aunt sets down her knife.
“People make terrible decisions when they're frightened.”
“I also spent eight months hiding the calls. That wasn't one frightened decision.”
Nobody answers at once. I hear the clock in the hall and the scrape of my uncle's fork against his plate.
“You've admitted it,” he says. “Publicly. You lost the contract. At some point, there has to be a way forward.”
“There is. Heidi gets to decide whether she wants it with me.”
“She lets you spend time at the house.”
I look at my aunt.
“Someone saw you there,” she says quickly.
“Then someone saw me visiting my daughter.”
“It must mean something.”
“It means Heidi trusts me to be there at agreed times. I am grateful for that. I am not asking her to turn it into an answer for the whole family.”
My aunt looks hurt. I wish I could spare her the hurt without handing it back to Heidi.
“She has always been one of us,” she says.
“She still is,” I say.
My aunt looks relieved too quickly.
“That does not mean she owes you access while she decides whether she can remain married to me.”
“I only wanted her to know we don't blame her.”
“For what?”
She looks down.
“For the separation. For keeping you from Ivy at first.”
I put down my glass.
“She did not keep me from Ivy. She waited six days before the first visit because she had just given birth without me and needed to feel safe.”
“I didn't mean...”
“I know. That is why I am saying it here. Nobody is going to turn her boundaries into another offense she has to defend.”
My uncle shifts in his chair. “You're asking the family to take sides.”
“No. I am asking the family not to make her carry my consequences.”
I meet my aunt's eyes.
“Then Heidi should be able to be angry with you without losing that.”
The room goes quiet.
I remember Heidi at this table during our first Christmas together, laughing so hard at my uncle's story that she spilled water into her lap.
My aunt brought a towel and kept telling the story over his shoulder because he was getting the details wrong.
They loved her then without asking her to make anything easier for them.
I want them to remember how.
“She isn't doing this to punish you,” I say. “She had our daughter while I was somewhere else. She's trying to live with that. Don't make her explain why it still hurts.”
My aunt looks down at her plate.
“I thought inviting her would be kinder than leaving her out.”
“Invite her to something that isn't a discussion of her marriage. Ask about the clinic. Let her tell you whether she wants to come.”
She nods slowly.
One of the relatives says, “You sound as though she's taught you what to say.”
I put down my fork.
“Heidi has enough to do without writing my conversations.”
My uncle gives a short, unexpected laugh. The tension shifts just enough for somebody to pick up the potatoes.
He brings up the lost development contract after the plates are cleared.
“That was expensive,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You could have gone.”
“I could have. The team was there and could handle the work. He wanted me personally.”
“That's what the owner does.”
“For years, that's what I sold. It wasn't good for the company either.”
My uncle leans back. He helped build the business before my father took it on. He taught me to walk a site before asking anybody else what needed doing. Some of what I know is his, and disagreeing with him feels different from disagreeing with a client.
“Your father would have gone,” he says.
The old loyalty rises before I can stop it.
My father did go. Storm calls, broken pipes, clients who wanted the owner at midnight because being important to someone felt close to being loved. I learned early that a good man was the one who arrived.
I never asked who watched him leave.
“He missed things,” I say.
My aunt's fork stills.
“Your school concert,” she says quietly. “The one where you had the speaking part.”
I remember searching the rows until the lights went down.
“He came afterward.”
“With flowers,” my uncle says.
“Yes.”
For years, the flowers were the story. I had forgotten the empty chair.
“I loved him,” I say. “I also learned the wrong thing from him.”
I look at the photograph on the sideboard. My father in work clothes, one hand on my shoulder, both of us squinting into the sun. I was young enough to think being proud of him required becoming him exactly.
My uncle follows my gaze. “Do you think your father learned the wrong thing too?”
“Probably.”
“He believed people depended on him.”
“They did. They also depended on the men he hired. He didn't always let those men know he trusted them.”
My uncle says nothing.
“I miss him,” I add. “I'm not trying to win an argument with a dead man.”
His expression changes. He looks toward the photograph too.
“He worked too much,” my aunt says quietly.
My uncle opens his mouth, then closes it.
We sit with that. Then he asks how the crews have been reassigned, and I answer him.
At the door, my aunt takes my sleeve.
“I'll apologize to Heidi for the invitation.”
“She'll appreciate that.”
“I don't want her to think she has to stop being family.”
“Tell her that part. Then let her answer in her own time.”
She nods, looking older than she did when I arrived. I want to hug her, but I do not want the hug mistaken for agreement.
So I do.
Outside, the air is sharp. I sit in the truck and let my shoulders drop before I start it.
Heidi has sent a message.
Saturday. Hardware store. I need to argue about something unimportant.
I smile at the screen.
I have several indefensible positions prepared.
Her reply arrives while I am putting on my seat belt.
Good. Wear the mittens. I need an advantage.
I call her instead of sending another message. She answers in a whisper.
“Ivy?” I ask.
“Nearly asleep. Speak respectfully of the possibility.”
“I revere it.”
She laughs softly. “How was dinner?”
“Uncomfortable. Necessary. They're going to stop trying to manage you.”
“Ambitious of them.”
“I thought so.”
She is quiet for a moment.
“Thank you.”
“You don't have to.”
“Let me thank you, Beau. I know what your uncle is like.”
I smile into the dark. “You're welcome.”
Then she tells me about Ivy discovering the edge of her own sleeve, and I listen until the story becomes a whispered argument about whether our daughter is a genius or merely well dressed.
By the time we hang up, the truck windows have begun to mist. I turn on the heater and drive back to the apartment, still smiling at something my wife said.
The next morning, I take out my phone.
I have asked Heidi to walk. I have helped carry things back to the house. I have learned that Ivy settles faster if I stop trying six different methods in the space of a minute. None of that is asking my wife on a date.
I want to ask her on a date.
My palm is damp against the phone.
I call Suzanne first, not to ask whether Heidi will say yes, but to find out whether she is free to have Ivy if Heidi wants to go out Saturday evening.
“I am,” she says. “Ask my daughter before you buy flowers.”
“I wasn't going to buy flowers.”
“Good. Ask her before you buy a restaurant.”
“I've stopped at one table.”
“A promising level of restraint.”
She hangs up before I can ask anything else.
I call Heidi after Suzanne hangs up.
“Will you have dinner with me Saturday, after the hardware store?”
There is a small pause. “Are you asking me on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes.”
My relief makes me grip the phone too tightly. “I will try not to buy the restaurant.”
She laughs. “I'll warn the table.”