Chapter Sixteen #3
“Possibly worse,” I confess. Maybe chatting about something inconsequential is how he hopes to take his mind off everything else. “But you know what they say, there’s no such thing as bad pizza.”
“New Yorkers do not say that.”
“But you’re a, uh … a Connecticutian?” I venture.
“The preferred term is Nutmegger, actually.”
“For real? Why?”
“Long story involving counterfeit spices and, uh, well, let’s just say as a proud son of the Nutmeg State, I come by my saltiness honestly. Or maybe dishonestly.”
I laugh. We both do. And then silence falls again, a sort of guilty sound, as if both of us feel like we shouldn’t be able to find anything amusing in this moment. Maybe inconsequential chatter isn’t such a good idea after all.
And then I get an idea that might be awful or amazing. “Fisher? I know it’s got to be hard, being alone right now, worrying and wondering. Would it help to talk about your dad? You could tell me a story about him, or …”
He hesitates long enough that I’m pretty sure the verdict is awful. Or maybe even worse than awful.
“Sorry. You don’t—” I begin.
But he speaks across me. “When I started high school, I had to pick a student group or activity to join. School policy. My dad nudged me toward the computer club—good preparation for my future, he said. And of course, being a pasty, scrawny kid who wore glasses, it was obvious I’d fit right in.
” Instead of imagining him at fourteen or so, I picture his face now, sharp features both softened by the recollection and painted by the harsh glow of neon signs and headlights as his car weaves its way to his father’s bedside. “I signed up for rowing instead.”
As teenage rebellions go, it’s hardly stealing his dad’s vintage Bugatti (an obscenely expensive sports car that I totally did not have to look up after it was mentioned in that article about Fisher Davis, Jr.’s net worth) and taking it for a spin.
“The precision, the orderliness of it appealed to me. And I came to appreciate the physical demands. But I was terrible at first,” he continues with a self-deprecating laugh, and somehow I don’t think he’s just being modest. Those biceps of his didn’t develop overnight.
“One day, after a particularly lousy practice, someone said to me, ‘It’s pretty clear why you’re still on this team.
You’re Fisher Davis’s son, right? The Fisher Davis?
’ Like there could be only one. And even though I knew what that guy was insinuating wasn’t true, I was frustrated and a teenager, so I went home, looked my father dead in the eye and told him that if I ever had a son, I would never name him Fisher. ”
This is not the kind of story I’d had in mind.
“What did he say?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer.
“He lifted his brows a little.” I can picture his father’s expression—it’s the same one I’ve seen Fisher make dozens of times.
“Then he laid a hand on my shoulder and told me, very calmly, ‘If the day for such a decision ever comes, you may find you feel differently. Family is a complicated thing.’”
I’m ashamed to admit how much Mr. Davis’s reaction surprises me.
I realize I’ve built up an idea in my mind of someone harsh and unyielding, someone who cares more for his business than his son.
And maybe, sometimes, that’s the same image Fisher has in his mind; his dad as the kind of outsized, overbearing figure that makes you want to chuck everything and move to Grantham for a while, just to get away.
But of course there’s a big gap between wishing a parent would give you some space to make your own decisions, and the prospect of losing that parent entirely.
“Afterward, he showed me this really top-notch set of free weights he’d bought for me, and I of course felt like shit about what I’d said.
” He pauses again; clearly the memory of his adolescent betrayal, snuffed out by his father’s measured response and generosity, still produces more than a twinge of guilt.
Then he concludes, “For four years, he never missed a regatta, no matter how busy he was.”
No, this isn’t the story I expected, at all. But I think I understand why he’s chosen to tell it to me now. It’s an answer to my question from last night. It’s a part of the explanation for his determination to fulfill his father’s dream, rather than his own.
Wealth and privilege aside, he’s been raised with a sense of duty. A commitment to responsibility. A healthy dose of stubbornness. And, yes, love.
Somehow, absolutely none of that comes as a surprise. But if it’s true that I didn’t know the real Fisher until yesterday, well, now I’m kind of hoping it’s not too late.
“He sounds like a great guy,” I say.
There’s a catch in his voice, maybe a sniff, when he says, “Yeah.”
And then I make a request—or maybe an offer—that I’d had no intention of making when this conversation started. “Call me tomorrow, OK? If you want. Or—or anytime, really.”
“Thanks, Elle. That means a lot.”
After we hang up, I sit thinking about this conversation. Maybe we can be friends after all?
Knowing what I do about his future, and mine, I’d be a fool to want anything more.