Chapter Six-and-Twenty #2
“In that same time, I’ve gotten to know your son, who is a wonderful man: smart and generous and fiercely protective of the people he loves—including you.
But I’m sure you know that. That’s not what I came all this way to say.
” I pause to draw a fortifying breath. “As Fisher knows, I’ve been doing a lot of reading lately.
But there are a few things even he doesn’t know I’ve read.
” When I glance toward him, all I can see is his profile, the thick edge of his glasses, the curve of his dark lashes, the sharp bob of his throat.
He doesn’t return my gaze, so I drop my eyes to the piece of fruit in my hands.
“Specifically, his undergraduate honors thesis in mathematics. It was pretty intimidating, to be honest. Maybe that’s why he keeps it in a box in his attic.
I googled a few terms and phrases,” I say, without revealing that I only thought to do so today, based on what I could remember of what I read all those weeks ago.
“But I’m not a math person, so I still don’t really understand much. ”
I’m tempted to add that I do understand enough to see that he was still trying desperately to please his father, taking his love of something called graph theory—all those gorgeous curves, as he once told me—and tying it to the more practical work of programming and artificial intelligence.
But that’s not my point in bringing it up.
“I know he could explain it to me if I asked, though,” I continue, “because you see, your son is an amazing teacher.”
“Elle,” Fisher cautions quietly, but I charge ahead.
“Did you know that, Mr. Davis?” I ask, looking up at him again. “Did you know it’s his dream to get his doctorate and become a math professor? It sounds so simple … but we both know it’s not. Because long before he began to dream that dream, he made a promise to you.”
Mr. Davis’s dark eyes are fixed on his son. “Is this true, Trey?”
There’s a long moment of ringing silence before Fisher says softly, “Yeah. I never told you, because I couldn’t bear to let you down. But it’s true that”—his hand snakes across the sofa cushion to find mine—“my heart’s somewhere else.”
From my left, where Laura has been tucked listening in silence, comes a noisy gasp. “Absolutely not.”
“Laura.” Mr. Davis’s voice is more than a little weary. “I apologize,” he says to me. “My wife is not herself—she’s been under a great deal of strain, thanks to me.” And then to Fisher he says, “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
When Fisher doesn’t answer, his dad looks back at me, as if he knows there must be more. “I know you love your son, Mr. Davis. I love him too. That’s why I came. Because I think we both want his happiness. Which means letting him choose what he’s going to do with his life.”
Mr. Davis blinks once, twice, and to my utter astonishment, nods. “I agree.” Then he swivels his gaze to his son.
Fisher’s indrawn breath is shaky. “Elle means well, I know. But she said herself it’s not that simple. It’s time I kept my promise. You need me here, now. Of course I’ll stay.”
It’s not the answer I was hoping for. But before I can react, Mr. Davis shakes his head. “And what if I refused?”
At that, Laura can no longer hold her tongue.
Tears well in her eyes, and in spite of my own hopes, my heart aches for her.
She’s worried about her husband, it’s plain to see, and upset to think that the plan to relieve him of a stressful burden may be upended.
“Someone has to step in. If not Trey, then who?” she demands in a shaking voice.
The two men look at each other, perhaps silently weighing the options, which based on their expressions, aren’t great. And I know, in another moment, that both of them will give in, accept the familiar, obvious solution, in spite of my efforts and Fisher’s desires.
And then a possibility occurs to me, one more thing I can say.
“What about Gaby?”
If you find it implausible that the Davises never considered entrusting a multimillion-dollar family business to their bright, business-savvy daughter, rather than their son, well …
(Picture me waving my arm in the general direction of all human history. Did you imagine that the absence of Elizabeth Bennet—and the millions of clever, independent-minded women modeled after and inspired by her—would have made this timeline better?)
Anyway, my suggestion sparks a long conversation, so lengthy in fact I’m nodding off before it’s over and Fisher is nudging me and encouraging me to go to bed.
Reluctantly, Mrs. Davis offers to show me to the guest house, which is attached to the mansion via a glassed-in breezeway, its flagstone floor an unsettling patchwork of light and shadow at this late hour.
As much as today has been about reclaiming my rom-com happy ending, this silent walk with Mrs. Davis makes me worry a little that I might have wound up in the plot of a thriller instead.
At the door of the guest house, she pauses, and I can’t help but brace myself for what she’s about to say. Or do.
“In spite of what you may think of us,” she tells me, in a voice that’s a little haughty, but also a little sad, “Fisher and I want nothing more than our son’s happiness. I hope you’ll be comfortable out here.”
Before I can say “thank you,” she motions me inside and shuts the door between us.
The guest house is as big as my parents’ actual house, and combines hotel luxury with the comforts of home.
There’s a complete kitchen, a fully stocked bar, plush cotton towels and robes—and Fisher’s toiletries on the bathroom counter.
I’d assumed he was sleeping in his childhood bedroom, as he was in December.
But I suppose when it seemed he’d be staying long-term, this arrangement gave them all some privacy.
Plus, tonight it lets Mrs. Davis skirt the dilemma of whether to allow her son to have a girl in his room.
Following a long, hot, lonely shower, I slip on one of those fancy robes and curl up on the couch in the living room to wait for him. Hours later, he wakes me with a kiss (and I know it’s been hours, because my hair is almost dry).
I’m searching his face for the answer before I even ask the question. “Is it going to work?”