6. Sebastian
Three weeks of this.
I never sent Stuart.
Monday. Wednesday. Friday. The route was carved into my brain now. Left on Atlantic, right on Court, past the coffee shop with the green awning, into the small lot behind the converted warehouse. I could have done it blindfolded.
I could have delegated it. I didn't.
"Dad, you're early again."
Evie was standing a few inches from the car, frowning at me. She must have run out of the building just to scold me. I checked my watch. 3:47. Pickup was at 4:00. "Traffic was light."
Evie gave me a look that said she didn't believe me, but that she wasn't going to push. She'd been giving me that look a lot lately. Somewhere in the past three weeks, my daughter had developed the ability to see through me.
I blamed Aria.
"I'll wait in the car," I said.
"You could come inside. Aria wouldn't mind."
Not a chance in hell. "I'll wait in the car."
Evie shrugged, a new gesture, casual in a way she'd never been, and headed for the door. I watched her go. The ponytail bounced. The canvas bag slung over her shoulder, stuffed with papers and projects and whatever else she'd accumulated.
I stayed in the car and waited.
The engine was off, windows cracked to let in the late afternoon air.
Brooklyn in early June smelled like exhaust and hot pavement and something green—the trees, maybe, or the window boxes on the apartments above the bodega across the street.
A different world from the Upper East Side. Louder. Messier. More alive.
My phone buzzed against the console. I groaned. I knew who it was. I’d been putting off work over the past few weeks to follow Evie around. Margaret had warded off meetings and clients. I knew she wouldn’t be able to do that forever.
Reluctantly, I reached for my phone and answered. "Yes."
"The Sterling documents are ready for review. Legal has flagged three clauses that need revision before we can proceed."
"Which clauses?"
"The succession provision, the employee retention guarantee, and the requirement to maintain the hotel’s exclusivity."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. David Sterling was proving to be a difficult negotiator.
Eighty-three years old and sharper than men half his age.
He didn't want to just sell his hotel, he wanted to ensure its legacy.
Every meeting, every document, every conversation circled back to the same questions: What would happen to his staff?
Would the traditions be maintained? Would the new owners understand what the Sterling hotel meant to him and his family?
Sentimental concerns. It just complicated what was supposed to be a clean acquisition.
"Send me the flagged sections," I said. "I'll review them tonight."
"Also, Richard called about the Chicago zoning issue. He needs a decision by the end of business tomorrow."
"Tell him I'll call him in the morning."
"And your mother called. Twice. She wants to confirm you're attending your grandmother's birthday dinner on the twenty-third."
The twenty-third. Six days away. I'd been avoiding thinking about it.
"Tell her I'll be there."
"She also asked about Evie. Whether she'll be attending."
I looked through the windshield at the foundation's glass doors. Inside, I could see movement—volunteers crossing the main room, someone arranging flowers on the reception desk. No sign of Evie. No sign of Aria.
"I'll discuss it with Evie and let her know. Anything else?"
"Lono Kalahale’s representative just got back to us.”
My interest spiked. The Kalahale Grande. The old man had been extremely elusive, dodging my calls, ignoring my emails. “So? Are we moving forward with the contract?”
“No. He’s insisting you meet in person. In the hotel.”
Damn it. “I’ll deal with that when I get back.”
I hung up. Set the phone on the passenger seat.
Everyone was being difficult this month.
Evie, David Sterling, Lono Kalahale, and especially Aria Kealoha.
I blamed all the present chaos in my life on her.
If she hadn’t mentioned this volunteer position to Evie, then she’d be at her violin lesson, and I’d be at work as I should be.
Then there was the bloody dinner.
My grandmother would hold court at the head of the table, dispensing judgments disguised as observations.
My mother would hover, smoothing over tensions before they could surface.
Xavier would arrive late and leave early, charming everyone in between.
Isabelle would be there too, flying in from London, and she'd spend the evening deflecting questions about when she planned to settle down and produce heirs.
And I would sit at my designated place, wearing the appropriate suit, giving the appropriate answers, being the appropriate son.
My phone buzzed again. A text this time.
Grandma Dubois
Sebastian. I trust you haven't forgotten about Thursday. Your grandfather's watch needs to be worn. It's been sitting in that safe too long.
My grandfather's watch. A Patek Philippe from 1962. She'd given it to me after the funeral, along with the expectation that I would be the man he'd been. The man my father had failed to be, in her eyes.
Sebastian
haven't forgotten. I'll wear it.
Her response came immediately.
Sebastian
Good. And bring Evangeline. She needs to spend more time with family. Not strangers.
Strangers. She meant the foundation. She meant Aria.
My grandmother had opinions about everything, and she shared them freely.
She'd already made her feelings known about Evie's ‘volunteer work’: a raised eyebrow here, a pointed comment there about how charitable endeavors were fine for adults but children needed structure, discipline, proper influences.
I hadn't argued with her. I never argued with her. But I hadn't pulled Evie from the foundation, either.
I set the phone down without responding.
Through the windshield, I watched a woman push a stroller past the foundation's entrance. A man on a bicycle wove through traffic, narrowly missing a delivery truck. Two teenagers sat on the steps of the building next door, sharing a bag of chips, laughing at something on one of their phones.
Ordinary life. Going on all around me.
My phone rang. Not Margaret this time. Richard, calling directly.
"I told Margaret I'd call you in the morning."
"I know. But there's a development." Richard's voice was tight. "The zoning board moved up their timeline. We need an answer by six p.m. today or we lose the variance."
I checked my watch. 3:52. I could make it. "What are our options?"
"We accept their conditions and proceed with the modified plan, or we walk away and start the process over. Starting over means six months minimum, probably closer to nine."
Nine months. The Chicago project was supposed to break ground in August. Nine months of delays meant missing the spring tourism season, meant cost overruns, meant explaining to the board why a sure thing had become a question mark.
"What are their conditions?"
"Reduced height on the east tower. Fifteen percent more green space. Contribution to the community development fund."
"How much of a contribution?"
"Two million."
I did the math. The reduced height would cost us twelve units on the top three floors.
At projected sale prices, that was roughly eighteen million in lost revenue.
The green space requirement would eat into the retail footprint, another three million.
The community contribution was negligible by comparison.
I made a decision. "Counter with ten percent green space and one-point-five on the contribution. Tell them we'll accept the height reduction."
"That's a significant concession on the height."
"The height was always negotiable. The retail footage isn't." I watched a pigeon land on the roof of the car in front of me, pecking at something invisible. "Make the call, Richard. Get it done."
"Understood."
He hung up. I sat in silence.
3:56.
The foundation doors opened, and Evie emerged, arms full of poster boards. She was talking to someone behind her, who I recognized as Priya. She’d made sure to introduce herself the first time I dropped Evie off. The woman was laughing at something Evie had said. My daughter, making people laugh.
She spotted the car and waved. I raised my hand in response. She said something else to Priya, who nodded and went back inside. Then Evie headed toward me, her face flushed, her eyes bright.
She was happy. Genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy. When was the last time I'd been able to give her that?
She opened the back door, dumped the poster boards, and jumped into the passenger seat beside me, but not before passing my phone to me. "Sorry, we ran late. There was a thing with the banner for the health fair and Aria needed help…"
"It's fine."
"...and then Maria showed up, the woman I told you about? The one whose cancer they caught early? She brought cookies for everyone and she cried when she thanked Aria and it was amazing, Dad, you should have seen it…"
"Seatbelt."
She clicked it into place without pausing. "Aria says Maria's prognosis is really good. Like a ninety-something percent survival rate because they found it so early. Ninety-something percent, Dad. Because of the foundation. Because of the work we're doing."
We. There it was again.
"That's good news." I pulled out of the lot.
"Good news? It's incredible news. We literally saved her life."
"The doctors saved her life. The foundation provided access to screening."
"Which she wouldn't have gotten otherwise. Same thing."
I merged into the Atlantic. The afternoon traffic was thick, sluggish. A cab cut in front of me, and I hit the brakes harder than necessary.
"Aria says…"
"What does Aria say?" It came out flatter than I'd intended.
Evie went quiet. I glanced at her for a second. She was watching me with that new look again. The one that saw too much.
"You do that a lot," she said.
"Do what?"
"Get weird when I mention her."
"I don't get weird."
"You get all stiff and sarcastic. Like right now. You think I don’t understand, but I do."