32. Scarlett #3
I don’t say anything right away as Morgan takes a sip of his drink. I wait. Because this is where things get hairy. And if I had to guess, it’s a very, very difficult subject for you.
“You know it was my birthday?” he asks.
“What was your birthday?”
“The day they died. The day the plane crashed,” he answers.
“Oh my God…”
“Yeah. They were flying back from a resort to see me. To take me to dinner. I told them it seemed a bit over the top, flying last minute to take me to dinner. But they insisted. At the time, they were in Maui and I was in San Diego, working at the Pacifica, actually. Learning the ropes. And they wanted to fly back just for dinner. They were so determined that they ignored the weather warnings and the plane crashed,” he says, staring into the bottom of his glass.
“Oh, Morgan, I am so sorry,” I tell him.
“I am too. But it was years ago,”
“That doesn’t make it any easier. And also, it’s not your fault,” I tell him. “Whether it was your birthday or not. It’s not your fault.”
“I know,” he says. “I used to blame myself, but I don’t anymore. Honestly, birthday or not, they used to show up all the time to see Conrad and me. It never required a special occasion. That’s just who they were.”
“Still,” I say.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I think that’s why I struggled for so long to visit the resorts. Every inch of them reminded me of my parents, and it just…was too much.”
“I’m sure.” I nod.
“It was easier to honor them by running the corporate part of things. And Conrad was always more of the travel guy anyways. So it worked. Until it didn’t,” he says. “He was always a bit careless with all of it. Didn’t pay attention to details. Treated it like a vacation.”
“You think maybe that was his coping mechanism?” I ask.
“I think Conrad doesn’t think about anyone but himself,” he says and there’s a bitterness in his voice, changing the tone of the conversation a little. “I think he’s just going to do whatever he wants without any regard for me or the company or what our parents would have said.”
“That’s a shame,” I tell him.
“It is,” he agrees. “But people don’t change.”
“I mean that your relationship with him is so strained. Do you think you’ll ever make up?” I ask, knowing full well that I am going out on a limb by even suggesting it.
“Considering the man is literally in the process of trying to take Bale Resorts from me? I’m going to have to play the safe card here and go with no,” he says, flagging the waitress down for another drink. “So what about you? What about your family?”
“Well. My parents are still alive. Still together. But they live completely separate lives, so that part of my life isn’t exactly romantic,” I tell him.
“Are they in love?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say, reaching for another crab leg. Now that the magnifying glass has shifted to hovering over me, I feel the need to distract myself. And food you have to excavate is a great way to do that.
“You answered that so quickly,” Morgan says.
“I know,” I tell him flippantly. “I don’t know if they were ever in love,”
“Ever?” he asks. “What makes you say that?”
“Just the way they talked and acted compared to couples that were obviously in love,” I answer.
“They were never intimate. If they kissed, it was only in passing and only on the cheek. Never on the lips. They didn’t hold hands, go on date nights, or cuddle on the couch.
My dad snored, so my mom slept in her office.
She had a daybed in there. And in family photos they always stood with my sister Claire and me between them. ”
Morgan thinks about that, studying me for a moment as if he is trying to understand. “So…how is it that you are the way you are?” he asks.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling the rush of heat in my cheeks at the focus on me.
“I mean, look at you. You are passionate about everything. Everything you touch, taste, see, feel. There isn’t an ounce of energy that you emit that isn’t romantic in some way. How is that your natural essence after growing up in a household like that?”
I bite my lip in thought and then shrug. “I guess because I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want my own framed photos on the fireplace mantel to look like they were still holding the photos that came with the frame.”
Morgan smiles at that. And as he reaches for another crab leg, it tells me he’s done with this conversation. And considering it’s my day off, I am completely fine with that.
The waiter comes back to our table and asks if we want another round of drinks, pointing out that our meal in its entirety is on the house.
But Morgan just shakes his head and leaves a very generous tip on the table. “No. I think we are ready to get out of here,” Morgan answers.
“In a few minutes the sun will be going down. There might be some festivities on the beach,” he says, but Morgan just stands and holds his hand out to me.
“I think we are going to pass on that, too,” he says. “The only thing I want right now is to be alone with my fiancée.”
And while I’m not sure if it’s for face or because people are mostly likely watching and listening in, something in my chest, in my heart, tells me that it’s a little deeper than that.