Page 96 of All Twerk, No Play

“At first I thought you were Colonel Sanders,” Eric joked, much to my mortification.

“I always thought I looked more like the popcorn guy,” Richard said with a throaty chuckle, then added softly, “The only band I wanted to see and never did was Fleetwood Mac. They were Patricia’s favorite, and after she …”

Eric’s voice was soft. “When did she pass?”

“1976,” Richard and I whispered in unison. I blinked rapidly, forcing the tears back. Eric reached over, his hand a reassuring weight on my knee.

Richard’s lips curved into a wry smile, eyes narrowing at me. "Have we met?"

I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “You loved her?” I asked. “You said once you couldn’t afford the luxury of falling in love. Do you still think that’s true?”

Eric shifted, manspreading wider so his thigh pressed into mine. Richard’s fingers curled on the arm of his chair.

“Love,” he said slowly, as if tasting the word. “It complicates things.” I frowned, disappointed by his non-answer.

“You tell yourself there will be time later,” Richard murmured, his hands trembling faintly in his lap. “And one day you wake up, and there’s a party on your lawn for a life you don’t remember living.”

“You still have time.”

“Not as much as I used to," he said, his gaze tracking back out the window, brows lifting. "What's going on out there?"

"Your birthday party," Eric answered, and Richard's brow furrowed in. "You're turning 80. Apparently the governor is coming."

"What a useless blowhard. These parties are the worst," Richard sighed, then startled at the sound of my laughter. When I nodded in agreement, his expression lightened. "You agree?"

"I've always hated these parties," I admitted without thinking it through, "but you made me come."

His smile faded, and he blinked a few times, but it seemed like he was looking through me, like maybe he could see into the past.

Then his eyes sharpened. "Are you living in Chelsea now?" he asked, his voice urgent. "The house Regina loved?"

My lips parted, but I didn't know what to say. Eric placed his hand on my knee and answered, "No, we live upstate. Saratoga Springs."

"Beautiful city," Richard said softly. "Patricia loved the racetrack, wanted to buy a home there, and I should have …" He removed his glasses, pressing his fingers to his eyes. When he replaced them, his eyes were moist.

The stillness hovered between us as outside the window, the event planners placed elaborate floral arrangements and a string quartet began tuning their instruments, their warm-ups resonating to calm the churning in my stomach.

Eric broke the silence with a question I was too scared to ask. “Would you change anything, Mr. Sinclair?”

Richard was quiet for so long, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Still studying my face, Richard’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I had a granddaughter. She was bright—brilliant, really. The best of all of us. But I expected perfection. To fill the void her mother left before she was ready. And in the end, I think I just made her hate me.”

“I don’t think she hates you.” I bit my lip. “I think she just wanted to know she was enough.”

A spark passed through his eyes before it faded. He reached out a trembling hand, and I took it.

“If you see her,” Richard said softly, “tell her I’m sorry. And I hope I made it up to her, in the end. That she got everything she wanted.”

***

Thelibrarydooropenedwith a sharp crack. My father entered, his steel-gray eyes dissecting the scene: my fingers angled with Richard’s, Eric’s broad arm resting behind me. When I flinched, Richard’s fingers tightened before I pulled away.

“Arthur,” Richard said with a hopeful smile. “Do you have those reports for me?”

“I’ll have them on your desk by Monday,” Dad said with measured patience, still watching me.

Richard’s smile faded. “I’m still the majority shareholder. Should we head into the office?"

“It’s Saturday,” Dad said.

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