Page 41 of Phillip

“Ha.” Mr. Paget chuckled. “I never took you for an early bird.”

Phillip eased back in the teak wood chair overlooking the beach, wondering what had changed the man’s surly demeanor. But he let it go. With the morning sun risen and casting a beautiful glow of orange and red across the water, he didn’t have time or interest in fueling their drama. The lapping water at the foot of a beautiful sunrise always gave Phillip a sense of calm. “I try to start each day by four thirty.”

“Likewise. Did you know that about your father?”

Phillip’s breath caught, but he quickly recovered. “No.” But the words sounded more like a question than an answer.

Mr. Paget sighed. “What a good man, your father.”

A boulder lodged in his throat. He licked his bottom lip and breathed through the unexpected turn in conversation. “Did you know him?”

“Not well, but well enough. I knew that he was someone that could be caught at the office before anyone else so that he could always be the first one home.”

The boulder in his throat seared like it had become molten hot. Phillip closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. So many years had passed, and he still hurt. The guilt still weighed heavily on his shoulders. But it was Mr. Paget’s mention of his father being the first one home that caused Phillip to drift decades back. He recalled how his father had never joined them for breakfast. He also remembered that Dad was home every afternoon that he wasn’t traveling, ready to play ball after school or push him about homework. Phillip had been too young to note or care why his father was home or wasn’t.

Actually, his father being home was a point of contention with Phillip when so many of his friends had parents who’d left them in the charge of nannies and staff. But his father had been there, preaching about hard work and homework, explaining that school was Phillip’s job and that struggles would lead him to success.

Every lecture had crawled under his skin, but suddenly, the picture became clear. His father had wanted to spend time with them at home. He’d worked early. He’d come home early. His guiding, pushing, teaching, encouraging…

The molten-lava boulder in Phillip’s throat thickened, and he ran his bare feet along the decking underneath the table, clearing his throat. “I guess that’s something that we all have in common,” he finally said.

“It’s not a bad habit to have,” Mr. Paget said, seemingly missing the struggle that Phillip was having with the conversation. “Now, about a car to donate.”

Phillip took a slow breath. He wasn’t one to cross his fingers for luck or pray for an answer that best suited his needs, but a thick ribbon of hope tied into his chest. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll let you have one. What do you say about a ’55 Mercedes-Benz 300CL Gullwing?”

Whoa!Shock jumped through Phillip’s muscles. At the same time, his subconscious warned him not to get excited just yet. He felt a condition lingering close by. “That’s fantastic news. Ashley will be thrilled. Thank you, sir.”

“But…”

Ah, Phillip’s subconscious was right. There was a condition, and those were never good.

“I’d like my son, Sean, to take part in the process.”

Phillip waited for another condition, but it didn’t come. That was it? Working with Sean Paget? “Of course. That won’t be a problem.”

“He’s not interested in cars, but his interest in philanthropic efforts has grown. This would be a great opportunity for him to see the executive side of charity.”

Whatever that means.“Sure,” Phillip agreed.

“You can have the car if you loop him into meetings, contractor negotiations, and whatnot. I’d guess there’s more nuance with charity negotiation than with the way corporations do business.”

Phillip disagreed, but he wasn’t going to share that he thought not all corporations were vicious and cutthroat. The Blackthorne empire had grown the whisky business to what it was today because of family, partnership, and trust. They didn’t rely on fine print and unscrupulous terms and conditions. They had a strong brand, good values, and excellent recipes. No one could compete with their process. But it wouldn’t do any good to explain that to Mr. Paget. “It’s a different world.”

“I’d say you two should hit the links to meet, but…” Mr. Paget chuckled.

Phillip managed to muster something close to laughter. “I’ll get a hold of him, and we’ll work something out.”

They ended the call, and Phillip jumped out of his chair, pumping a fist in the air. Then he closed his laptop for the day and grabbed his phone, heading for the beach. As soon as his feet hit the cool morning sand, he called Ashley. She answered on the third ring with a sweet, sleepy “good morning.”

“We got a car from Paget,” he said. “Not just any car. A ’55 Mercedes-Benz 300CL Gullwing.”

“Wait.” Her slumberous softness vanished. “Are you serious? Is that the one with the doors that open from the roof?”

“You better believe it, beautiful.”

“Oh my! I was sure that he wouldn’t agree. Never mind. I just can’t believe it!”

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