Page 107 of Morally Black Betrothal
Maybe I could wait in the car.
“Brendan! Are you fucking coming?”
Shit. Too late.
Leaving once the old man started raging was not a wise idea. We’d all learned early to let him go on until he ran out of steam.
I grimaced as I turned around. “Dad.”
My father exited his study in the company of the nurse of the day, his new cane, and an oxygen tank. Owen and Ronan trailed after him like dogs as he made his way to the parlor, where he held court at family gatherings. Reluctantly, I joined them.
We all watched awkwardly as he settled into his favorite armchair. Only then did we take our own seats near the fire that was inexplicably roaring despite the balmy spring weather.
Dad liked the things the way he liked them, weather be damned.
“Get out, I said.” Dad batted the nurse away like she was a fly. “Do I look like I need to be mothered?”
“Sir, I’m supposed to take your vitals every hour, and?—”
“I don’t give a fuck about my vitals. I’m up, aren’t I? Breathing, talking, doing just fuckin’ fine. If I collapse, one of my sons will fetch you, so do us all a favor, Mary, and go watch soaps in your room or whatever the fuck you do in there all day.”
Sniffing back tears, the nurse fled.
“He’s been calling all the nurses Mary,” Rowan said beside me on the Chesterfield couch. “I think this one’s name is Ethel. Or maybe Edna.”
“It’s Elena,” Owen corrected him. “She just told you that ten minutes ago.”
“It’s whatever the fuck I want it to be for what I’m paying her,” Dad snapped.
Jenkins reappeared to pour everyone their favorite drinks: an old-fashioned for Ronan, vodka soda for Owen, and scotch neat for me. Just like my old man.
For the first time, the idea of being just like him didn’t quite appeal to me.
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” I asked, taking my drink from Jenkins.
“Why?” Dad barked. “I’m fine. I feel great. Better than ever. Jenkins, where’s my drink?”
“He says with a tube up his nose,” Ronan remarked. “Did you want to snort it, Dad?”
“Sir. The doctors said no alcohol for another two to three weeks, at minimum.”
“What the fuck do they know?” he barked, the vein in his forehead pulsing. “How’s a man supposed to get through anything, much less run his business, without a bit of whiskey?”
“We’ve got the business covered,” Owen put in. “Haven’t you heard that Brendan’s doing a bang-up job selling off company assets?”
“That’s right,” Ronan chimed in. “Big bro’s selling everything left and right. Blackguard’s keeping afloat like a raft of Venezuelan refugees, Pop.”
I glared at my brothers, a silent command to keep their mouths shut. I knew Owen wasn’t happy with the plans around his real estate projects, but honestly, we didn’t need to encourage another heart attack. Things would settle down, and everyone would adjust to the changes I’d made. Bringing them up now, in front of our father, wouldn’t serve any of us well.
They kept silent. And Dad, thankfully, didn’t take the bait.
“I’m waiting for the quarterly reports from Liza, but she’s dragging her damn feet. What’s going on with that?” Dad pushed up from his chair and yanked the oxygen tube from his nose so he could start his customary pacing in front of the fire.
With his cane, it was more like a slow, tottering shuffle. Honestly, he was liable to fall into the flames if he wasn’t careful.
He didn’t seem to care that he looked less like a titan of industry and more like a crazy old man. The nurse hadn’t even helped him dress for dinner—he wore a comfortable sweatsuit, his knotty feet shoved into a pair of sheepskin slippers. Nice things, of course. Everything my father owned was nice. But it was the first time in my life I’d seen him in anything other than a suit and tie since we left Southie.
“Jesus, Dad, sit down before you pass out,” I said.
