Page 26 of The Betrayer
Chapter 11
Paul
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THE AFTERNOON SUNSHINEcoming through the towering picture windows of my office was bright, the autumn sky intensely blue. From my high vantage point, the city spread out in front of me, the skyscrapers almost seeming to touch the white clouds floating by. The streets were busy below, and I could see Central Park from the corner of one window, the forest of trees taking on their first bright hues of brilliant reds, golds, and oranges.
It occurred to me that I could take a walk, get some fresh air and a coffee, get out of the office and exercise. But I couldn’t quite make myself take that first step toward the door. In the back of my brain, I didn’t want to leave in case my father showed up, and we could finish our conversation—or argument. He hadn’t answered a single one of my texts since last night.
Instead, I sat back in my chair, the blank email field and blinking cursor staring back at me.
I was supposed to take the weekend off, a couple of days to bask in the glory of the fundraiser gala and the knowledge that our company, our corporation, had truly arrived. Angela and I had toyed with driving upstate and taking in the leaves, something we rarely did because work took up too much time.
Instead, I’d been here before dawn, catching up on work and generally fuming. Angela seemed slightly disappointed when I had called off our plans but not quite as upset as I had imagined she would be. With my fight with my father still ringing in my head, there was no way I would be able to enjoy myself.
My father and I had never fought like the previous night—ever. But more than the fight, my father’s complete inability to grasp what I was telling him made my blood boil.
I wasn’t sure what I had expected from the man. I’d grown up with him, as much as I could have when he was often absent for business. We had spent enough time together in my thirty-two years, however, that I should have known finally sharing my feelings wouldn’t get us anywhere.
Did I regret saying them in the way I had? Sure. Anger was never the best way to get your point across. Both parties usually ended up defensive and unable to hear each other. I had a feeling that no matter how I could have approached my father, he would have reacted the same way.
My father knew one reality and one truth—his. When I looked at the problem dispassionately, I supposed it made sense. There were very few ways to build a successful business that didn’t involve bulling your way to the top, remaining on your path with an obsessive focus, and ensuring everyone saw things your way, not the other way around. Those were three things my father excelled at because that was essentially who he was.
The problem was that his way of running his business extended into his private life as well. There was no split between who he was in the board room and who he was at home. It had been the downfall of his marriage, and it looked like it might be the downfall of our relationship, too. I wasn’t sure we would split on as amicable terms as my parents had.
I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.
Every time I thought about everything that had come pouring out the previous night, I felt faint surprise. I had held those feelings in for years, for decades. It had taken me a long time to realize my feelings were normal and the way my father had parented me was not.
It had, in fact, taken going home with friends over the holidays to see how fathers are supposed to act with their children. It was an understatement to say I was shocked at the level of visible affection between my friends and their fathers, the stories of time spent on vacations or cheering lacrosse or football games, of the pictures of the family together, visibly happy. It was impossible not to know this was a thing—even if I’d only really seen it in movies, TV, or books—but to truly witness it was to realize the way I’d grown up wasn’t usual. To understand what my father had shown me hadn’t been love but tolerance.
I was that proverbial kid on a stoop, waiting for a father to come to pick him up but had never shown. And when he finally had, it hadn’t been because he wanted to be there for me. It had been because my father wanted something from me.
I had never once said anything to him. I wasn’t sure whether I was naïve or delusional, but I had always believed that somewhere, deep down, I would find the father I always wanted. Last night showed me how unrealistic my conviction was.
There was no hope for my father, no hope I could find someone who truly cared, who wanted to be there for me of his own volition and out of his love for me. The only thing my father cared about was the company and himself.
And it looked like the company was falling off his radar, too, with how erratic his behavior had been lately. A tiny part of me even believed I should force the man to go to a doctor, but deep down, I knew it had nothing to do with this mental state. He was healthy, physically and mentally. William Finlay was just sinking deeper into who he was the older he got. I didn’t want to think about what he would be like in his eighties if things continued the way they were.
It was just luck I didn’t have a string of siblings decades younger than me, all scrabbling for a position in the company.
At least my father’s antics at the gala hadn’t seemed to do any lasting harm to the company. Not in the short term, anyway. After my announcement that we were buying out INT, our stocks had gone through the roof, just as I had predicted. The shareholders and board all seemed entirely happy with the event, our prospects, and even with me. The museum had already sent an enormous thank-you basket for one of the most successful fundraising auctions they had ever hosted.
I should have been over the moon with my victory. Instead, I was holed up in my office, angry at the world.
“Paul?”
The sudden intrusion into my thoughts startled me. I looked up to find Angela in the doorway of my office, her head tilted in a question.
“Oh, hey.”
My heart should have leaped to see her, but it didn’t. Instead, I had a fervent wish to be alone. I swallowed it and stood up to give her a small kiss.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just checking on you.”
Angela crossed the room to put her purse onto the leather sofa, then slipped off her coat and laid it beside the bag. She wore tight workout pants and a pullover that showed her every curve, and my eyes followed her as she moved across the room to look out the window.
