Page 23 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

“Thank you,” he whispered, hoarse and humbled. And now, alone, for the first time in months.

He’d held firmly to the belief he and he alone navigated this new landscape as a single father, but all along, he’d had people holding him up. Elizabeth. Connor. Irish Colleen. His staff at DMG.

He was wrong, when he said he didn’t need anyone.

Augustus fell asleep curled in a loose ball, his tears drenched through the knees of his bespoke trousers.

* * *

SUMMER 1976

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

VACHERIE, LOUISIANA

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

CHAPTER 6

There is Love

David Allemande sat across from Augustus wearing a look of complete disbelief.

“Apologies, sir, but I do need to hear you say it again. I don’t think I heard you right.”

“You heard me right,” Augustus said. He tapped his foot against the carpet. Today was the first in months he didn’t bring Anasofiya with him to the office, and to say he was anxious didn’t begin to describe the utter sense of dread that formed in his toes and permeated, through his veins, into every inch of his tired body. “I’m taking a sabbatical, David. My reasons are my own, but I expect it will last at least through this summer and into fall. Perhaps longer. I need someone I can trust implicitly to maintain my vision and direction while I’m gone.”

David’s eyes dropped to his hands, then to the desk, the corner, as he processed this. Augustus could imagine what he was thinking. Augustus Deschanel, the consummate control freak, overachiever, who never turned himself off. Who worked into the evening, sometimes letting night bridge to morning. David wasn’t even one of the first employees, who’d seen Deschanel Media Group, and Deschanel Magazine—as well as two new magazines, launching in the fall—first hit the local grocery shelves and then take off so quickly that it was now in circulation in all fifty states, as well as three Canadian provinces.

But David Allemande lacked a critical attribute, one that Augustus, for the most part, also lacked: sentimentality. Those from the early days couldn’t help but think of the magazine with a fondness that had no place in business. Augustus was proud of all he’d built, but it was a product, no more, no less. Only when it came to his staff did he soften. For them, he would’ve taken a loss, to protect them from even a month where they struggled to pay bills.

David could be ruthless when needed, and wouldn’t hesitate to expand, where others would exercise caution. There were some who’d question his decision to leave the business in the hands of a man who’d been with the company under a year; others who’d take the choice as a slight. But Augustus didn’t elevate one to punish another. His decisions could be taken at face value.

“I don’t know what to say, sir.”

“No need to demur with me, David. You and I both know competence and tenure aren’t necessarily correlative. You see things the way I do. You, more than anyone, have understood the vision I have for DMG, and you won’t hesitate when needed, but also won’t jump farther than you should.”

“Sir.”

“My handoff to you, and back to me, should feel seamless to the rest of the employees.”

“Of course, sir.”

“You’ll also respect that when I come back, I’d like for things to be as they were. A simple, no-fuss resumption of leadership.”

David nodded. “No one would have it any other way.”

Augustus stood and rebuttoned his sport coat. “This business will belong to my daughter someday. I intend to leave her something bigger than both of us.”

David smiled, taking Augustus’ hand in a hearty shake. “In the meantime, sir, take your time with Ana. Everything will be just as you expect it when you return.”

“Better, I hope,” Augustus said, as he walked David out and kept walking, toward the elevators that would take him to the lobby, the street, and, around the corner in DMG’s private garage, to his car. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the constrictive clothing he once wore like a second skin; the itch of the Brooks Brothers wool was relentless, the heat trapped under his starched collar stifling him. The soft silk pajamas Elizabeth bought him for Christmas beckoned, his feet crying out for the moment he’d be rid of the cloying weight of his Johnston & Murphy Oxfords.

It was summer, but maybe he’d start a fire. Ana liked watching the flames dance, as he read to her from Dickens, or sometimes Tolstoy.

Chelsea promised discretion. When she first suggested Landry’s, Maureen balked. They both knew Maureen couldn’t be seen at such an establishment, with heathen dockworkers and hatchery men with no loyalty to the Deschanels, and no reason to keep their mouths closed. But Chelsea patiently explained that their lack of loyalty to the Deschanels meant they had little time for them, and most wouldn’t recognize one sitting across from them. Their wives, maybe, who read the gossip rags. But these men? They have no time for anything that doesn’t bring money into their house or fire in their belly. Besides, Maureen, they may not be from your world, but that doesn’t mean they don’t come from a world with honor.

Chelsea was better than this too, though she went to great pains to shrug off whatever fine reputation she possessed through being a Sullivan. She dressed like she was working at the bar under less reputable intentions and swore more than any man Maureen had ever known.

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