Page 50 of Upshot

Her enthusiasm warms my heart. I take the seat she pats with her hand. With our shoulders pushed against each other, I start scrolling through the pictures.

This is what I was trying to explain to Pete. That love isn’t just about good sex or social standing or business advantage. It’s about being happy in the small things.

Like Brontë’s excitement over an old building. It’s about the detailed pictures I took of the railings because I knew she would enjoy them. Love is just existing happily in the other person’s space.

eighteen

RAND

So, we are now the proud owners of an old school building in Denver. The city made us a deal we couldn’t pass up.

I wouldn’t have anyway. Brontë is too excited for me to pass it up. She spent most of the week discussing with Peter how best to renovate the space. I think he’s already agreed to go with the office space and retail shops idea. The information, including a copy of the original plans, Brontë found in the library has proved invaluable.

She glows now whenever we’re together. I convinced her last night to sign up for an art class next semester. All it took was a promise I’ll make time to watch the baby twice a week. Simple enough.

She sits, bent over Pete’s latest plans for the new office suite, in the kitchen. I offered to make room in my office for another desk, but she declined. She claimed I’m too big of a distraction. I can assure her there are a million ways I’d like to distract her.

“Sweetheart, don’t you need to get ready for the baby shower?” A group of friends in town are throwing her a shower at the community center.

Supposedly, a baby shower around here is a major event. The guest list went on for miles. Unlike most showers now, this one is still a women-only event. I’m good with that. I’ve been told I’ll see the remnants when I load out the gifts later.

“Balls!” she exclaims. Scrambling off one of the new barstools, she kisses me on the cheek. “I’ve got to go.” She snatches up her keys and rushes for her car.

Her clothes are still hanging in her closet at her parents’ house. She spends her time over here when she’s not at work. If it’s a late night, she stays over. But she still hasn’t moved in.

Somehow we stalled out around step seven of my plan. It’s somewhere between telling her you love her and moving her in. I should probably ask her. That might go a long way toward pushing past this step.

Or I could just show up some evening at her parent’s house with some boxes. A blind attack of sorts. It just depends on how much I value my own safety.

“Get some good shit,” I call, following her onto the porch. “It’s going to be years before this kid can pay his own way.”

She grins and gives me a wave as she pulls out of the driveway.

She’s given me such a hard time about spending too much money on new baby things that I finally told her I’ll keep a running total, and the baby can reimburse me someday. It’s ridiculous. I have plenty of money, and if she wants the fancy, ergonomically correct stroller, then that’s what she gets.

I return to my office to look over the specs on a new possibility in San Francisco that my father sent me. I think his goal is to buy California one building at a time. It’s nothing spectacular, just another warehouse.

There’s a knock at the front door. It’s odd since no one knocks around here. Standing, I cross to the door and pull it open.

“Sir?”

We were expected from an early age to refer to our father simply as sir. I can’t reconcile the fact that he’s now standing on my doorstep in the middle of nowhere. It’s like I conjured him by opening the file on San Francisco.

He’s in full-on business mode, wearing a suit even though it’s Saturday. I can tell by the look of disdain that he doesn’t approve of my jeans and T-shirt. Except for the apparel, Joseph Randolph looks just like me. At least, what I’ll look like in another thirty years.

“Have you not even retained enough couth to invite me inside?” I step back quickly to usher him inside the one place I’d hoped never to see him. He looks around the living room with a scowl. “Your mother and sister insisted on coming to this baby thing.” He spits out the last two words as if they leave a foul taste in his mouth.

“They came to the baby shower?” I stumble over my words. It never entered my mind when she asked for their addresses that they would actually come.

I debate warning Brontë before I realize she’s been at the shower long enough to find out already. What did my father find to do with himself until now? I shake my head. “Please make yourself comfortable. May I get you something to drink?”

“Do you have any Macallan?” he asks.

I shake my head. Because who keeps a seven thousand dollar bottle of whiskey on hand on the off chance your father visits?

“Of course not,” he mumbles. God forbid he drink a beer for once.

I watch as he stalks through my house in silence. I know he hates it without even having to look at the disgust on his face. It’s not fancy or stylish. My house is warm and welcoming. Just the way Brontë made it. It’s too happy a place for his taste. He prefers cold, austere, and intimidating.

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