Franklin continued. “If you’re going to have power and wealth, Charles, you have to have a strategy and—”
His sentence was cut short by the shrill sound of his cell phone, muffled by the material on the front pocket of the vest he wore. He slid it out. Charles marveled that it was nothing more than a flip phone. It didn’t appear he could do anything with it except take a phone call.
Franklin slipped his reading glasses on and looked at the number. “I need to take this.”
“Sure.”
Charles noticed that Franklin’s face lit up as he answered the phone. Charles imagined that he was anticipating good news from a business partner or his accountant or someone else important. At least he hoped it was good news. Franklin seemed oddly temperamental, and Charles wanted to make sure he caught him on the upswing.
“Gregory. Hello.” Franklin’s tone was formal, but his eyes danced with excitement. “I’m so glad you called.” And with that, Franklin Hollingsworth grinned wide enough to show silver caps on the teeth behind the incisors, the goofy kind of grin that a small kid might give when he caught a frog or got the BB gun he’d been wanting for Christmas. “We were just talking . . . Really?”
Charles tried not to stare, occupying his time gazing around at all the objects in the office. He noticed a red kite in the far corner, near some bookshelves. It looked delicate, hardly sturdy enough to endure a strong wind. He smiled, remembering the time his dad had taken him to the lake to fly his kite. The first gust of wind tore it out of Charles’s small hands. It crashed a hundred yards away. Charles had burst into tears, but his dad was one step ahead of him. He’d brought an extra, just in case.
“. . . Yes, that sounds like a good opportunity. . . . Oh, sure . . . You should do that. . . .”
Do what? Charles couldn’t help but wonder what kind of big deal was going on behind that desk, that he was bearing witness to.
“Absolutely. We’ll send you the money right away. Listen, your mother and I were thinking that maybe you could come home for a week or—”
Charles looked up. He was talking to his son?
“I see. Maybe later in the month. We could go to the beach house. We’d love to see the kids. . . . Yes. Of course, I know you’re busy. . . . Right . . . Maybe some other time then. . . .”
Franklin slumped toward his desk, the light in his eyes snuffed out by disappointment. The edges of his mouth turned down though he kept his tone the same. “Good, good . . . Yes, I’ll send you the money right away. You tell Kara and Ricky that Grandpa said—”
Charles tried to glance away as Franklin slid the phone back into his pocket even as he seemed to slide away himself, somewhere distant and dark. Charles cleared his throat, unsure what to do. Franklin, again, seemed to forget Charles was even sitting there. He was staring across the room at a thought that Charles was not privy to.
“Are you all right, sir?” Charles asked after the silence strung on.
Franklin nodded vaguely.
“Would you like some time alone?” Charles pitched his thumb toward the door, offering to leave him to his thoughts.
But Franklin shook his head.
Charles waited for a moment, hoping they could pick up where they’d left off. But Franklin didn’t speak and Charles was hardly breathing.
Finally Charles spoke up. “You were saying? I need to have a strategy?”
Franklin only stared, his old fingers threaded through one another, his chin dimpled with prickly sadness.
“Mr. Hollingsworth?”
Franklin looked up.
“You were talking about my having a strategy.”
Franklin let out a long sigh, the kind that makes you feel like someone is releasing part of his soul. He stood, shakier than before. Charles noticed age spots dotting his temple and one cheek. The skin underneath his chin hung loosely, as if his head had shrunk bit by bit over the years.
“The nanny,” he said, walking to the window to look out, “taught my son how to tie his shoes.”
“Okay.” Charles bit his lip. Maybe this was a test. He tried to stay alert and on task.
“That’s sad, isn’t it? That he didn’t learn from me?”
“Is this . . . related to the strategy thing?”
“The what?”
“My business strategy.”
Franklin turned from the window, shrugging one shoulder. “Business strategies are easy.”
Excited they were back to talking business, Charles pulled his mini recorder out of his front pocket and hit the button. He was about to get some really great gems. He knew it.
“You know what’s hard?”
“What, sir?”
“Being a father.”
Charles felt his own sigh slip out. “Sir?”
“When you’re rising high in the ranks, making more money than you can possibly spend, it’s easy to leave your family behind.”
“That’s so true,” Charles said and quietly hit the Stop button on his recorder. Getting to the point was going to take longer than he thought. He wondered what Helen was doing upstairs. “Really great advice,” he said, “but I’m wondering if you could talk to me about—”
Franklin raised his hand, waved it with sharp irritation toward random objects around his office. A glass globe. An ivory statue. Pictures hanging on the wall. Charles looked closely. Was that Franklin with George Bush? And Bill Clinton? Near the end of the bookshelf there looked to be an actual bar of gold.
“Your kids,” Franklin said, his lips a stiff line across his face, “are far more important than any of this. I figured that out too late. My son is almost thirty years old and I never once took him fishing. Or played chess with him.” He looked toward a small table with two chairs that sat near the library side of the office. Charles noticed that the chessboard on the table appeared to be made totally from ivory. “I ignored him. And now I see my grandchildren twice a year. If I’m lucky.”
Charles gripped the arms of the leather wingback in which he sat. He then tried to fold his hands in his lap, but everything felt awkward.
Franklin moved to the side of his desk, where a fishing pole leaned into a corner covered by shadows. “When your child is born, eighteen years seems like they’ll last forever. But it goes by in a blink.” His knobby finger traced the fishing line. “You have just eighteen summers to make memories together. You can’t go back and rewind those days.”
Charles nodded. And nodded again. He tried to nod at every point Hollingsworth made. By the time he prompted Charles to leave by going to the office door and opening it, Charles realized they had not talked business strategy at all. He remained polite, shaking hands with the man and thanking him for his time, but inside, he roiled with disappointment. Once they left the estate, he felt like he was leaving every opportunity behind.
Helen turned to him in the car with a pleasant smile. “Kristyn showed me the house. Gorgeous, honey. Absolutely gorgeous. Did you see the cathedral ceilings? And that winding staircase you liked when we arrived? There’s an exact duplicate on the other side of the house! . . . Honey?”
Charles glanced at her. “I’m sorry. What?”
“It’s okay,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “You’re distracted. Easy to become distracted around that kind of wealth.”
Charles nodded and they drove home in silence.
CHAPTER 21
BETH
“SO,” DR. REYNOLDS SAID, looking up and down his notepad as Beth finally took a breath from her description of yesterday morning. “Does Chernobyl represent the eggs? Or your heart? I’m still unclear on that.”
“I think I was going for a general meltdown analogy.” Beth sniffled even though she wasn’t crying.
“I see.” He clearly didn’t. His twisted lips were practically wearing a question mark.
“I’m trying to live in the moment, like you said, but the moments are whizzing by, one after another, and I can’t even grab them. This morning Chip and Nathan ran out of the house on t
heir way to get kite supplies. They’re building a kite with Larry, who has practically become a folk hero for taking three weeks off work. They’re having so much fun, and I’m glad. But I can’t build a kite. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. Larry was going to launch the Summer of Intense Fun, and I was going to teach Robin domestic skills while talking her out of this marriage. That was the plan. The problem is, Robin doesn’t have time to talk or cook. She’s planning this wedding . . . without me.”
Beth was equipped with a handkerchief today instead of a tissue. Tears were coming now and she dabbed her face, eyeing the wall of mugs. What would her mug say, if she brought one?
She focused her attention back to Dr. Reynolds. “They run out the door so fast. I tell them to be careful, always used to stop them and pray right there on the spot that they’d be safe, that they’d make good decisions. But is that enough?”
“Well, Beth, you know of course that there are no guarantees. You do what you can to equip them for what’s out there.”
“That’s my whole point. I don’t think I have done that. I thought I had years and now, suddenly, two of my kids are . . .” She pressed the handkerchief to her mouth even though there were no words to hold in.
“What did you pray for?”
“Well . . . I prayed for them to have the wisdom of God and the heart of Jesus and the feet of Paul and the hands of Samson and the blessing of . . . knowing they are loved and forgiven and free. I prayed they would find purpose and be kind, gracious, giving, extraordinary people.”
“Those are beautiful things to pray over your children. You know,” he said, setting down his tablet, “my mom told me when my first son was born that I would now have two clinging closely to me: my child and a new companion named Guilt.”
Beth nodded. “Yes, yes. I feel so guilty. I wish someone would’ve told me to stop focusing on what didn’t matter.”
“Your prayers mattered. Very much. What didn’t matter, do you think?”
“Whether their shirts were pressed. Whether their hair was fixed. Whether they were eating enough carrots. Whether they . . .” She broke down. “I don’t know. It all seemed so important then, and now I just want to . . . to . . .”
“Keep them forever?”
“I know I can’t.”
“The hardest thing to realize is that from the day they are born, you’re training them up to leave you.”
Beth stared at Dr. Reynolds, pondering his words. It was so true, but she’d never thought of it that way.
“You train them to feed themselves. To clothe themselves. To spend and save money. To work hard. To have character. And then it’s time for them to leave the nest.”
“I thought I’d be ready.”
“Maybe your apprehension about Robin has nothing to do with omelets. Maybe it has to do with Marvin.”
“Marvin is the omelet?”
“You believe that Robin’s lack of kitchen skills is equated with her lack of judgment in a spouse.”
“She can’t cook; therefore she can’t mate. . . .” Beth wasn’t sure she’d even said that out loud. She mindlessly dabbed her eyes. “Yes. Possibly. But how will she listen to me now? She’s a grown woman. She’ll just think I’m meddling in her business.”
Dr. Reynolds took off his glasses. “You are.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Beth, you seem like a good mom. You’ve poured a lot of your life into your children. Eighteen-plus years with Robin and Nathan. Maybe you should trust that you’ve done enough.”
“How could I possibly have done enough? There’s not a lifetime long enough to learn how to live in this world.”
“You say you’re a praying woman. If you can’t have faith in yourself, there is Someone you can have faith in.”
“But didn’t God entrust them to my care? He put me in charge of them.” Beth looked down. “I’m trying to get a grip. I really am.”
Dr. Reynolds leaned forward. “I’ve been doing this a long time. And do you know that almost everyone I see is dealing with the exact same thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Regret.”
Beth fell into the cushion behind her, resting her entire body and the burdens it carried inside on a single paisley pillow that didn’t seem up to the task.
“And as you well know by now, time goes by faster the older you get.”
“Isn’t this the place where you give me some sort of encouragement?”
Dr. Reynolds gently smiled. “You’ve done all you can, Beth. It’s time to let go.”
“No! That’s not . . . No, that’s not true!”
“She’s a grown woman. If she wants to learn to make an omelet, she’ll watch a cooking show. If she wants to marry this Marvin fellow—”
“But I’m supposed to teach her that!” Beth meant to lightly tap herself, but instead her fist hit her chest as though a Tarzan howl might follow. “My mother taught me! Her mother taught her! It’s just that I married a good man, and I assumed I had passed that natural talent along in my gene pool. I didn’t realize I needed to teach her that. During the summers, when I insisted she enroll in the library program and make the top-ten list by reading a hundred books, I should’ve been taking her to the park and telling her to stay away from pizza delivery boys. That’s it, isn’t it? I wasted time, and now it’s gone.”
“I don’t think it’s as wasted as you think it is. But, Beth, I want to encourage you to continue trying to live in the moment. You can’t force the moments. Just enjoy them. Remember how you used to delight in Robin? When she was little, weren’t you mesmerized by every small thing? A smile. A wave. Why not be mesmerized now?”
Beth felt incredulous. “By what? The pepperoni smell that has replaced the baby powder smell?” She stood, not even meaning to. “I’m paying you for this? For you to tell me I’m suffering from regret and that I should be happy my daughter is marrying Marvin Hood, the pizza delivery boy? What if it was your kid? Would you be mesmerized by it?”
“Okay, Beth. Calm down.”
“If I could calm down, Dr. Reynolds, I wouldn’t be here!” She grabbed her purse off the couch. “I’m sorry. I have an appointment to get to.”
“Just sit for a moment. Get yourself to—”
“Together? That’s the problem. I’m not together. I never was together.” She swept hair out of her face only to realize there was no hair in her face. What was tickling her nose, apparently, was rage. Or guilt. “Have a good day.”
CHAPTER 22
BUTCH
BUTCH SAT ON a small retaining wall, mindlessly eating a bologna sandwich while looking over the schematics of the house. Next to him Ava sat eating her own sandwich, the big yellow construction hat he insisted she wear falling right above her eyes. She pushed it up with her forearm. She’d forgiven him for the fried chicken incident in exchange for letting her skip her first day of day care.
“Hey, thanks for making me lunch today,” Butch said to her.
She beamed. “You’re welcome. I should make you lunch every day. You shouldn’t have to go to work without lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that. I should make my own lunch. Sometimes I just get a little lazy and forget.”
“You never forget my lunch.”
Butch smiled and looked down. That wasn’t true, really. He’d forgotten a handful of times right after Jenny died, but Beth and Daphne and a few others had come alongside to help and taken a lunch to the school. But mostly he’d remembered. Maybe he was doing a little more right than he thought. But how could he take pride in small things like lunch? He should be doing far better than that.
“This sandwich is really good,” he said to her, and it really was.
“Thanks! I put mayo on both slices of bread and used one and a half slices of cheese to make sure the bread was fully covered. I think I’m going to write Kraft and ask them why they don’t make their cheese the same size as a piece of bread.”
“Good idea.”
> “Hey, Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I try the nail gun?”
“No.”
“How about the table saw?”
“Absolutely not.” Butch was back to looking at the schematics, trying to find out if they were indeed short a shipment of two-by-fours as Tippy claimed.
“What are those guys doing?”
“What guys?”
“Them.”
Butch looked to where Ava was pointing. “My guys?” he asked. “Those are the guys that work for me.”
“I know. But what are they doing?”
Butch squinted, pulling his hat down closer to his eyes to shield them from the sun. As far as he could tell, not much more than eating lunch together under a tree on the other side of the property. “They’re on their lunch break.”
“How come you’re not eating with them?”
“I’m their boss. Nobody wants to eat with their boss.”
“Why not?”
Butch wiped his wrist across his forehead, bumping his hat back up. “Well, it’s just understood. They’re not my friends. They’re my employees.”
“Tippy’s your friend.”
“True. But he’s my foreman. He’s kind of a boss too.”
“But he’s eating with them.”
Butch sighed, glancing toward the tree, where Tippy was telling some funny story. He looked at Ava. “Go play with the nail gun.”
“Yay!”
“I’m kidding.”
“I know,” she said, giving him a smile over her shoulder as she ran off.
Butch hurried to finish his sandwich. He didn’t really have time for a lunch break. His crew was required to take one, but he usually had fifteen hours of work to cram into each workday. He threw away his trash and walked up to the house. He loved the smell of pine and the way the wind blew through the frame of a house before the walls were up. He stepped across the concrete, dusty but still looking fresh and new.
He’d always promised Jenny that one day they’d build their dream house. She’d accumulated an entire binder full of ideas, from decor to floor plans. She wanted two stories, a craft room, and a playroom for Ava. Those were the three nonnegotiables, as she called them. She never knew it, but he’d worked for two years on plans, drawing up all her ideas, and his. He was going to surprise her with blueprints for their tenth anniversary, when he estimated they’d have enough money to begin construction.