by R. R. Banks
Adrian flashes me a cocky little smirk. “No, you really don't.”
I laugh and punch him playfully in the stomach, feeling better than I had all day.
Chapter Five
Brady
“Good morning,” she says when I step into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Miss Delia,” I reply.
“Coffee's fresh,” she says. “I'm making waffles for Nicholas; would you like me to make you some?”
I shake my head. “Sounds delicious, but I can't,” I reply. “I have a couple of meetings today. I'll just grab something out.”
I pour myself a cup of coffee and pour in a little creamer, giving it a stir. Taking a sip, I lean back against the counter and savor the rich, dark brew. Miss Delia is looking at me out of the corner of her eye. I can tell she wants to say something. I let her stew on it for a moment while I enjoy my coffee.
Setting my mug down on the counter, I sigh. “What's on your mind, Miss Delia?”
She shrugs and I know her silence is very pointed. Miss Delia has been with my family for a long while – and it's always been Miss Delia, not Delia, not D, nothing but Miss Delia. She started working for us when I was ten or so – and she helped raise me. My parents were busy people, always out attending this fundraiser or charity event, opening that business, going to this or that gallery opening – they weren't around a whole lot.
And because of that, I think of her as something of a mother figure. She keeps me in line – most of the time. I appreciate her bluntness and directness. It seems rare that I can get that kind of honesty from people.
“Do you remember when your father used to take you to all those football games when you were young?” she finally asks.
I chuckle. “I was just thinking about that the other day,” I reply. “When I was the game, actually.”
She nods. “I remember you used to get so excited about going to the games and spending time with your father. Your face would just light up like the sun on Sunday mornings.”
“Yeah, I remember,” I say, already knowing where she's going with all of this.
“You know, your son is only going to be young once,” she says as she puts a waffle into the oven to keep it warm. “Do you want his memories to be happy ones? Or do you only want him to remember having me around?”
“Well, in all fairness,” I say, smiling wide, “I can't make waffles quite like you.”
The look she gives me could have curdled milk. I understand her point, but it's not quite that simple. I'm a single father – an unexpectedly single father. I hadn't planned on having Nicholas and shortly after he was born, his mother Angie, just took off. Abandoned him. Abandoned us. I would have married Angie – it would have been the right thing to do. But I never got the chance. She was just gone one day. Like she never existed. But of course, she did – and I have a son to prove it.
At the time, I was twenty-four years old and wholly unprepared to be a father. I'm twenty-eight now, and I can't say I'm all that much better prepared. I do what I can to help give him a comfortable life – much like I had growing up. Like me, he wants for nothing.
But truth be told, I know I'm not cut out to be a father. I feel like I should still be out there chasing girls, having fun, buying expensive toys, and doing all the stereotypical things trust fund kids do. And there is a small sliver of me that resents being tied down, having the responsibility of a child.
Don't get me wrong, I love my son. I love my son in ways that scare me. Ways I'm not ready for. I just don't feel like I can do right by him. That I can be the kind of father he deserves. I just don't feel cut out to be that guy.
My dad, for all his faults and all the time he wasn't around, was a good man. A good father. Even though he was always busy, I never felt like I came second for him. He made the time to be with me when he could. Our Sundays at the stadium were sacred and nothing ever intruded on that time. That was our time and he never let work or any other obligation get in the way of it. He made me feel like I mattered to him.
And try as I might, I just don't feel I'll ever be able to live up to him as a father. I don't think I can ever be the kind of man my father was to me, to my own son. And that has me keeping him at a bit of arm's length. The last thing I want to do is be a disappointment to my own son.
“You're trying too hard to be perfect, Brady,” she says. “And you're scared.”
I nod. “I'm very scared,” I say, surprised by my admission.
Miss Delia walks over to me and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “No parents are perfect, Brady,” she says. “You know that as well as anybody. For as great as they were, your parents didn't walk on water. My own children can tell you that.”
“I have a feeling your kids would say that you actually can walk on water, Miss Delia,” I say. “Because you practically do.”
She slaps me lightly in the shoulder, a smile on her face. “Hardly,” she says. “There have been some hard times and I've made some mistakes. I'm not perfect. Your parents weren't perfect. And you shouldn't hold yourself to an impossible standard you'll never reach. It's not fair to Nicholas and it's not fair to you.”
“Trust me, I know,” I say with a rueful grin and a sigh. “Still, my folks were great people doing great things. I'm – I'm nobody, Miss Delia. I'm a kid living on the fruits of an empire I didn't build. And frankly, I feel like Nicholas deserves more than I can ever give him. Deserves a better father than I can ever be.”
“That's garbage,” she says. “All Nicholas wants is a father who loves him. Somebody who is there to throw the ball with. To go to the zoo with. Somebody who spends time with him and makes him feel important.”
“Don't you think he also deserves somebody he can be proud of?”
She shrugs. “He deserves a father's love, Brady,” he says. “Somebody who wants to be in his life. I think in the end, he'd be prouder of that than anything you could ever achieve as a businessman.”
I look down into my coffee cup, feeling all of the familiar insecurity and uncertainty rising within me. What I said to Miss Delia is the truth of the matter. I really am a nobody. My parents built the Keating empire from the ground up – I'm simply riding on their coattails because of my name. I've done nothing. Accomplished nothing. There is not a single thing I – or Nicholas – can point to and say, “yeah, I built that.”
And more than anything, I want my son to be proud of me. Proud of my accomplishments. I want to build something for him. Build a legacy that he can be proud of.
“You put too much pressure on yourself, Brady,” Miss Delia says. “You don't have to live up to the bar your parents set. That was for them. All you have to do is be the best man you can be, set a good example for Nicholas, and be a good father to him.”
I finish the last of the coffee and set the mug down. “What if I'm not a good man though?”
She scoffs at me. “You forget how long I've known you,” she says. “You're a good man. You have a good heart. I've seen it. You need to let Nicholas see it now.”
“And what if I fail?”
She gives me a gentle smile. “You won't fail,” she says. “I know you. Know what you're capable of – even if you don't right now. Let your heart guide you and you cannot go wrong, Brady.”
I give her a small smile and lean down, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Miss Delia,” I say. “Mind if I take Nicholas his waffles?”
She gives me a gentle smile. “I think he'd like that.”
~ooo000ooo~
I set the tray down on the table in front of Nicholas and give his hair a ruffle. He looks up at me and smiles. Just looking down at him, I feel my heart swell with pride. He was unexpected, but I'm learning that sometimes, the best things in life are.
“Hi, Daddy,” he says.
“How did you sleep last night, champ?”
“Good.”
“Glad to hear it.”
I start taking things off the tray and set them down in front of him. His eyes grow wi
de when he sees the chocolate chip waffles topped with freshly made whipped cream.
“Miss Delia made these special for you,” I say. “They look delicious, don't they?”
He nods eagerly as I pour some syrup over the top of the waffles and then cut them up into smaller pieces for him. I give him a grin and take a bite of his breakfast, rolling my eyes and groaning with pleasure.
“These are so good,” I say. “I may have to eat them all myself.”
“No, Daddy!” he squeals.
Handing him the fork, I watch as he digs in, rolling his eyes and mimicking the sounds I made. I laugh out loud and hand him a glass of milk to wash it all down. He takes it in both hands and takes a long drink, letting out a loud burp when he sets the glass back on the table.
“What do we say?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at him.
“Excuse me,” he says.
“Very good.”
He happily munches away on his waffles for a few minutes before looking up at me.
“What is it, buddy?” I ask.
“Can we go to the zoo today?” he asks. “I want to see the animals.”
“Oh, I can't today, Nicholas,” I say. “I really want to and think it would be a lot of fun. But Daddy has to go meet with Uncle Kendrick today. It's about work.”
Nicholas nods and gives me a small smile, but I can see the disappointment in his face, plain as day. It's a look that kills me a little inside because I know exactly how it feels. And it sucks. He's too young to understand things like work and obligations. All he knows is that Daddy doesn't have the time to hang out with him.
Miss Delia's words come back to me, ringing through my mind. As I got older, I understood what my father was doing and why he didn't have a lot of time for me. I learned about obligations and responsibilities – not that I was always the best at those things. In fact, I'm still not the best at them, but I'm trying.
But when I was younger I sure didn't understand those concepts. All I knew was that my dad wasn't around as often as I would have liked. And for a while, I wondered if he just didn't like me enough to hang around with me. It's stupid to think about now. The childish thoughts of a kid. But to me, they were all too real back then.
And I don't want Nicholas to ever feel like that. I don't ever want him to question the fact that I love him and would love to spend more time with him. But I'm scared. Scared I'm going to screw something up with Nicholas. Scared I'll never be a good father. Scared I'll never be a decent man. I know I can be selfish. Impetuous. Impertinent. And while those qualities may play well on the party circuit, they don't exactly lend themselves well to being a good parent.
I'm absolutely torn and conflicted between wanting to still play the rich kid, being out there doing stupid, frivolous things – and wanting to be a good man and better father. These are thoughts I keep to myself though and I don't dare discuss them with anybody.
This is one of those things I'm just going to have to figure out on my own. I'm going to have to reconcile the two halves of my mind and find a way to be okay with it.
I want to believe what Miss Delia said. Want to believe that I can be a good man and a good father. But in that moment, as I look at my sweet, innocent boy, I'm having my doubts. And I fear that maybe Miss Delia's giving me far too much credit.
Chapter Six
“Brady, good to see you, son,” Kendrick's voice booms as I step into his office. “It's been a minute.”
I nod and give him a big smile as I shake his hand. “That it has.”
Kendrick has been a part of my family's fabric for as long as I can remember – I grew up calling him Uncle Kendrick. He was my father's lawyer when he started Keating Technologies all those years ago. He helped oversee my father's empire as it grew and expanded – and now he's my lawyer as well.
I trust Kendrick with pretty much everything in my life. He's a good man who's an absolute straight shooter. He'll tell me how it is, not what he thinks I want to hear. He's always been that way. It's what my father appreciated about him and what I appreciate about him as well.
Kendrick looks like he just walked out of central casting for a film looking for a Texan. He's pretty much what you think of when you think of Texans. He's big – easily six-foot-three – broad in the shoulders, thick in the chest. Although, he's starting to get a little bigger around the midsection – something I never fail to rib him about. He's got a neatly trimmed white beard, a larger than life, loud and boisterous personality, always wears snakeskin boots and is never without his white Stetson. Ever. I'm half-convinced he sleeps in it.
If he wasn't a lawyer – and a damn good one – I have little doubt he'd own a ranch somewhere and be raising cattle or something. He's just Texas through and through.
Kendrick's desk is a massive oaken monstrosity that he's inordinately fond of. He said it was recovered from the Alamo after the big fight there, but I've always thought that was more just a tall tale than anything – Kendrick does like to tell stories.
I drop down into the big, plush chair in front of his desk and put my black Stetson on the other seat. He's standing at the sideboard in his office and opens the small refrigerator set to the side of it.
“Beer?” Kendrick asks.
I glance at my watch and grin. “It's not even noon yet, Kendrick.”
He nods. “You're right,” he says. “Bourbon.”
He pours two tumblers of bourbon for us and hands me one before walking around the oak monster and dropping down into the chair behind his desk. The wall behind his chair is nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, giving me a perfect view of the San Antonio skyline. And in the distance, I can see the tall glass building that bears my father's name – my name.
I take a small sip of the bourbon and nod. “The good stuff,” I say.
“Have you ever known me to drink the cheap stuff?” he scoffs. “Son, there are two things I take very seriously in life – good bourbon and good football.”
I take another swallow and shake my head. “Well, at least your bourbon is good.”
Kendrick takes a long pull of his drink and shakes his head. “Yeah, that was a tough one last Sunday,” he said. “That Atlanta team is pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And this San Antonio team is pretty bad.”
“Well,” he says. “It's a young team. Lot of potential. Room to grow.”
“Which is a nice way of saying, they suck,” I say. “Euphemisms and platitudes don't become you, Uncle Kendrick.”
Kendrick laughs, his big, booming voice filling the room. “Fair enough,” he says. “I just know how serious you are about your Copperheads. I think you might even outdo me on that score.”
“I only wish Dempsey was as serious about the team.”
He sighs. “He's made some – questionable – moves,” he says. “I can see he's trying to get the team younger though. Develop some home-grown talent –”
“Which would be great if he were drafting anybody worth a damn,” I say. “But he's taking second and third-tier guys that nobody else was going to touch.”
Sitting there recounting my conversation with Dempsey is firing me up again. His arrogant and condescending attitude is entirely infuriating and makes me want to punch something. I half-expected him to pat me on the head and tell me to 'run along now' at the end of our meeting the other day.
But I'm not here to talk football. Not directly, anyway. Kendrick set the meeting because he has something else running through that big brain of his.
“You didn't call me in to talk about the Copperheads,” I say. “So, what's on your mind?”
He sighs big and leans back in his chair, tipping his hat back on his head. “You're twenty-eight now, kid,” he says.
I smile. “I am,” I say. “I'm staring the big three-oh in the face.”
Kendrick nods. “Yeah, that you are.”
He falls silent and just stares at me as if waiting for me to figure out his meaning. I take a sip of my drink and lean back in my own se
at, starting back at him. I know what he's after – what he's going to say – he's called me in here for the same song and dance every year since my folks died. It's a conversation I don't particularly enjoy having – and he knows it.
But, as the executor of my parent's estate, it's his job to have the talk with me, so I play my role. For the most part.
After a moment, he chuckles and shakes his head.
“It's a shame you don't play cards, kid,” he says. “You've got a hell of a poker face.”
“Well, maybe I'll surprise you and show up to your monthly game.”
He guffaws. “Oh, I don't want to play with you, kid,” he says. “You'll take me to the cleaners.”
I finish my drink and set my glass on the corner of the desk. “I know why I'm here, Kendrick,” I say. “And the situation hasn't changed yet.”
He strokes his beard and nods thoughtfully. “Nobody even piquing your interest, kid?”
“Not really, no.”
He sighs. “You're starting to run out of time,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I've got two years, Kendrick,” I say. “That's more than enough time.”
Kendrick laughs. “I forget sometimes that you kids today don't take much time to shop around.”
I shrug. “I figure that when I find the right one, I'll know.”
“And if you don't?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Find the right one?”
“I will,” I say. “I just haven't been looking all that hard yet.”
Kendrick leans forward and clasps his hands on the top of his desk. He looks at me for a long moment – much in the way I imagine a doctor would look at somebody right before telling them they have six months to live.
“Now, I don't want to come off sounding harsh, kid,” Kendrick says. “I want you to know that I think of you like a son and that I only have your best interests at heart.”
Kendrick isn't one to soft-shoe or preface much of anything he says. His lack of filter is one of the things I admire about him. Which makes the fact that he is soft shoeing and prefacing his comments a little worrisome to me.
