Here I Go Again: A Novel (22 page)

Point is, the city was built with a service level down beneath, so the streets are never choked with delivery trucks and mounds of garbage. The city functions now like it never could have had it not been granted a massive do-over. I have to wonder, would Chicago be capable of its present level of commerce and industry had it not suffered such a tragedy? I bet not.

I’m lost in thought when my phone rings. Anxious to get out of my head for a few minutes, I click the Bluetooth to connect, but before I can even say hello, my mother begins squawking.

“That man is crazy, hear me? He’s lost his damn mind!”

I should probably be more concerned here, on the rare chance that my father actually has gone off the reservation. But every time Daddy makes a decision that Mamma doesn’t care for, she attacks his state of mental health. Opting against an inground sprinkler system?
Insane!
Deciding to take a staycation rather than bring Mamma to Montreal?
Cuckoo!
Choosing to drive his old wheels for one more year instead of upgrading?
Unhinged!

“What’s he done, Mamma?” I ask, trying to sound more patient than I feel. I mean, I just spent the morning with someone having an
actual
crisis. I normally indulge my mother, but I’m really not in the mood for it right now.

“That sonovabitch says he’s going to retire!”
The whole car reverberates from the sounds of her shrieking.

This?
This
is her crisis? Oh, I am so not entertaining this. “He’s sixty-five, Mamma, and he’s been working eighty-hour weeks since I was born. I’d say it’s time for him to take a break if he wants.”

You would not believe a woman of her age and social status could be capable of the string of profanity that happens next.

(You would be wrong.)

I do my best to put a positive spin on the situation. “Mamma, Mamma. Mamma! Calm down! The world’s not coming to an end. Isn’t there something appealing about the idea of Daddy being home all the time? You can go to lunch whenever you want or take off for the weekend with no notice. You’ll be able to spend so much time at the club! This might be really wonderful for both of you!”

She’s still fuming. “That is the whole problem! He doesn’t wanna retire so he can be retired! He wants to retire so he can write a book! The man reads three John goddamn Grisham novels and fancies his damn self an author!”

Actually . . . that’s not the worst idea I ever heard. My dad’s been retreating to his library for years, so I can hardly picture him
not
standing in front of well-stocked shelves filled with everything from classics to Clancy. Daddy once told me that he’d read every single thing in there. Plus, the bulk of his time as a patent attorney is spent writing and researching, so it makes sense that he might gravitate to being an author.

As persuasively as I can, I tell her, “Mamma, a lot of authors were lawyers first, like Scott Turow and John Grisham. What about Emily Giffin? You like her books and she was a lawyer first. So was the girl who wrote
Legally Blonde
. This isn’t without precedent and it might be very satisfying for him.”

Oh. So. Much. Swearing.

“Mamma, I’m so sorry, but work’s on the other line. Why don’t you e-mail me and tell me how much Daddy sucks, okay?” I mercifully disconnect and click the other line. “Lissy, I mean
Melissa
speaking.”

“Liss, hey! It’s Nicole.”

“Hey, rock star, how are you feeling today?”

“Physically, so-so.”

“Next time, try a Burger King breakfast. All that fat and grease and sugar set me straight right away.”

Nicole giggles. “We’re really not seventeen anymore, are we?”

“That’s the truth.” Nicole sounds upbeat, but I’m concerned it might just be how she talks when she’s in the office. She’s the kind of girl who, no matter what’s going sideways personally, will always have a kind word and a big smile when you run into her in the hallway. “How are you doing, like, emotionally?”

I’m relieved to hear her say, “A lot better, so thank you. You were right: A project was just what I needed. That’s why I’m calling—the response to the reunion has been overwhelming! More than a hundred people have already RSVP’d yes! When you get a minute, check out the Facebook page—I sent you a link. You’ll never believe where some of our classmates are now. I can’t even tell you; you’ll have to see it for yourself.”

Having just seen for myself where one of our classmates is now, I’m not quite as fired up as she is.

“Woo! Lion pride!” Nicole cheers.

Wryly, I repeat, “Lion pride.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

What Goes Up

“How’s it going, Daddy?”

My dad rises from his seat at the table to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. We’re meeting covertly, because I want to hear his side of the story about retirement without Mamma interrupting every five seconds.

We’ve been meaning to get together for weeks, but each time we make plans, my mother finds out about them (like a St. John–wearing bloodhound, that one) and insists on joining us. I suspect she doesn’t want me supporting him in his decision, so she’s done her best to keep us apart. We’re having lunch in the executive dining room of his law firm, the one place she can’t just show up unannounced.

I haven’t been here in years and I’m impressed all over again about how swanky it is! Even though we’re in the middle of an ultramodern twenty-first-century city, this room feels like a throwback to a different era, when men wore hats and smoked at their desks and called one another Mr. So-and-so, and a three-martini lunch would get you promoted, not fired.

The ceilings are impossibly high and the room’s anchored by a gigantic marble fireplace surrounded by ornate wooden carvings. The walls are paneled in gleaming cherrywood and the windows are individually paned leaded glass. If I were a potential client, I’d absolutely hire Daddy’s firm on the merits of this place. Fortunately, use of this magnificent room is one of the perks of Daddy’s having worked so hard for his company.

“Hello, sweetie. Please have a seat.” His table is located directly underneath an oil painting of one of the firm’s founders.

I point at the art. “Are they going to put your portrait up there, Daddy?” As he glances up, his face catches the muted light of the room. He seems kind of pale today and he looks a little skinny under his impeccably tailored suit.

He shudders and replies, “God, I hope not.”

“Really? Don’t you want your legacy to live on once you retire? I thought you loved it here.”

“Then you thought wrong, kiddo.” Before he can say any more, a tuxedo-clad waiter materializes beside us with two crystal glasses of iced tea. My dad gestures toward the waiter’s tray. “Is this still your poison? I took a guess.”

I grin. “It is.” I busy myself squeezing lemons and distributing sugar cubes while my dad places our order. We’re having lobster bisque followed by the chef’s special crab salad croissants and sweet potato fries. Yum!

After the waiter leaves, Daddy asks, “How’s everything with Duke? And the office?”

“Duke’s great and he says hello.”

I don’t mention that Duke urged me to have my dad really consider his decision to retire. I have no idea why.

“Excellent. Send him my love. Tell him we have a date on the links next spring.”

“I’ll do that.” I can’t help but smile when I think about how alike Duke and my father are. “As for work? Couldn’t be better!”

Actually, work could be a tiny bit better. Apparently revenue’s down since I returned from the past last month. I guess I was the one responsible for developing new business. I wouldn’t say I’ve lost my touch so much as I’m not sure where I found my touch in the first place. I kind of figured this knowledge would translate across the space-time continuum, but as yet, not so much. I know how to land an electric plating account and dot-com idiots, but real clients? I probably need to figure that out.

Because of our newly (slightly) diminished returns, somehow I’ve been roped into meeting with Team ChaCha again this afternoon. Nicole was all, “Blah, blah, blah, your name on the door, make an appearance, blah-di-blah,”
so I don’t have much of a choice. Really looking forward to that meeting. Not.

My dad takes a long pull of his tea. “Glad to hear it. Knowing that you’re doing so well on your own takes a tremendous amount of pressure off of me.”

“Meaning?” My stomach does a tiny backflip. Jean from accounting was rather stern about the state of our new receivables, which may or may not have coincided with my having recently discovered the company checkbook. Anyway, I plan on giving this an awful lot of thought. Later.

“Meaning that I don’t have to take care of you. I don’t have to worry about what’s going to happen to you when I pass.” Daddy suddenly seems superfascinated with his tea glass. He wipes a bit of condensation onto his napkin.

This is a surprise to me. “Were you and Mamma concerned that you’d have to provide for me?”

On the one hand, I’m insulted that my parents don’t believe in me, and on the other, I’m grateful that they want me to have a security blanket. In the back of my mind, I’ve always accepted that failure is
absolutely
an option, because my parents would be there to bail me out.

Daddy snorts. “Me? No. You’re an adult and it’s your responsibility to succeed on your own merits. I’m a self-made man and I have little respect for those who’ve had their fortune handed to them. Your mother, on the other hand, insists that we have a substantial nest egg set aside for you. In turn, I’ve spent your whole life economizing on the things I want so that one day you’ll get the keys to my empire. How fair is that?”

I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or afraid. “Don’t I kind of have my own empire?”

“Sure hope so, kiddo. Because I’m about to start living on my terms.”

I swallow but I can’t seem to get rid of the lump in my throat. “Daddy, you’re making me nervous.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Don’t be nervous, kitten. But do understand this—I’m done. I’m checking out of the corporate rat race. I’m finished making sacrifices. I’ve spent almost forty years doing what everyone else wants me to do, following their lead, toeing their line. I’m sixty-five years old and I’m ready to start calling my own shots.”

Our soup arrives, but neither of us touches our spoons.

As tired as Daddy seems, there’s a set to his shoulders that I’ve never before seen. I’m wavering between pride and fear.

“What’s next, Daddy? How does this all shake out?”

My dad glances at the ceiling and counts off on his fingers. “My last day is the twenty-first, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The firm wants to throw me a retirement party. Considering I never want to see most of these bastards again, I may or may not attend. And then? Freedom. Absolute, pure, unadulterated freedom.”

Daddy takes a bite of his soup and is suddenly reenergized. Whether it’s the bisque or discussing his new life, I’m not sure. But the color has returned to his cheeks and he speaks with a confidence I rarely hear.

He leans in toward me and says, “I plan to sleep late and golf more often than once a week on Sundays. I want to do everything I’ve put off for the last four decades. First up? I’m going to learn to prepare that Bolognese sauce that Chef Mario used to make before he retired. You remember when he was here?”

I surely met him at some point in the past twenty years, so I simply reply, “Oh, yeah. He was great.”

“Damn right he was. On his last day, the chef let me in on the secret to his sauce. It’s cognac. Told me it doesn’t take much more than a drop, but a drop is enough to make all the difference. I’ve had his recipe for seven years, but I’ve never had the time to try it myself. Seven years I’ve longed for this sauce and I never had it. Kiddo, those days are over.”

The more he describes his future, the more excited he becomes. “Then I’m buying a vintage thirty-eight-foot Chris-Craft and I’m going to refinish it myself. I’ve been scouring the Internet for months looking for the perfect boat and I believe I found the right one in New Buffalo. Heading to Michigan the Sunday after Thanksgiving to look her over. Hope you’ve got yourself a decent retirement plan, because I’m about to blow your inheritance. And I love you, kitten, but I don’t care, because this money is mine and I earned it.” He chuckles.

Umm . . .

“Best of all, I’m finally living my dream of being an author. I’ve been kicking around a manuscript for twenty years and it’s high time I made it into a real book. My golden years will be all about me, my boat, and my writing. I can’t wait.” When he says this, his face is wreathed in a smile that takes ten years off his weathered face.

I swallow hard. Nope, lump’s still there and getting bigger. “What about Mamma?”

“Your mother can climb aboard the
Hull Truth
—that’s what I’m naming her—or be left behind at the dock. I’ve made my peace with either eventuality. If that means we go our separate ways and I wind up with half my money? I’m willing to take that risk.” He shrugs. “I’ll live on the boat if need be. That’s why I picked one with a double stateroom. Whether or not Ginny likes it, this is happening. Bank on that.” He gives the table a tap to emphasize his point.

My soup has formed a skin, and as I poke my spoon into it, I find I’m not hungry for once.

“Daddy, you realize we’re about to have the worst Thanksgiving ever.”

He takes a bite of his soup before answering with more resolve than I thought possible.

“Don’t I know it, kiddo. Don’t I know it.”

 * * * 

I
leave my father’s firm more confused than ever. Suddenly I don’t have a choice on whether or not I want to put in the effort of making my business work. My safety net’s just been yanked out from under me.

I return to my office and see that Nicole has sent me a link to the video presentation that she put together for Team ChaCha. I’m not sure why the kid doesn’t just shut up, sing, and allow the grown-ups to discuss business without her, but she seems intent on being present for every step of the process. Shouldn’t she be in school? I have no frigging clue what she plans to glean from today’s discussion of SEO (search engine optimization), but to appease her, Nicole’s prepared a video that breaks the whole process down into idiot-size bits of information.