I say, “As far as I know, John Sullivan was sober for the better part of seven years before he passed.” Not long after King left. “And Leif has stayed out of trouble as well. He’s been a long time employee of Hunt Auto for a decade, too.”
“Hmph.” Dad grunts, forking more pot roast into his mouth. That sour expression doesn’t ease. “John was an alcoholic for the better part of twenty years. A few years on the wagon didn’t negate his past. All it would’ve taken was one drink for him to be right back in the muck where he started. And his sons are right behind him.”
“From what I understand, his drinking didn’t start until after his wife died,” I murmur. “I think if anyone would understand that kind of pain and the need to hide from it, you would.”
Because I do. There’d been a period of months after Mom’s death when Dad had crawled into a bottle of Scotch after dinner and only dragged himself out in time to head into the office the next morning. He’d been a functioning drunk, but a drunk just the same. The only difference between him and John Sullivan was that my father had people who’d closed ranks around him, hiding his behavior. And that he’d eventually recovered. John just…hadn’t. He’d sunk deeper and deeper into his disease.
Yet, that hadn’t been the worst thing Dad had done.
And he’d committed his act before Mom had even taken her last, rattling, pain-soaked breath.
“I have nothing in common with that man,” Dad snaps, offense heavy in his forbidding tone as his fork clatters to his plate. “And I’m insulted that you would dare to suggest that I do.”
Before I can explain that all Isuggestedwas he have empathy or compassion, he bulldozes on. As he always does when he doesn’t want to discuss a subject any further. I smother a sigh and pick up the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and pour wine into my glass. When his eyes narrow on me, I arch an eyebrow. If he expects me to get through this discussion without more alcohol, he’s sorely overestimated my patience.
And I teach third graders.
“Besides,” my father continues, “in spite of John’s questionable parenting, he can’t be blamed for King’s latest antics. Overdosing and nearly dying in a hotel room. A stint in rehab. Illegitimate children. I’ll admit, initially it seemed like he had a promising career going for him. But blood will tell. And he’s sabotaged that career in every clichéd way he could.” Dad shakes his head, and his chuckle is ugly and abhorrent because it’s at the expense of someone else’s misery. “I told everyone he wouldn’t amount to anything. And look,” he waves a hand as if King’s faults were splayed out before him in all their jarring, HD glory, “I was right.”
“I wonder what Pastor Roy would have to say about your glee at someone else’s pain and misfortune.” The slick observation slips out before I can contain it.
And shit. Maybe Idoneed to cut back on the wine.
Too late to walk it back now, though.
“Are you sermonizing to me, Lennon?” Dad asks, voice silky smooth. “Because if you are, I would have to wonder why you’re defending King.”
And this, right here, is what made him such an excellent attorney. His ability to twist a person’s words and trip them up, placing them on the defensive. As a judge, he was supposed to be more impartial, but he still had never lost his edge. A part of me believes he never will because he enjoys it too much.
But I’m not in his courtroom, and I’m not one of his witnesses to cross examine. But I’m also not a fool. To “defend” King, as he put it, would betray a past I’ve managed to conceal from him for over ten years.
Although, staring into his piercing, dark brown gaze, an ominous tingle trips down my spine. Like a warning to tread carefully because I’m playing a cat and mouse game I had no idea I’d been engaged in. And only Dad knows the rules.
Mentally, I shake off that uneasy feeling. This is my father. He can be intense, a little intimidating and stern, but he wouldn’t toy with me. Wouldn’t lie to me. Not after last time.
“Was I defending him?” I casually toss back at him, swirling my wine. “I believed I was just commenting on your obvious delight in how far he’s fallen. I wasn’t even aware you knew King well enough to be concerned about the state of his life or the how’s and why’s regarding his return home.”
Poking the bear. Yes, that’s what I was doing. But I’d effectively passed the ball back into his court. And he’d either have to admit to the reason behind his antipathy toward King—whether it had anything to do with me—or he’d drop the subject.
Please, God, let it be the latter.
His gaze burns into mine, and it requires every bit of the resolve earned in the fires of teaching precocious and often brutally honest eight-and-nine-year-olds to unflinchingly meet it. Besides, Dad scents weakness a mile away. He’ll be all over mine like a junkyard dog on fresh meat, regardless of the fact that I’m his daughter. It’s in his nature.
“I’m a judge in this county. It’s my business to know everything that happens here. Especially when it’s in the best interest of this town.” His shoulders don’t lose their rigidity, but he returns to his dinner. And so do I, even though my appetite ran screaming out the door twenty minutes ago, and I sincerely doubt it’s coming back.
My father picks up his own glass and takes a sip, studying me over the rim. “Speaking of best interest… I saw Justin at the courthouse this morning.”
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, barely swallowing the groan rolling around in my chest.
“Lennon…”
“Dad.” I hold up my hand, palm out, and shake my head for added emphasis. “I don’t want to argue about Justin.”
“I don’t want to argue with you either.” Still holding his glass, he leans back in his chair. “But as your father, I have the right to inquire about your life and to offer my guidance if it’s warranted.”
“Well, it’s not warranted. If you spoke with Justin about us breaking up—which, I’m assuming you did—then he should’ve informed you that it was amicable and we parted as friends. So unless your guidance concerns whether or not proper etiquette demands I purchase a post-breakup gift, then we really don’t have anything to talk about.”