Do Your Worst(89)

Setting down the pot, he added milk into his father’s cup until the color resembled Cadbury milk chocolate—the exact shade of Alfie’s preference.

“Then you’re going to make things right with the HES. I don’t care how you do it, but I suggest starting by admitting you made a mistake.”

Alfie didn’t usually take sugar, but he liked it, so Clark dropped in a cube before lifting the saucer to stir.

“Then, finally,” he said, swirling the silver spoon, “since at that point you’ll have earned my magnanimous forgiveness, we’re both going to make amends with Patrick, since you’re too bloody proud to do it yourself.” He extended the steaming cup to his father. “Tea?”

His father took two sips, staring out the window at the drizzly afternoon, before replying. “I don’t see any reason I should apologize to Patrick.”

Clark sighed. “As your son, I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but in fact it’s wrong to shove your child out of your life because you’re ashamed of them.”

Really, Clark owed his mother a tremendous amount of gratitude. Without her patient, generous, forgiving rearing, who knew how awful he might have ended up?

He’d asked her once, after his father had forgotten her birthday for the second year in a row, why she stayed with him. Your father is a great man, she’d said with a sad smile. And I’ve never been able to stop myself from believing that with our help, he could also be good.

Clark poured himself tea, dark and sweet. “What Patrick did—falsifying those scans, lying to the industry—it was wrong. And I know it tarnished your sterling reputation, but it’s past time that we both forgave him, especially since he obviously did it in a misguided attempt to make you proud.”

Alfie set down the cup with rattling force. “I’m not mad about what he did to my name. What I can’t forgive him for is what he did to yours.”

“Excuse me?” Clark paused with his cup at his lips. “Please tell me I misheard you.” He lowered his tea, slowly. “Because it sounded like you’ve been going to bed at night blaming Patrick for deceiving me and then waking up the next morning to tell me how weak I am for believing him.”

Sometimes the truth was so obvious, so annoyingly right in your face the whole time, but you couldn’t see it yet because you hadn’t done the work, hadn’t cleared the way.

His father was the oldest son of a butcher. The first Edgeware to attend university. And he’d picked archaeology. It must have seemed so flimsy to his family, so silly and self-indulgent. He’d gotten famous off his first expedition—one where he’d been hired to carry another man’s bags. He’d never even gone back to Manchester to clear out his rooms, had simply sent for his car.

“Neither of us will ever be good enough for you. At least, not while we’re trying to be.”

Clark thought he had learned the mistake of making his dad his hero after Alfie had let him assist on a summer dig in northern France. They’d faced miserable weather for days—rain and hail and winds so sharp they stole the breath from their lungs—and his dad wouldn’t sleep. The project fell behind, and Alfie didn’t trust anyone else to manage the troubleshooting. He kept the crew out in unsafe conditions, but even when they mutinied, seeking shelter, his dad stayed in the dirt, furious and focused.

Clark had stayed too, even though he couldn’t appease his father, could barely hold a trowel with the way his hands shook from cold, exhaustion, and fear. He remembered the harrowing moment of looking into his dad’s wild eyes and realizing Alfie Edgeware was flawed—as human as anyone else.

A decade later, Clark could finally see the wounds behind those flaws. See the boy who wanted so desperately to earn the rank and renown he’d stumbled into. Who didn’t trust that he was worthy or even truly wanted. A crushing sort of helplessness came with the knowledge that Clark couldn’t fix his dad.

But he could fix the way he responded to him.

Could make sure that whatever next choice he made—in occupation or partner or haircut—he did for himself.

“I suppose this new bullishness is the work of that girl.” His father folded his arms. “The one you thought was magic.”

Not a denial, but Clark hadn’t expected one, wouldn’t have wanted it.

He couldn’t help it, he smiled at the description. It sounded so innocent in ways Riley wasn’t—painting a picture of someone who chased shooting stars and tossed coins in a fountain. But digging into the etymology of the word, magic meant transformative. And in that way, the adjective fit perfectly.

“Some of it’s her fault,” Clark said finally. Whatever Riley was, whatever she did, she’d changed him. “But I don’t think we should give her all the credit.”

By falling in love with her, in striving to be worthy of her love, Clark had grown to see himself differently.

“You always do this.” Alfie shook his head. “You find a way to follow the person with the worst idea.”

Clark magnanimously translated that in his head to: I wish the people you trusted took a bit more care.

His father frowned, making the lines on his face more pronounced. “I’m afraid she’ll hurt you.”

The comment might have fallen with a note of irony, considering the source, but loving Riley had helped Clark understand his family a little better.