Dolly All the Time(43)
“I’m sure the San Francisco project will be lovely,” Victoria says.
Henry folds his hands on the table and leans in. “Nothing wrong with honoring the family vision if it’s also going to make money,” he says.
“Stewart missed the part about how making money is the family vision,” Grant says.
Stewart takes his hand from me and leans forward. “The numbers on the Kramer deal are quite good.”
Grant says, “Quite good,” and rolls his eyes. “Quite good isn’t good enough, especially for a project that’s going to take forever. I have three projects lined up to close in nine months that will outearn your Kramer project by double.”
“But is this dinner boring enough?” Busy asks, sipping her coffee. “That’s the real question.”
Henry shushes her. “This will be a big topic with the board in the fall.” He looks at Stewart directly. “It’s important to have an eye toward change. Grant’s strip malls and cell towers aren’t pretty, but they’ll keep the lights on. I have a hard time believing the numbers for San Francisco are that great.”
Victoria places a hand on his forearm. “Can we not?”
“There’s a lot more to it than the returns,” Stewart says. “If you see the drawings and understand the history. If I walked you through the whole thing, you’d see it’s much more in line with who we are.”
“Broke?” asks Grant with a laugh. “I didn’t know that’s who we are now.” He’s definitely drunk.
“There comes a time to rethink who we are,” Henry says. “It’s saved our asses more than once, having the instincts to shift gears when we needed to. My grandfather did. My dad did too. And with every new generation it’s a crapshoot to see if we have that kind of leader.” He’s looking at Stewart, a challenge.
Stewart stiffens next to me. His hands are folded tight on the table, as if he’s trying to crush something inside them.
Henry takes a sip of his coffee. “Otherwise, we’ll all have jobs handing out brochures to people who show up for tours of this old place.”
Victoria starts to say something, but Grant interrupts her with a laugh. “I can totally picture that. Crowds of people gawking at Great-Granddad stuff, listening to the story of how Stewart Whitfield took the reins and let it all go to shit.”
“Ah, there it is,” Busy says. “Grant’s prediction of who gets the job.” Oscar laughs, but Henry keeps his hard stare on Stewart.
I turn to Stewart because it’s his turn to say something mildly insulting to Grant. But his face seems frozen, almost expressionless.
“Excuse me,” he says to the napkin he’s placing on his plate, and he walks into the house. My eyes follow him until he’s disappeared into the living room. My heart is telling me to go after him, but I don’t listen.
Oscar passes me the tray of biscotti. “Sorry, Dolly. These two. It never ends. When we were little, they’d race to that bunch of rocks in the middle of the bay. Loser would have to swim back naked. They’d race the horses on the beach. They’d even compete to see who could make their ice cream last the longest.”
“Stewart always won that,” Busy says. “Made of steel.”
“Denying himself any kind of pleasure is his superpower,” Oscar says with a laugh, though I don’t know why that’s funny. “Grant has no patience. Hence the strip malls.” Grant raises his glass in agreement.
“And did you compete too?” I ask Oscar.
He leans back in his chair. “Never. While they fought to the death, I got all the girls.”
Lilly gives him a little shove.
“What? I can’t help it if I’m the handsome one,” he says and grins.
Busy laughs and tosses her napkin at him. “Oh please.”
You’ve got to love the middle child. The tension that was simmering at the table is broken. I look across at Oscar, and he is handsome. Light brown wavy hair that dips low over green eyes. He has a devilish smile that likely works wonders at getting women undressed. I can imagine him honing his ability to keep things light when his little sister was so sick. I think of Stewart and all the pleasure he denies himself, working tirelessly to protect the legacy of the people around this table—none of whom seem to be concerned about his absence.
Dinner is officially over and Stewart still isn’t back. Lilly’s talking about her kids’ swimming program, and no one seems to think anything of the empty chair next to me. As the minutes pass, I get more and more worried. Something is clearly wrong. I know Stewart well enough to know that he is duty bound to a fault. He wouldn’t leave me alone here, uncomfortable with his family. I excuse myself to use the restroom, hoping I’ll find him wrapping up an urgent call in the big formal living room. He isn’t there, so I make my way through the dining room and into the main foyer. I stand on the black-and-white-checkered marble floor, looking up the wide white marble staircase. I don’t dare climb the stairs and start opening doors to all the places he could be—a bedroom suite, a private office.
I text him and get no reply. Worry spreads across my chest. He’s not okay. Stewart’s under a lot of stress. He has panic attacks. No one in his family seems to be doing anything to make things easier for him, and I wish I could.