Grant laughed.
“Why do you eat fish but not pigs?” Maisie asked.
“Because fish are dumb and delicious. Now look at your menu.”
“Yes, but our oceans are overfished.” Patrick felt a shadow fall over the table and he looked up to see who was speaking. An older man with graying temples smiled at him while opening a small pad with his pencil. “So there are environmental concerns at play.”
“Don’t flush the toilet for three months, don’t shower for six months, or don’t eat one hamburger. I’m from California, where there’s always a drought, so I’m more concerned about the environmental effects of factory farm—I’m sorry, who are you?” he asked the man.
“Patrick. It’s me.”
“Me, the . . . waiter?”
“Me, Barry.”
“Barry . . . ?” Patrick was pretty certain he didn’t know any Barrys.
“From high school.”
“Barry from high school.” We’re the same fucking age, is that what you’re telling me? “Of course.” Patrick said Of course even though it was still fuzzy. There was only a handful of people he remembered from high school; in most respects, his life began with Sara. “These are my brother’s kids, Maisie and Grant. Guys, BARRY.”
“It’s really great to see you. I haven’t heard anything about you since the show went off the air. What was that, four years ago? How are you?”
“Ummm . . .” Patrick stalled, desperately wanting out of a conversation that really had yet to begin.
“You should do another show. You were very good.”
“Thank you. That had never occurred to me.” Patrick soaked his reply in so much sarcasm it might as well have been a teenager experimenting with cologne.
“Although I thought that last one was a waste of your talents. Remember when we did Brigadoon in high school? You were so good!”
Shut up, shut up, shut up.
“So, what brings you back to Connecticut?”
“Our mom was sick,” Maisie said, coming to her uncle’s rescue. “She died.” She and Grant looked at the ground. Patrick winced, surprised to hear a years-long battle summarized so succinctly, then covered his shock with a grimace. He put one arm around each of them and joined them in looking down. They were mourning, you see. Something best done in private.
“Oh,” Barry said, his ability to get chummy shut off at the valve. “I’m very sorry.” He awkwardly tapped his pencil on his pad as Patrick luxuriated in the silence. “Get you started on some drinks?”
“Kids?”
“Bacon!” Grant perked up, a little too quickly.
Make it believable, Patrick thought, recognizing their grief as a shield against small talk. Keep the work focused. “C’mon. Drinks, he’s asking. Juice or milk?”
“Juice!”
“Grant?”
“Goose.”
“Two juices. Do you have apple? And one mimosa, light on the OJ.”
“Our orange juice is freshly squeezed.”
“Either way. A whisper of juice. I’m serious. You can really just wave an orange over the glass and that’s probably still too much juice.” Patrick stared at Barry’s golf pencil, willing it to move. “You’re not writing this down.”
“Two apple juices and one glass of champagne. I’ll give you some time with the menu.” As abruptly as he had appeared, Barry retreated.
Patrick drummed his fingers on the table. “So, guys. There’s something we need to discuss.” He looked down at his place setting and aligned the silverware as if he were some footman on Downton Abbey. “I thought we could eat brunch, the three of us, and have a little chin-wag.” He looked up to nothing but blank expressions. “That means talk. Your father, he’s very sad with your mom, well, you know. We all are. He’s asked me to—while he takes a little time for himself—take care of you.”
“WHAT?” Grant hollered.
“Don’t worry. I said no. I wanted you to hear that from me. I believe in treating kids like people.”
“You said no?” Maisie offered an expression that was difficult to read.
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just. You know. The whole kid thing is not my bag.”
“For how long?” Grant wondered.
“Not forever, by any means, or even very long, but for long enough that you would have to come stay at my place in Palm Springs.” He wondered if they found this entire proposition as ludicrous as he did, but how could they really? They couldn’t possibly remember his house with its pristine midcentury décor, white terrazzo floors—his Golden Globe, for heaven’s sake. It was a fine bachelor pad, but no place for children. “Can you imagine? He wanted you to come after Maisie finished school.”