“Lawrence, come on.”
“Cassie, I just want to ask a question.” On his phone, Lawrence pulls up his favorite picture of Billy, a candid shot from the Lewis School where he volunteers. In it, he’s helping a little boy read. Billy’s sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loose. He looks patient and caring as he points to a book while the kid sounds out a word. “That’s my son,” our dad tells the guard proudly. “William Quinn. He’s with his lawyer, right at this very minute. I’m hoping to see them while they’re together.”
“That ain’t a question.” The guard trains his eyes on Lawrence. “Turn around and go.”
“Look, sir.” Lawrence’s smile is back.
“He said no!” I grab the phone, which dings with a text. “We’re sorry, Officer. We’re leaving.” I scan the screen. “Look.” I shove the phone in Lawrence’s face. “It’s the lawyer. DeFiore. He’s not even here! He’s down the hill at a diner.”
Lawrence nods and thanks the guard. “Appreciate your time, my brother. We all do what we can.”
The second he closes his window, I blow up. “My brother?” I’m so angry I’m shaking. “What the fuck? It’s so disrespectful.”
Nothing ignites my fury like Lawrence’s man-of-the-people routine. Case in point: He had a cancer scare a few years ago. The day of his biopsy, I bit his head off for flirting with the female med techs. Maybe I overreacted, but he kept making comments about one’s “unusual green eyes” and another’s “stunning red hair” like they were sorority girls in a bar instead of hardworking professionals at a hospital. “I’m just a friendly guy, Cassie,” he said in his anesthetized haze. “I can’t help it.”
We head down the hill, the guard watching us go. My phone dings; it’s Nate texting from the backseat.
you’re too hard on him Cass
he’s impossible
he’s scared, dipshit
Chastened, my face grows hot. We’re at a light, and Lawrence takes off his sunglasses to clean the lenses. Sunlight filters through the windshield, illuminating the fine lines around his eyes and lips. He looks fragile, like an old man, and I have to turn away. Otherwise, I’ll think about his corny puns and small kindnesses, which he offers even when I’m a brat. And then I’ll remember his heartbreak about Yale, but how he still acted the proud dad. And then I’ll remember how he played hooky from work, drove me to New Haven, and took me out to a celebratory lunch. And then I’ll be flooded with love from my knees to my neck; and I’ll wonder if a PhD is worth six years of my life, or if it’s a selfish indulgence when he needs my help with the foundation, and now, with Billy.
“I’m sorry, Lawrence.” I watch the trees as we pick up speed. “I know you’re worried; I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
He squeezes my hand three times. “We’re fine, kiddo. Fine, fine, fine.” But he won’t look at me either.
8
THE PARKING LOT NEXT TO THE DINER IS PACKED, AND WE’RE lucky to find a spot. Inside, I spy a middle-aged man leafing through a file while forking eggs into his mouth. He’s heavyset and disheveled, wearing a suit jacket sized for a much smaller body over a green sweatshirt with JETS embroidered in white letters.
“That’s DeFiore,” I tell Lawrence and Nate. “In the back.”
Looking dazed, they follow my finger. Our encounter with the security guard shook us all up. We’re still getting our bearings.
“No.” Lawrence shakes his head. “I saw his website. That’s not him.”
“It is, I’m telling you.” Leaving them, I weave my way through the crowded tables.
“Cassandra Quinn,” I say when I reach him. “You must be Mr. DeFiore.”
“Peter.” He puts down his papers to shake my hand. “You must be Billy’s sister.”
“His favorite sister? Yes, I am.”
“His only sister, I hear.”
“He could have a thousand sisters, and I’d still be his favorite.”
Smiling, we size each other up. DeFiore looks like a fast-talking, low-level hitman. His oily hair, frayed jacket, and battered shoes suggest strip-mall storefronts and envelopes full of cash. But his eyes are ultra-cool as he studies my face.
I wave to Lawrence and Nate. “Over here!”
“Cassie was right,” Lawrence says as he approaches. “I wasn’t sure it was you.” He shakes DeFiore’s hand. “Lawrence Quinn. This is Nate, my older son. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“You were probably hoping I was someone else.” DeFiore gives Lawrence a once-over. “Maybe someone in a bowtie and wingtips.”
“You met Burt, I gather,” Lawrence says. “He’s a bit stuffy.”
DeFiore nods. “This morning, on video. I met your wife, too, but only to say hello. I had to rush off.” He gestures to his plate. “Apologies for digging in, but my kid will kill me if I miss one more soccer game. Please.” He motions to empty chairs. “Sit.”
We settle in and make small talk. While we try to flag down a waitress, DeFiore finishes his eggs, a blueberry muffin, and a buttered bagel. He eats ravenously, as if filling a bottomless pit. I marvel at the way he relishes his food. No one I know, not even my brothers, eats with that kind of abandon. As for me, every bite I take demands penance.
“So, what can you tell us about Billy?” Lawrence asks just as a ponytailed waitress appears with a notepad. “You guys ready?” She gravitates immediately to Nate and offers a sweet smile. “What can I get you?”
Nate smiles back. He gives her dazzling teeth, dimples—the full-court press, and the girl’s face reddens. “Pancakes, please,” he says. His eyes flicker to her breasts where a nametag is clipped. “Amanda. Bacon and coffee.” Like our father, Nate considers every encounter with a female an opportunity to showcase his charm.
“I’ll have coffee too, Amanda,” Lawrence says. “Two eggs scrambled dry. Orange juice. Oh—no toast, please. Cutting out carbs.” He gestures my way. “She’ll have egg whites. Dry toast. Tomatoes, no potatoes. Black coffee.”
“Seriously?” I snap after she leaves. “I can order for myself, thanks.”
He chuckles self-consciously. “Sorry, Cass. Old habits.”
DeFiore is watching us. “Hard to see them grow up, isn’t it, Lar?”
I’ve never heard anyone call Lawrence “Lar” in my life, and the absurdity of it cracks me up. DeFiore gives me a cocky grin. I like him, I decide. He knows what’s what.
“You have a daughter?” I hear Lawrence ask.
“Three, actually.” DeFiore sips his coffee. “Six, four, and two. The six-year-old runs the show.”
“They’re little,” Lawrence says. “You still have a few good years left.”
I turn to DeFiore. “At ten, we’re lovely. Around thirteen, we get moody. By sixteen, we’re monstrous. Defiant, uncontrollable, and mean as hell.”
“You?” He shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t see it. You’re too pretty.”