“So, your father is willing to give you––”
“I want my grandmother’s tea service, made by Paul Revere,” I told him. “If it was donated, if it’s been broken up, sold off in pieces, promised to someone else—whatever the case may be, that’s what I want. Period.”
“I—he’s prepared to give you––”
“That’s it, Mr. Lowell. Those are my terms. Take them or leave them.”
He cleared his throat. “If you would hold a moment, I have him on the other line.”
“Sure,” I said, looking out at Dallas’s backyard, at the palm, acacia, and mesquite trees, along with cholla cactus, more gravel, and what looked like mountain laurel, but I would have to ask to be sure. He came back on the line about ten minutes later.
“Mr. Esca, are you still there?”
“I am.”
He coughed softly. “Your father says that your terms are agreeable, though he believes you’re being short-sighted about the funds he’s offering and suggests that you put aside your pride and consider the options.”
It wasn’t pride. Perhaps early on, when I first left home, when I would have let myself die in a gutter somewhere rather than ask them for a dime, then, it was pride. But not now. Not for years. I couldn’t muster enough emotion, certainly not enough interest in them, for it to be pride.
“Explain to him that I want every piece, the entire service, including the sugar tongs, and I’m not signing anything until it’s delivered by private courier and I can take full inventory of the set.”
“Hold one moment, please.”
This poor guy, he was stuck in the middle of something insane. He probably never thought he’d be negotiating a treaty, with a tea set as a bargaining chip, for my signature on forged documents. But really, it was nothing more for me than remembering a new mother’s name, someone I already shared a last name with.
“Mr. Esca––”
“Still here, Mr. Lowell.”
He coughed again and sounded nervous. “Your father will have it delivered tomorrow, by private courier, to your home in Chicago, and––”
“No,” I said quickly. “Have it delivered to Torus Intercession in Oak Park, care of Locryn Barnes.”
“May I have the address of––”
I gave it to him, spelled Locryn, smiling, because just thinking of the surly, growly man checking for all the spoons and making sure the lid for the sugar bowl was included was enough to brighten this experience for me. I wasn’t losing my family; I was annoying the hell out of Locryn Barnes.
“You may have a day to inspect the service, and then I’ll email you the documents for your signature.”
“Let me give you my work email.”
After he took it down, there was another awkward silence.
“Is that all?”
His nervous tic of a cough then. “Yes. Thank you for your civility in this matter. I expected an altogether different interaction.”
“That’s because you’ve only dealt with the Graves clan, Mr. Lowell. I’m an Esca.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Quite.”
“Good day, Mr. Lowell.”
“And a good day to you, Mr. Esca.”
He was gone, and I had a moment, when I hung up, of interest in googling Whitlock to see what he looked like now, and my oldest brother, and their families, and my parents as well, but then, just as quickly, the mood passed because, really, it wasn’t important. We had nothing to do with each other.
I texted Jared and told him that nothing was happening with the op until tomorrow, and about my change of parentage and new birth certificate. It didn’t affect any of my licenses or my status at the firm; I just wanted him to know. I was surprised at the text back, asking if I was all right. When I told him I was, I realized I wasn’t lying.
I had entertained the idea that I might someday have a reconciliation with one of my brothers, if not with my parents. Since the idea of that was now impossible—my father was working on Whitlock’s behalf, after all—I took a moment to breathe in the chilly air and realized, with perfect clarity, that I was in no hurry to get back to Chicago.
The heavy glass door slid open behind me a while later, and I turned to find Dallas there, smiling at me.
“Whatever have I done to deserve such a daring grin?”
“You’re a sucker,” he announced.
“Oh?” I teased him.
“You told my mother we’d go to dinner?”
“No, you’ve been misinformed. What I told her was that I would ask you. I committed to nothing,” I apprised him. “Your mother is a very charming woman, but I wasn’t sure if you would want me there, and it wasn’t for me to commit to.”
His T-shirt was tight enough for me to admire those shoulders of his, and his bulging biceps, the muscled chest and washboard abs. The jeans clung to everything below his waist, his sculpted thighs and the heavy cock that was outlined a bit too perfectly.