“What can we do for you, Mr. Stark?” I ask.
“We,” he repeats, then looks between the two of us. “We,” he says again, then actually guffaws.
I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter. I didn’t like this man before I met him, and I like him even less now.
“Ms. Fairchild asked you a question,” Damien says. “What can we do for you?” I can sense the low bubble of anger rising off Damien, and I hold tight to his hand. I’m certain that this man sitting so casually across from me either abused his son or was complicit in it, and I’m not sure if I’m holding on to Damien to give him support—or to keep from leaping across the limo and slapping the old man’s face.
Jerry shakes his head as if in defeat. “Damien,” he says, then leaves the name hanging.
My initial impression of him is someone oily and untrustworthy, but as I look more closely, I realize that he’s actually attractive, although a little too smooth. Like a man who discovered luxury late in life and has spent the rest of his time trying to play catch-up.
“I repeat,” Damien says, “what can we do for you?”
Jerry leans back in his seat, and his face takes on an unattractive, calculating edge. I can see a bit of how this man managed, despite his low income and working-class background, to maneuver his son onto the international tennis circuit. “What can you do for me? What can you do for me? Not a goddamn thing now. But this ain’t about me. It’s about you. And you managed to fuck it up real good.”
“Did I?” Damien asks coldly. “Let me explain the situation to you. You are in this car only because the lady insisted. If you want to earn the right to stay, then you speak, and you speak clearly. Otherwise, we are through.”
“You want clarity? How’s this: You’re acting like a damn fool, Damien Stark, and I may be a lot of things, but I am not the father of a fool. You get your high-class PR people to put some sort of spin on that nonsense you just spouted. You write a speech that would make angels sing. And you get your ass to that dedication on Friday, and you smile that photogenic smile, and you write a big, fat check if you have to. Because you need to do this, son. You need to push it through. You need to be goddamn squeaky clean, damn you.”
“Don’t call me ‘son.’ ”
“Goddammit, Damien!”
I watch the two men, trying to understand what is really going on here. Trying to intuit why Damien’s refusal to attend the dedication and his very public announcement as to the reason means so much to the elder Stark. Damien did not outright say that Richter abused him, and he certainly didn’t say that his father was involved. Is that what Jeremiah fears will come next? That once Damien spills one truth, the rest will come tumbling out? If, as I suspect, that truly is the rest.
I don’t know, and all I can do is hold tight to Damien’s hand.
Damien has not responded to the criticisms his father poured out. Instead, he has been staring at the elder man’s face, his eyes narrowed as if the older man’s features were some sort of equation with a missing variable.
When he finally speaks, I do not understand the context: “How much of this is your doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerry says, sitting up straight, his eyes wide as a child getting chastised. Even I can see that he is lying.
“Let’s get this straight,” Damien says. “I am not interested in your opinion or your help. Now get out. Edward, pull over.” We’ve circled three blocks, and now we’re at Pershing Square, two full blocks from where we started.
“I’m not even parked near here.”
“I don’t care,” Damien says. “Out.”
Suddenly, Edward is outside pulling the door open. Jerry hesitates, then looks from Damien to me. “Does she know? I wouldn’t tell her, Damien,” he says, and there’s malice in his voice. “If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.”
He gets out, and Edward immediately slams the door, as if the driver wants him gone as much as Damien and I do.
Damien runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“So, you’ve met my mom and I’ve met your dad. I guess that means we’re really dating.” I’m shooting for a light moment here, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay.”