“You do?” Cameron’s heart hammers, but is it from nerves, or rage? Somehow the idea of socking or extorting this guy seems preposterous.
“Why do you think I suggested this venue?” Simon Brinks waves a hand around the tiny room. “As I’m sure you’ve discovered, I have lots of offices and properties, but this place was originally for Daphne. It’s the perfect spot for us to meet.”
Cameron’s pulse is pounding now. For Daphne? Is Brinks about to fess up to a lifetime of deadbeat parenthood, just like that?
Simon smiles. “You met Natalie.” He tips his head toward the doorway behind the bar, through which the grass-haired girl had disappeared. “She knows the whole story.”
“The whole story.” Cameron can barely force the words out.
“Well, sure. She’s my daughter.”
Daughter. His head whirls. A father and . . . a sister? Before he can stop himself, his eyes dart to the doorway behind the bar again. Could that girl with the strange hair really be his half sister?
Simon clasps his hands and leans on the bar. “You have your mother’s eyes, you know.”
“My mother.” Cameron swallows hard.
“Daphne always had those incredible eyes.”
Cameron sucks in an embarrassingly sharp breath. She did have pretty eyes, didn’t she? He wonders whether he’s inventing this or if he actually remembers.
“Anyway,” Brinks says, with a slight shrug that seems to knock the conversation in a more casual direction. “Can I pour you a drink?”
“A drink?”
“I make a mean old-fashioned.”
“Uh, a beer is fine. Whatever you have,” Cameron blurts. His ears burn. Why does he care? Is impressing one’s father a hardwired predisposition?
Without a word, Brinks reaches down into a below-counter refrigerator and rises again with two longnecks clutched between his fingers. The bottles hiss as he pops the caps. “Cheers,” he says, lofting one.
“Cheers,” Cameron echoes. How bizarre will this story be later? When he tells it to Avery and Elizabeth, in turn?
“So, you have questions about your mother, naturally,” Brinks says, after a long pull on his beer.
Cameron pulls himself up by the shoulders. No more chickenshit. His voice is even when he says, “I have questions about you.”
“Oh?” Simon cocks his head. “Okay, well. Everyone thinks I’m some sort of enigma, but for you, I’m an open book.” He smiles. “So, shoot.”
“Why did you . . .” Cameron swallows, then regroups before trying again. “I mean . . . how could you . . .” A sob messes up his throat. Why didn’t he make a secondary plan for when the words wouldn’t come?
“How could I what?” Simon Brinks scrapes his chin. “Let her go? Well, I cared about her.”
Cameron’s face hardens, and his voice is pure acid when he spits out, “But you never cared about me.”
“You? Of course I care about you. You’re her son. But what could I do, once she was—”
“I’m your son, too!” Cameron’s voice cracks.
Simon Brinks takes a step backward, recovers. “I’m sorry, Cameron. You’re not,” he says softly.
“I’m your son,” Cameron repeats.
Brinks shakes his head. “That’s never how it was with me and Daphne.”
“But it must have been.” To Cameron’s horror, his chin starts to tremble. He knew this might happen, right? The whole thing being a dead end. He prepared himself for this, or tried to. So why is he about to lose his shit right now?
“Like I said, I’m not surprised you’re here, Cameron, but—”
“Why did you give her your class ring?” Cameron fishes it from his pocket and drops it onto the bar. Simon picks it up and a faint smile comes over his face as he examines it. When he turns it over and looks at the underside, the smile fades.
“This isn’t mine,” he says quietly.
“Oh, come on. I saw the picture.”
Brinks carefully places the ring on the bar. “Daphne was my best friend,” he says. “Look, I know how that sounds, but we really were just friends. Best friends.”
Cameron is about to fire back. But then he remembers Aunt Jeanne’s constant digs about him and Elizabeth. A heavy feeling sinks through him like a lead balloon. He’s no closer to finding his father than he was two months ago.
“You never, um . . . slept with her?” Cameron hates how crass the question sounds.
“No, I did not.” Brinks chuckles. Then his face goes somber. “Look, I’ll do a cheek swab if you want. I’m a hundred percent sure on this one.” He picks up the class ring and turns it over again before replacing it on the bar. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
He returns a few minutes later with a beat-up hardcover book and something cupped in his hand. The book gives off a puff of dust when he sets it on the bar. The cover reads SOWELL BAY HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 1989. Presumably the source of all those photos someone scanned and posted, including the one of Simon and Daphne on the pier. Then Brinks extends his palm. “This one is mine, see.”
Cameron picks up the ring and holds it in his left hand, while holding one he’s brought with him in his right. The weight feels identical. So close, yet . . . wrong.
Brinks tips his head toward the back of the bar. “There’s a big unfinished space back there. I use it for storage. But I suppose it’s also sort of fitting that all this high school stuff lives down here. It was supposed to be our place, after all.”
“Our place”? What’s that supposed to mean? Cameron turns the ring over, expecting to see the EELS engraving, but to his surprise, it says SOB.
“What’s SOB?” he asks.
Brinks chuckles. “My initials. I’m Simon Orville Brinks. Mind you, I don’t advertise that, because the jokes practically write themselves. Lucky son of a bitch, huh?”
Cameron stares at the two gold rings on the bar top. “You had it engraved with your initials? Did everyone do that?”
“Most people did, I guess.” Brinks shrugs. “Lots of people tried to get cute with the personalization. A bunch of youth-group types all got theirs with ‘GOD.’ And I’m sure more than one kid had a ring that said ‘ASS.’ I thought about getting ‘ASS,’ but my mama would’ve shanked me.”
“Do you remember anything about this one?” Cameron picks up EELS. Whoever he is, he must be a big fan of marine life. Or sushi. Did he pay extra for that fourth letter?
Brinks shakes his head. “I wish I could help you.”
“You don’t know EELS?”
Brinks adds softly, “I never knew my father, either.”
“Yeah, and somehow you still ended up a zillionaire.” Cameron’s shoulders slump.
“I worked hard,” Brinks says, and there’s an edge to his voice now. “Look, I came from Sowell Bay, too. Do you know how your mother and I met? Became best friends?”
“Um . . . no?” Cameron honestly hadn’t thought about this. Even when he thought they were together, he’d assumed they met at school, like everyone else.
“We lived in the same crappy apartment building; she lived there for a while our junior and senior year,” Brinks says. “On the wrong side of the highway.”
“I didn’t know there was a wrong side of the highway in Sowell Bay.”
Brinks lets out a hard laugh. “Well, these days, the whole place is sort of on the wrong side of the highway, but it’s turning back around.” His tone shifts; he’s talking business now. “Lots of development these last few years. I’m doing a waterfront condo project up there. Really nice units.”
Cameron nods. For a sparse second, he wonders whether Brinks would hire him to work the project. But he’d probably ask for references, and, well . . . that’s a no-go. Even for his former best friend’s son.
“Anyway.” Brinks leans over, propping his elbows on the bar again. “I asked you to meet me here instead of at my regular office because I thought you might get a kick out of seeing it.” He picks up the cocktail menu and, staring at it, says, “Like I said, I made this place for her.”