Miss Delia's words come back to me, ringing through my mind. As I got older, I understood what my father was doing and why he didn't have a lot of time for me. I learned about obligations and responsibilities – not that I was always the best at those things. In fact, I'm still not the best at them, but I'm trying.
But when I was younger I sure didn't understand those concepts. All I knew was that my dad wasn't around as often as I would have liked. And for a while, I wondered if he just didn't like me enough to hang around with me. It's stupid to think about now. The childish thoughts of a kid. But to me, they were all too real back then.
And I don't want Nicholas to ever feel like that. I don't ever want him to question the fact that I love him and would love to spend more time with him. But I'm scared. Scared I'm going to screw something up with Nicholas. Scared I'll never be a good father. Scared I'll never be a decent man. I know I can be selfish. Impetuous. Impertinent. And while those qualities may play well on the party circuit, they don't exactly lend themselves well to being a good parent.
I'm absolutely torn and conflicted between wanting to still play the rich kid, being out there doing stupid, frivolous things – and wanting to be a good man and better father. These are thoughts I keep to myself though and I don't dare discuss them with anybody.
This is one of those things I'm just going to have to figure out on my own. I'm going to have to reconcile the two halves of my mind and find a way to be okay with it.
I want to believe what Miss Delia said. Want to believe that I can be a good man and a good father. But in that moment, as I look at my sweet, innocent boy, I'm having my doubts. And I fear that maybe Miss Delia's giving me far too much credit.
Chapter Six
“Brady, good to see you, son,” Kendrick's voice booms as I step into his office. “It's been a minute.”
I nod and give him a big smile as I shake his hand. “That it has.”
Kendrick has been a part of my family's fabric for as long as I can remember – I grew up calling him Uncle Kendrick. He was my father's lawyer when he started Keating Technologies all those years ago. He helped oversee my father's empire as it grew and expanded – and now he's my lawyer as well.
I trust Kendrick with pretty much everything in my life. He's a good man who's an absolute straight shooter. He'll tell me how it is, not what he thinks I want to hear. He's always been that way. It's what my father appreciated about him and what I appreciate about him as well.
Kendrick looks like he just walked out of central casting for a film looking for a Texan. He's pretty much what you think of when you think of Texans. He's big – easily six-foot-three – broad in the shoulders, thick in the chest. Although, he's starting to get a little bigger around the midsection – something I never fail to rib him about. He's got a neatly trimmed white beard, a larger than life, loud and boisterous personality, always wears snakeskin boots and is never without his white Stetson. Ever. I'm half-convinced he sleeps in it.
If he wasn't a lawyer – and a damn good one – I have little doubt he'd own a ranch somewhere and be raising cattle or something. He's just Texas through and through.
Kendrick's desk is a massive oaken monstrosity that he's inordinately fond of. He said it was recovered from the Alamo after the big fight there, but I've always thought that was more just a tall tale than anything – Kendrick does like to tell stories.
I drop down into the big, plush chair in front of his desk and put my black Stetson on the other seat. He's standing at the sideboard in his office and opens the small refrigerator set to the side of it.
“Beer?” Kendrick asks.
I glance at my watch and grin. “It's not even noon yet, Kendrick.”
He nods. “You're right,” he says. “Bourbon.”
He pours two tumblers of bourbon for us and hands me one before walking around the oak monster and dropping down into the chair behind his desk. The wall behind his chair is nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, giving me a perfect view of the San Antonio skyline. And in the distance, I can see the tall glass building that bears my father's name – my name.
I take a small sip of the bourbon and nod. “The good stuff,” I say.
“Have you ever known me to drink the cheap stuff?” he scoffs. “Son, there are two things I take very seriously in life – good bourbon and good football.”
I take another swallow and shake my head. “Well, at least your bourbon is good.”
Kendrick takes a long pull of his drink and shakes his head. “Yeah, that was a tough one last Sunday,” he said. “That Atlanta team is pretty good.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And this San Antonio team is pretty bad.”
“Well,” he says. “It's a young team. Lot of potential. Room to grow.”
“Which is a nice way of saying, they suck,” I say. “Euphemisms and platitudes don't become you, Uncle Kendrick.”
Kendrick laughs, his big, booming voice filling the room. “Fair enough,” he says. “I just know how serious you are about your Copperheads. I think you might even outdo me on that score.”
“I only wish Dempsey was as serious about the team.”
He sighs. “He's made some – questionable – moves,” he says. “I can see he's trying to get the team younger though. Develop some home-grown talent –”
“Which would be great if he were drafting anybody worth a damn,” I say. “But he's taking second and third-tier guys that nobody else was going to touch.”
Sitting there recounting my conversation with Dempsey is firing me up again. His arrogant and condescending attitude is entirely infuriating and makes me want to punch something. I half-expected him to pat me on the head and tell me to 'run along now' at the end of our meeting the other day.
But I'm not here to talk football. Not directly, anyway. Kendrick set the meeting because he has something else running through that big brain of his.
“You didn't call me in to talk about the Copperheads,” I say. “So, what's on your mind?”
He sighs big and leans back in his chair, tipping his hat back on his head. “You're twenty-eight now, kid,” he says.
I smile. “I am,” I say. “I'm staring the big three-oh in the face.”
Kendrick nods. “Yeah, that you are.”
He falls silent and just stares at me as if waiting for me to figure out his meaning. I take a sip of my drink and lean back in my own seat, starting back at him. I know what he's after – what he's going to say – he's called me in here for the same song and dance every year since my folks died. It's a conversation I don't particularly enjoy having – and he knows it.
But, as the executor of my parent's estate, it's his job to have the talk with me, so I play my role. For the most part.
After a moment, he chuckles and shakes his head.
“It's a shame you don't play cards, kid,” he says. “You've got a hell of a poker face.”
“Well, maybe I'll surprise you and show up to your monthly game.”
He guffaws. “Oh, I don't want to play with you, kid,” he says. “You'll take me to the cleaners.”
I finish my drink and set my glass on the corner of the desk. “I know why I'm here, Kendrick,” I say. “And the situation hasn't changed yet.”
He strokes his beard and nods thoughtfully. “Nobody even piquing your interest, kid?”
“Not really, no.”
He sighs. “You're starting to run out of time,” he says. “You know that, right?”
“I've got two years, Kendrick,” I say. “That's more than enough time.”
Kendrick laughs. “I forget sometimes that you kids today don't take much time to shop around.”
I shrug. “I figure that when I find the right one, I'll know.”
“And if you don't?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. “Find the right one?”
“I will,” I say. “I just haven't been looking all that hard yet.”
Kendrick leans forward and clasps his hands on the top of his desk. He looks at me for a long moment – much in the way I imagine a doctor would look at somebody right before telling them they have six months to live.