AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Work is great. The firm I’m with is doing some fantastic things.
No, no. I’m not back for good. I’m just visiting.
No, we’re flying back to New York tonight. I’m just visiting.
Dozens of hellos. Countless small talks. And they all end the same way.
I’m just visiting.
Everyone has that look on their faces as if I’m the prodigal son, finally returning to claim his birthright.
After an hour, I feel my father’s thick hand on my shoulder. “Max,” he says, “walk with me.”
Before I can excuse myself out of it, he firmly shuffles me out of the sitting room. I’d kill for a distraction, for Thad to pull something that gets me out of it, but he’s busy having what looks to be a very tense conversation with David Larkin. The last time we saw him, Thad damn near broke his nose. Can’t wait to hear what that’s about.
I scan for Phoebe. She’s with my mother, who genuinely seems taken with Phoebe in the best of ways. Laughter and smiles; the whispers of girl talk in each other’s ears while my mother’s friends go on and on about who-knows-what. A welcome surprise for sure. Then again, my mother’s always had a knack for thinning my father’s ice. Maybe she can warm him up to Phoebe, too.
I feel better about leaving her alone as I walk deeper into the house. My father guides us into the hallway, clearly veering us toward his study near the end.
“You know,” he says, “it really is nice to have you home again, Max.”
“It’s good to be home,” I say for at least the twentieth time in the last hour. Sounds less genuine the more I say it, though.
He can tell.
“I know. I know the two of us didn’t leave on good terms before,” he says. “Christmas wasn’t my finest hour. But I’m hoping, now that you’re here, we can rectify that.”
He opens the door. I hesitate in the hall. This place was always off-limits to me growing up. No one was allowed in Keith Monahan’s home office, not even my mother, unless it was a dire emergency. It was his space. His sanctuary.
Now, he gestures me inside. As I walk forward, I glance at the shelves, the furniture. Each surface barely touched by dust, each item meticulously placed. Then I remember that Keith Monahan is that guy — the one who always gets his way.
Always.
I don’t sit down. “So, what’s up, Dad?”
He raises a hand, sensing my tension. “I’m not gonna pick a fight with you, Max. You’ve made your decision, and I accept that.”
“Thank you,” I say, still suspicious.
“But, since you’re here,” he opens the top drawer of his desk, “I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least show you what you’re missing.”
He retrieves a file and sets it on the desk.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s your birthday present, son.”
I pick it up, oddly curious, but more tense than ever. It’s a paper with a mock-up, a new logo for his firm, Monahan and Moon.
But now: Monahan, Monahan, and Moon.
I drop it back down, instantly furious. “So much for accepting my decision, Dad.”
“You were destined for greatness—“
“Oh, save it.”
“Think of what you can accomplish. What we can accomplish here, together, at our firm.”
