Page 29 of Old Money

“Happy Thanksgiving, Cato.”

I started calling him by his first name when I started working for the business. I couldn’t walk into board meetings calling him “Dad.” But then, it just sort of stuck. A few more of our relatives arrive: my dad’s two sisters, their husbands and our cousins, and one of four great-aunts that’s still alive.

We make painful small talk, pose for a few professional photos that will be slapped up on the family website, and then finally sit down to eat. My father’s dining room has a table that’s almost as grand as the one at Bedell House, seating thirty in a room with windows for walls that overlooks the sound. In the summer, the windows lift open, extending the room out onto the massive terrace.

My brothers and I all sit at one end of the table with a few more of our cousins, and once the food has been served, we all sort of break off into our own private conversations.

“So,” Brooks says with a little devilish spark in his eye, “I called over to Bedell House this evening to see when the tours start. Talked to my boy Roadie.”

I look up at him, eyebrows raised, as I take a sip of the shitty-tasting expensive wine that Angelina picked out. Fuckin’ Roadie. He’s one of the security managers on site at Bedell House. And he’s got a big fuckin’ mouth.

“Oh?” Keaton says, taking a bite of his food.

“Heard a certain brother of ours was on property today, with an unknown female guest. Saw them on the cameras entering the family quarters,” Brooks says with a stupid smirk on his face as he takes a sip of his shitty wine. Keaton looks to him, then to me, then back to him.

“Julian?” he finally asks.

“Showing off the family digs now, are we?” Brooks says, playfully punching my shoulder.

“Fuck off, Brooks,” I say, shaking my head as they both chuckle.Fuck.

“Who was she?” Keaton asks, dabbing his face with a napkin and looking up at me.

I shrug. No fucking way am I telling anyone—even my brothers—about her. The quieter I keep her, the more I can protect her.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, punching Brooks back. “Asshole.”

They both laugh again as my father clinks his glass and stands at the head of the table.

“Family, family,” he says, “before we have the desserts brought out, I just wanted to take a moment to let you all know how grateful I am for each of you around this table. I am one of the luckiest bastards on this planet, and much of that is because of the family I surround myself with.”

I almost snort in my wine.

Give me a fucking break.

“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!” he says then sits back down.

I turn to my brothers again when I hear my father clear his throat.

“Oh, uh…did anyone see the news? An anonymous donor paid for all the funerals of the victims of the Carrington shooting.”

My eyes dart to him, but he’s already looking at me. There’s a little bit of a pause.

“Well, that is certainly such a nice thing to do,” my Aunt Madeline says. But my father never takes his eyes off me.

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Julian…didn’t you give a speech at Carrington right around the same time as the shooting?”

I swallow the bite I’ve been chewing for too long and look at him.

“I was supposed to. It got postponed, for obvious reasons,” I say. I know what he’s trying to do. To the ignorant eye, it may look like a father who’s proud of their child’s selflessness, charity, philanthropy.

But to me, the trained eye of the son of Cato, I know he’s trying to take the anonymity out of it. He wants the Everett name attached to it. He wants the credit.

Which is precisely why I paid for everything out of my personal accounts rather than any account attached to any of the businesses, so he had no line of sight to it.

He nods slowly, realizing he’s not going to win this one. There won’t be any big admission tonight that he can slip to one of his PR managers tomorrow.

We glare at each other in a standoff for what feels like forever, until the servers come out to take our plates and bring dessert.

---