Page 8 of Sins of the Father

"My new assistant, Orla Kelly," I answer. "Mother invited her, and she'll be taking notes on our business discussions, so you fuckers can’t lie and say you didn’t say what you said."

My father's eyebrows raise slightly. Bringing an outsider to Sunday dinner breaks our rules.

"An assistant at family dinner?" Eamon says with a smirk. "She must be quite capable."

"She is," I reply. “and mother invited her, would you have said no?” No one says no to mother—especially not my father.

My mother guides Orla to sit beside me, across from Eamon. I can watch her as she faces my brother.

Servers bring the first course. My father has at her right away, I knew he would. He has a thing about hiring pretty ladies—he thinks assistants should be ugly or gay. One too many affairs that nearly had my mother lop his balls off, I’m surprised it is not company policy.

"Where are you from, Ms. Kelly?" he asks.

"South Boston," Orla answers, meeting his gaze.

"And your family?"

"I don’t have any family, my parents died during the pandemic."

My father nods without sympathy. "Where did you go to school?"

"Boston College. I studied business administration."

More questions, he is like a dog with a bone. Previous jobs. Where she lives. Connections to other Boston families. Orla answers each one directly. Her story matches everything she told me during her interview.

My mother steps in when my father pushes too hard. "Tiernan, the soup will get cold. Perhaps we can learn about Orla throughout dinner rather than conducting an interrogation on the first course."

He grunts but changes the subject. Orla takes a small breath - the only hint she feels relief.

Eamon is quiet during the questioning, but he watches Orla the whole time. He looks at her as he would a potential threat. I plan to ask him about this later, I can tell he doesn’t like her. Any other day a woman that pretty came to dinner he’d be eye-fucking her.

The main course arrives, and talk turns to business.

"The shipment from Dublin arrives Tuesday," my father says, cutting his steak. "Traditional handling."

I put down my fork. "We should consider alternatives. The harbor master mentioned increased inspections, it is a risky one."

My father waves this away. "We've used the same plan for twenty years."

"Which makes it predictable," I counter. "I've been looking at northern routes with better margins and fewer eyes."

Eamon snorts. "Ever the Harvard man, trying to reinvent the wheel. It’s not broke, don’t try fix it."

Orla takes notes on her tablet, recording our discussion. She writes without looking down, paying full attention to everyone at the table.

"Progress requires change," I say. "Our competitors are using technology and crypto while we rely on methods from the last century."

My father's knife hits his plate. "Those methods built this house, paid for your education, and kept us out of prison. Respect what works. I want no part of that funny-money stuff."

My mother joins in. "Cillian makes valid points about change, Tiernan. Perhaps it is time for a compromise? Keep traditional channels open while testing Cillian's alternatives with some smaller shipments?" Orla looks surprised that my mother is the smartest man at the table.

The same argument continues through dessert - tradition versus innovation, old ways versus new ways. Orla watches and takes notes, she never says a word.

After dinner ends, my father gets up. "Cillian, join me in my study. Eamon, check with Connor about the warehouse situation."

My mother turns to Orla. "Would you like to see the garden? The jasmine smells wonderful this time of evening."

"Thank you," Orla says. "May I use the restroom first?"

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