Page 85 of Return Billionaire to Sender

Howie grins, like something is suddenly hilarious. “How did you ever come up with it, Malcolm?”

“Come up with it?” I ask.

Howie’s laughing.

“What?” Clare looks back and forth between us. “Are you giving him guff, Howie? Stop giving him guff. It was thoughtful.”

“He doesn’t know,” Howie says. “He doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”

“Oh.” The fun expectancy is off her face. “Well, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t thoughtful.”

Howie’s laughing outright now. “It’s exactly what it means.”

“Howie,” she says, catching his hand, giving him a look of fond warning. He gives her a look back. Just that small, wordless exchange contains worlds—she loves him, and she’s scolding him, and he’s showing her something back. Love and interest. He’s saying, I know, I hear you, it’s all good. And she squeezes his hand harder, widens her eyes. She’s coming to my defense—this I realize with a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

Clare thinks I need defending.

I swallow. Before I can say anything, Howie speaks. “I’m his oldest friend,” he says. “If I don’t give him guff, nobody else will.” He pins me with a look. “The platter that you gave us as a wedding gift?” He angles his eyes down at it.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m so glad,” I say. It’s exquisite, and probably worth four figures, and I have no knowledge of it. That’s my assistant for you.

“We love it,” Claire says. “It’s our family’s favorite serving dish. And your clever little response to our thank-you note?” Her smile falters.

Howie smiles. “Mal’s got good people.”

“Well,” Clare says. “Either way, we love it.” Another warning look at Howie. But it’s not shaming, it’s full of love. She’s on Howie’s team. She doesn’t want him to be hard on his friend. She lifts him, and he lifts her.

“My assistant really is good,” I say. “She’s not to bother me with anything that’s not a death.” A confession. I don’t know why I make it.

“You must’ve provided some input,” Clare says, “or how would she have known about the tall ships?”

“She would’ve looked at Howie’s Facebook page and figured it out,” I say.

“So I’m assuming that wasn’t you congratulating me on the pennant win,” Howie says.

I wince.

Howie just laughs. “Only you would outsource your friendships,” he says.

It’s situations like this where I’ll usually say something like,oh I’ll be sure to dry my tears on the monogrammed towels I had made for my superyacht—hashtag priorities.But that’s not something I say to Howie.

“Well, if it works for you,” Clare says brightly.

But it would’ve meant so much if I’d picked it out myself. It’s the thought that counts, they say, but this gift is everythingbutthe thought.

And then one of the twins, Vivian, comes and sits on Howie’s lap and eats a cookie and traces an outline of the ship. “This one’s mine,” she says.

“The green one’s her favorite,” Howie says. “What do we do, Viv? What’s our dessert game?”

“Where are they going today?”

It turns out that they made a whole game out of the tray that I couldn’t be bothered to know about. They’re all on each other’s sides, imagining journeys together.

Howie and I have cigars on his deck after dinner. I want to ask him how to do what he does, but honestly, I can’t think how to form the question.

“It’s nice,” I say. “You have a nice family.”

“Is everything okay?” he asks.

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