Page 3 of Summer in Kentbury
I can’t help but scoff at her idealistic vision of the future. “And he makes you happy?” The question comes out heavier than a lead balloon, weighed down by the unspoken implications of our own failed marriage.
“He does,” she confirms, her voice both firm and soft. “He really does, Sinclair. And I hope you find that too. Love, happiness and a true reason to exist. Your father’s approval isn’t what life is all about.”
I snort, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of my vast office. All the while juggling a billion-dollar fund and pleasing the old man? I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “I’m okay with my life, Clara. People depend on me. I just can’t stop listening to my father just because my wife thinks that’s not healthy.”
“Ex-wife, Sinclair. We’ve been divorced for almost eight years, but I’m sure you haven’t noticed that just yet because you’re too busy dealing with your father and his wishes.” I can practically hear her eyes roll through the phone. “And I’m not trying to change you anymore. Been there, done that and moved on from the hellhole we lived together. I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”
I feel a pang of guilt in my chest, knowing that she’s right. Dad, my family, and the amount of hours I spent in the office were always part of the problem between us. She wanted more of my attention. Vacations together. I paid for her to travel around the fucking world, wasn’t that enough? I run a hand through my hair, frustration mounting.
My mouth is dry as I struggle to find the right words, the bitter taste of regret and missed opportunities. Yet, I don’t even know what I missed. Most of all, I feel like I failed at life because no one told me the rules of marriage. It’s not like I’m the only one of my family who’s divorced. Barnaby has been divorced twice. Raffa, Paul, Louanne . . . fuck we all failed at this whole love thing, except for the youngest McFolley.
McKay always lived by her own rules and defied our father. Even when he disowned her, she did what she wanted and I heard she’s happy with her fiancé. Now even Paul and Lou are living in the same small town. And Lou found love too. Maybe all the failed relationships aren’t a family curse but something else I’ve yet to discover.
“That’s just it. You always have a choice, Sinclair. You chose this life, the late-night mergers, the dinner deals, boardrooms over birthdays,” Clara brings me back from my own thoughts, her words slicing through my defenses. “Our marriage failed because you wanted—still want—to show the world that you’re daddy’s perfect son. Maybe you should learn to live for yourself—do something for you.”
Honestly, I’m not sure how to reply. Was it achoice? I never had a chance to make decisions. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my desk as I try to gather my thoughts.
“I’ve lived,” I say weakly.
“For what, Sinclair? Approval from your father? From the board?” Clara’s voice grows tender. “I had to leave when I realized that I couldn’t compete against any of them, I just gave up. What’s the point of being with a person who only wants you because you look the part? And maybe it’s time you ask yourself that about those around you. Does your father really care about you? I mean, look what happened to your sisters Lou and McKay. He disowned them for not following his wishes.”
I feel a lump forming in my throat, the weight of her words settling heavily on my shoulders.
“Exactly, is that what you want him to do to me?” I tighten my grip on the phone, my other hand relaxing from its earlier fist. And maybe I don’t even know what I’m missing, but I can’t tell her that because that would be acknowledging that I never loved her the way she deserved—or at all. I swallow hard, pushing down the unwanted emotions.
“You have everything you ever wanted, Sinclair,” Clara states slowly, “except maybe what you truly need.”
I peer out at the city again, trying to figure out if I should hang up or continue this nonsense. “And what’s that, Clara?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a pause, and for a moment, I think she might not answer. But then, her voice comes throughthe line, soft and full of an emotion I can’t quite place. “Love, Sinclair. Real, unconditional love. The kind that makes you want to be a better person, not just for them, but for yourself.”
Her sigh fills the phone line, echoing a decade of insight. “To figure that out, you might have to start by letting go of what you think you need to be.”
The line grows quiet, the silence stretching a moment too long. “I hope you find it, Sinclair. I truly do. Because . . . it’s time to move forward, meaning no more contact and . . . it’s time for us to close this chapter and say goodbye.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me, my throat tightening with emotion. “I’ll make sure my lawyer handles everything that needs to be signed,” I say finally, my voice gruff. “In fact, you should keep the house. After all, you chose it and made it a home. If you don’t want it, you can sell it and create some college fund for those kids you always wanted.”
I know toward the end she was angry that we didn’t have any children, but isn’t this better? They didn’t have to be a part of a broken home. Hopefully Sam will give her what she deserves.
“Thank you, Sinclair. For everything.”
“I wish you nothing but happiness, Clara.” I hang up the phone, letting it clatter slightly against the glass desk as I turn back to the Boston skyline, her words settling deep inside. The office suddenly feels colder, the city more distant. I’m left wondering how much of my life has been merely lived and how much merely spent.
I stand and stride to the window, pressing a handagainst the glass. The city sprawls before me, a sea of glittering lights diffused by wisps of fog rolling in from the harbor. Down below, cars creep along jammed streets, tiny metal beetles scurrying home. Up here, I’m removed from it all, alone in my tower of glass and steel.
Maybe it’s time to start looking further than what I can see, beyond the endless chase. But is there anything that can make Sinclair McFolley happy? I furrow my brow, the question weighing heavily on my mind.
I chuckle to myself, a low, ironic laugh. It’s ridiculous. Sinclair McFolley, the man who could negotiate multimillion-dollar deals before breakfast, unsure of . . . well, pretty much everything else. I shake my head, a wry smile tugging at the corners of my lips.
My phone rings again, the shrill tone cutting into my brooding thoughts like a knife through the artisanal cheeses my brother Paul is so fond of. Speak of the devil, it’s him calling from his hippie commune in Vermont. Where people apparently retire in their 30s to live among trees and insufferably cheerful neighbors.
“Who the fuck does that?” I mutter under my breath, glaring at the phone vibrating across my desk. With a resigned sigh, I snatch it up and slide to answer.
“McFolley,” I answer, even when I know it’s my brother on the other side.
“Hey, Sin,” Paul greets me, his voice echoing the chirpiness of someone who has never encountered rush hour traffic. “Got a minute?”
“I always have a minute for you, Paul. What’s the latest? Cow tip over a lantern?” I joke, settling back into my chair, a smirk playing on my lips.
