Page 90 of Broken Rules
Walking to the chair, I plop down and stare at him with my elbows on my knees. He removes the oxygen from his nose, letting the tube hang by his chin, and exhales a heavy breath. “Son. If you didn’t want to take over the mill, you should’ve told me so. All these years you’ve been there, and not one word.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to either or to disappoint you. Yet, I did all the jobs you piled on, even when you knew it was too much for me to do on my own, how you saw the toll the jobs took on my body. I did them because you would’ve overworked yourself if I didn’t. Clearly, I was right.”
His jaw clenches as he shakes his head. “Who’s right or wrong...that’s not the point. Yes, I’m hard on you, just like your grandfather was training me to take over the mill. Hard work builds character, and I’m proud of the man you’ve become, Son, believe me. I want to pass down the company, so you’ll be set, but not by force. Only if you want it.”
Nodding a few times, I lean back in my seat, tapping my foot on the floor. “I want to be a carpenter.”
His brows raise as he looks straight at me. “Woodworking? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you working on anything now? Any finished products? A shop?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “No shop, but I’ve been using the empty office at the mill on Sundays for my bigger projects. Your coffee table is one.”
“The river table? Well, I’ll be damned—talent right under my nose this whole time. Shows how much I pay attention.”
“It’s alright, Pops. Old age will do that to ya.”
He lets out a gruff laugh as I smirk at him. “Old…right.” Glancing at the door, he adds, “Your wife, when did this happen?”
“New Years.”
“And you love her?”
My eyes sting just thinking about Evie. “More than anything.”
“Good. A piece of advice my father told me is never go to bed on an argument, settle your differences at the end of the night because time is unpredictable, and you’re never promised tomorrow. Live up your life, kid. You don’t want to be my age, wishing you’d done more, and I’m glad you went to Italy. Shit, I’m more bitter I didn’t get an invite.”
We both chuckle, and I reach over to rest my hand on his. “Sunday, 6 a.m. You, me, a boat with two rods and a twelve-pack of beer.”
“Just like the old days.”
“Only this time, I’ll be of legal age to drink.”
Mom and Evie come into the room giggling while Dad leans close to me. “Let’s keep that between you and me, alright?”
“Right.”
I walk over to Evie and draw her into me, resting my nose in the crook of her neck. “I missed you.”
“And I learned a lot about you.” She whispers into my ear, “Dirty boy.”
Groaning, I lift my face to glance over my shoulder at Mom sitting by Dad. “What stories?”
Evie shrugs, trying hard to hold back her laugh. “Just a friendly reminder to never leave flour, baby powder, peanut butter, paint, in fact, anything in liquid form unoccupied around our future toddlers to save my sanity.”
“Hm, what can I say? I was a wild child.”
“Yup. I had a head full of grey hair by the time I was thirty,” Mom says with a smirk. “But I wouldn’t change a thing of the past. Nothing a bottle of hair dye couldn’t fix.”
“Also, a bottle of wine with a massage at the end of the night.”
Evie chews on her bottom lip, and I raise a brow. “That can be arranged.”
Dad lets out a hearty chuckle. “Be careful there. That’s how you were made.”
My face screws up with the image that popped into my head. “Alright, time to go. Love you guys. See you tomorrow.”
