Dirty Little Secrets(89)
Releasing her and setting her back on her feet, I shook hands with my father. It’s weird; it’s not like he’s distant or anything, but there’s something about him that says he’s not the sort of man to exchange hugs with. I’m the spitting image of Gerald Brandt. Both of us stand six foot four, and while the middle age spread has started to affect his waistline, Father is still lean for his age and sports a large frame. “Father, it’s great to see you. I missed you both.”
“Welcome back, son,” he said. “Now kick off your shoes and have a seat on the sofa. Rebekah and I were just getting ready to watch something on Netflix. I already have the cheese and crackers ready, but Winston can get you something else if you want.”
“No, I’m good,” I replied, sinking into the soft cushions. “I ate on the flight home.”
“You look like you’ve lost weight, dear,” Rebekah commented as she arranged herself on the other end of the long couch. It was almost a ritual of hers. She always said that, no matter what. Wearing jeans and a sweater, she looked nothing at all like the noted surgeon and medical school instructor that she is. That’s kind of how she is, and I’ve seen her at work. In the hospital, she’s straight out of Central Casting, all tight figure, icy demeanor, and all business. At home, though, she’s a great stepmom, warm and friendly. “Didn’t the Eastern European food agree with you, Wesley?”
I had to work hard not to roll my eyes. She always did worry about me too much. “Polish food is fine. I just picked up a bit of a bug the last week, and I didn’t feel like eating too often. Powered through on energy drinks and Vitamin C pills.”
She grumbled at my answer, causing my father to laugh. “Rebekah, can’t you see he’s just jerking your chain? Every time you mention his health, he gives you a ration of bull about his eating and bad habits, just to watch you squirm and grumble. Look at him. He couldn’t keep that physique without eating well.”
“He should treat his stepmother better than that, or else I’ll become the wicked stepmother on him,” she teased, “and you’ll be doing your next work assignment in between scrubbing out the kitchen!”
This time I rolled my eyes and chuckled, turning my attention to the television as Father scrolled through the selections. Before he could settle on a program, Winston came in and whispered in his ear. “Really? Excellent news, Winston! Please inform Chef to adjust the meals for four.”
Winston nodded and walked out, and Father turned toward us, “Robin is coming home for dinner as well, it seems. Wow, this will be the first family dinner in what . . . more than six months?”
Mom beamed at the news. “My baby is coming to dinner? Oh, this will be like old times. But Wesley, you have to promise me: no teasing Robin, okay?”
I grinned, burying my feelings at the mention of Robin under a long-practiced mask. “Come on, Rebekah, I haven’t seen Robin since I left for Europe. You can’t expect me to totally behave now, can you?”
“Sorry, Wes, but I agree with Rebekah here,” Father said. “You may not have heard, but Robin has been having a rough time lately. She broke up with her boyfriend not long ago, and she said something about having trouble at work. So I’m sure she’s probably not in the mood for your normal shenanigans.”
Chagrinned, I nodded. “I didn’t know, sorry. I’ll do my best. Sheesh, how many boyfriends is that now in the past year? She sure can pick ‘em.”
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it?” Father said, putting an end to my comments. Father knew that if I was allowed, I’d talk about Robin for at least an hour. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to at least get a little bit of TV in before Robin comes home.”
* * *
Robin
Up until that point, I don’t think I’ve ever had a worse day in my life. Driving up the road toward my parents’ home, the wind whistled through the hole in my windshield, courtesy of a baseball that was now sitting in the passenger seat of my car. Underneath the baseball was something even more painful, a letter from my boss at Venture Robotics that informed me that I was being placed under what was being called “administrative leave,” and what amounted to an unpaid suspension.
I had read the letter twice already, fuming. It was seriously hard not to just rip the whole thing to pieces, or pretend to wipe my ass with the paper. As if what had happened was my fault? Sure, I was the head designer of the part on the drone that failed and caused it to blow up, a loss of over three million dollars. But I knew that I designed the system right. It was the damned military and their hot-shot pilots who couldn’t pay attention to their briefings that destroyed the robot.