The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [98]
He looked more closely at Charlie’s tray, congealing on the flat arm of his easy chair. “A TV dinner? This is what you eat? Grandfather—”
“Sometimes. So what? Siddown, I got something for you. Thought I’d have to wait till the weekend to give it to you.” He disappeared into the bedroom, but kept talking. “How come you didn’t go to that party thing at the office? If I’d known you were coming over, I’da baked you a cake.” He came back into the living room. “Ha-ha, okay, not baked, bought, but I’da put candles on it. Not every day a guy turns thirty-five.”
“It wasn’t a party, just some friends from work. We were going to meet up at a club and have a few drinks. Nothing special.”
“Yeah?” Charlie set a large, rectangular package on the coffee table, then collapsed on the couch. “So what happened?”
“Nothing, I just . . . We weren’t in the mood for it after . . .”
“Hah?” He cupped his ear. “Siddown, siddown. And speak up, I can’t hear you.”
Oliver found the remote and clicked off the TV. He sat down in deference to his grandfather, but he wasn’t in the mood for this either. He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. Hadn’t been for days.
“I said, nobody felt like partying very much after I told Sharon I was quitting.”
“Quitting? Did you say quitting?”
“I gave them two months’ notice.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Charlie slapped his knee. “Congratulations ! That’s great!”
“Why is it great?”
His delighted look faltered. “ Aren’t you glad?”
“Sure.” Glad? He supposed. After all the fretting, soulsearching, and list-making he’d done to make the decision, he ought to feel elated, if only to have it over with. Something was dulling his emotions lately. What he mostly felt was numb.
“So what’re you gonna do now?” Charlie asked. “Something big, I bet.”
“Start my own firm—try to. Small, much smaller than Cullen Pratt. I’ll focus on alternative energies—”
“Windmills,” Charlie guessed. “I always liked windmills.”
“Wind, solar, hydropower, geothermal, biofuels. It’s what I’ve been doing, but I think I can do it better on my own. I hope.”
“Oh, you will,” Charlie said with confidence.
“Or I could lose my shirt.”
“Nah, you’ll do great.”
“You think so?” A wave of affection welled up unexpectedly.
“Sure, absolutely. Anything you really wanna do, you’re gonna be good at it. That’s the way you are.”
“Thanks, Grandfather.”
“Don’t mention it. Open your present.”
“I wasn’t miserable at Cullen Pratt, you know. It’s a good firm, good people, but if I’m ever going to accomplish something on my own—”
“Right. You’re not getting any younger.”
“You put it so gently.”
Charlie nudged the package closer. “Open your present.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything.” The serious weight of the box surprised him; he had to get a better grip just to lift it. A hazy inkling awoke. He tore off the festive ribbon and paper with a curious, rising anxiety.
Inside the oblong box was exactly what he’d hoped for. Or feared. “The mustangs.”
Charlie was rubbing his hands together with excitement. “I got that before you were born, y’know, a little store in New York, I was up there on a buying trip, paid diddly, and guess what it’s worth now. Guess. Two thousand bucks! I know, I shouldn’t say, it’s a gift, but I wanted you to know, I’m not just unloading some old crap on your birthday.”
“I always liked it,” Oliver managed.
“I know! That’s why I picked it, it was your fave. This appraiser guy—there’s a card in there, explains everything—he says it’s ‘museum quality.’ Eighteen hundreds, limited edition. Hundred percent bronze, special casting process. Who knew? I’m gonna get more horses appraised—I could have a gold mine here! So, you really like it?”
“I love it. Thank you, Grandfather, it means a lot. But I don’t want to break up your collection—”
“Collection, schmolection, take it home, put it someplace you’ll see it. I want you to have it.”
Oliver leaned over and gave Charlie a wordless hug that left both of them a little misty-eyed. Charlie said this called for a drink and poured them brandies from a bottle he found at the back of a kitchen cabinet.