“I don’t... I want to discuss yours.”
My father looks at me from the corner of his eye and then gazes out the window into the dark night sky. He runs his hand through his hair and exhales, a habit I picked up from him and unconsciously mimic whenever Soph asks a question I’d rather avoid answering.
“Dad?”
He swallows hard and mumbles something, then closes his eyes and leans back in his seat. “Your mother and I love one another, Cove. But I was in prison for years and that can be trying on a man. I’m not the same person I used to be. I need to have time for myself each day, and you know how your mother can be... she’s suffocating.”
“No, she’s worried about you. She said you disappear for hours at a time, or the two of you will be in the middle of a conversation and you’ll stop talking and just zone out. Sophia and I can hear the two of you arguing every day. Maybe you should be in therapy after everything you’ve been through.”
He laughs sarcastically and shakes his head. “Wait, who needs therapy? I was beat up in prison, but I didn’t suffer the same abuse as you and Sophia. Your mother and I will be fine, let Sophia have that big heart of yours, don’t waste it on me.”
“Oh, knock it off,” I sigh. “We should all see a psychologist together, as a family. I’ll call and make an appointment tomorrow.”
“No,” he opens his eyes and glares at me. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go by myself. You don’t need to hear about my time spent in that cell and the things that happened, okay?”
“You know it will make everyone happy if you go.”
“I know.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, I’ll make the call,” he says.
“Good, Mom will be relieved.”
“Your mother needs to get out of the house more often, especially with someone other than myself. Every morning she’s in her art studio, and she doesn’t come out until late afternoon. She’s always been a little out of the ordinary compared to most woman, but I believe she’s turning into a recluse.”
“Dad, all she had to keep herself occupied when you were in prison were her paints and a camera. She’s been this way for years. You just didn’t know it because you weren’t here. At least the colors and content in her work are brighter and livelier than before.”
“She needs more friends, Cove. Besides you and Sophia, she only has the workers from the wine bar to keep her company, but she doesn’t see any of them outside of work.”
“We could all use some friends. I have Haverty, but he and his girlfriend aren’t the type to get into a deep conversation about politics or current events, or to take out to a fancy restaurant with Sophia. He’s got such a foul mouth.”
“So do you.”
I laugh and nod in agreement. “At least I can say I’ve met a lot of interesting and high-class customers while running The Dark Scarlett, but I’d like to meet some people who aren’t drunk or hanging out in a bar late at night. I suppose that’s not possible with our busy schedule. But yeah, friends would be nice.”
“Or a grandchild,” he mutters under his breath.
“Don’t fucking start. I have to hear this shit every day from Mom. When it happens, it happens.”
“Are you trying?”
I grin at the thought of what trying means to Sophia and me. Yep, on the coffee table, against the wall, in the shower, on the balcony, in the pool, sometimes in our office at the Scarlett, fuck, any place is a good place to be inside of that woman.
“I see,” my father smiles at the obvious thoughts filling my head.
“It will happen soon enough.”
“A name?”
“Ha,” my face lights up. “Not Cove.”
“No? Not a Cove Ambrose Everton the fourth? Your grandfather’s turning in his grave right now.”
“Sophia likes names of cities, states, and places, and who said it would be a boy? If it’s a girl we can’t name her Cove.”
“Of course you can. You can name a child anything.”
“Anything in good taste that is, but anyway, Sophia likes Dakota, Jackson, Brooklyn, and Ocean.”
“Ocean? How is that any different from Cove?”
“Don’t know, it’s what she likes,” I shrug. “If she’s gonna go through a pregnancy and get all fat and hormonal and shit, she can name the baby anything she wants. I trust her, and so far I love the names she’s thinking about... except for Ocean. I believe that one will pass.”
“But what if she calls the baby Thor, or Dracula, or some horrendous serial killer name like Wayne Gacy?”
“Then those are good names too. I kind of like Thor Everton, maybe I should suggest that one to her, tell her it’s one you thought up. She might go for it.”
“Now you’re just being an ass,” my father shakes his head and laughs. “Okay, if you trust your wife to give my grandchild a decent, strong, significant name, other than Thor, then I trust her as well, but don’t tell your mother she doesn’t have a say in this. It will break her heart.”
“Don’t worry... I can only imagine the names she’ll come up with, if she hasn’t already started a list,” I exhale. “You both need to give us some time. Like I said, when it happens...”
“So everything’s okay then?”
“After this final trip, and no more long hours with detectives about Paul’s business, Jameson Industries, his house, my past, the abuse, your past, identifying people in videos, and all those fucked up years in the porn industry, yes, everything’s okay. I’m going home to my beautiful wife and will focus on her and The Dark Scarlett. Opening that wine bar was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.”
My father nods and pats my leg in a loving gesture. I stare at his fingers and remember when another inmate in prison broke them, every last one, and then proceeded to slam his head against the concrete floor... just for a cigarette, which my father didn’t have.
I share his features, tall, fit build, same dark eyes, dark brow, and brownish-black hair, similar to my mother as well, only prison has aged him, and his hair now has strands of gray while scars zigzag across his body. There’s a line that runs along his jawline and another under his eye where he had stitches. I often look at his arms which are covered with prison tattoos, and one I wish he’d have covered with another tat. It’s just two words, sweet boy, and I imagine it refers to his role with other prisoners and doesn’t have any reference to me. I’m not a big fan of tattoos, not after I was forced to have one as a kid... the one for the porn industry... my wife says her father’s company branded all of us like cattle. She covered hers, changing it from Property of Jameson Industries to a dove. Very plain, yet meaningful. It’s what my father called her when they first met, the one woman who may be able to offer peace to his son. I often find myself calling her “beautiful,” especially when she flaunts her naked flesh and throws me her fuck me face, while other times, because of the tat, I’ll refer to her as “Beautiful Dove,” or just “Dove.”
The tat I picked out for myself was the first one I saw at the tattoo parlor. A black rose, with razor sharp ends, subtle, just the size to cover the tat from the porn industry. My mother was horrified when she saw it, assuming it represented death or a dark soul, but the black rose also signifies the end of an era and for myself, the start of a deep commitment to Sophia. She chilled out when I explained my interpretation. I thought my mother, of all people, would be a bit more tattoo savvy since her one leg is covered from ankle to upper thigh with them. But I’ve been more than a little depressed from months of being questioned by detectives, so her first reaction to my choice of design was understandably a negative one.
I look away from my father’s arms and back to his face... his scars.
I didn’t notice his weakened state the day of his release from prison. The excitement of having him back in my life blinded me to the extent of his injuries, and I saw only a free man. A man who gave up everything to ensure my mother and I remained alive. I was eighteen when he was set up by Paul and arrested. Sometimes I still get lost in that time period, fantasizing about my compassionate, soft-spoken father of the past. He’s right. Prison did change him, like Paul’s porn industry changed me... fuck, I’ll never be able to get that fucker out of my head.