Page 9 of Father Knows Best (A Family Affair #1)

five

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sutton

The Vows

Keats, Wordsworth, Dickinson, Byron.

The classic romantic poets are strewn before me, their most poignant words on love highlighted, tabbed, screaming out for me to analyze. Except, I have read through these. I’ve read the most arresting, adoring, angsty passages out of all of these.

Still.

I have no clue what to write.

Getting to my feet, I make an espresso, and while the machine works, I make a phone call.

“Sutton? Are you okay?” my Uncle Ford asks, the sound of booming bass and soft chatter filling in the line around him. He’s likely at one of his bars, and while it’s only going on noon, time and day of the week doesn’t really matter to high end club clientele.

“I’m good,” I answer, sliding the demitasse cup onto a saucer, walking back to where my notebook and pencil are lying helplessly at my kitchen island.

“But you’re calling me on a work day. In the middle of a work day, in fact,” Ford says, his voice filled with curiosity. At just thirty-five years old, I’ve managed to build a reputation as a man who never stops working, not unlike my Uncle Ford, or even my father.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I settle into the stool. “I took today off to get things done for the wedding.”

“Oh?”

I let out a long, heavy sigh, but I don’t feel any better after. “I’m working on my vows.”

Despite the fact that my Uncle Ford is and has been single for some time, he was the poster boy of a happy husband years ago, before my aunt passed.

Uncle Ford and my Aunt Katherine adored one another, and I remember, even as a kid, when my aunt passed, wondering how Uncle Ford would ever move on with his life.

He loved her so much–I think collectively, most people worried more for him than his kids.

Kat–short for Katherine, after her mother–and Cade were just four and six when Katherine lost her fight with cancer.

I’ve never seen or heard of my uncle being in a relationship since, and that was many, many years ago.

A man who loves that hard is a man to ask for wedding vow advice.

“And I’m completely lost,” I add, waiting for Ford to jump in.

Finally, he laughs. “Shut that door for me, won’t you sweetheart?” he says, voice muffled from his hand over the receiver. A door clicks closed somewhere in his setting. “Struggling with your vows, eh? We wrote ours, too.”

I sip the espresso, enjoying the immediate jolt of focus that hits my brain with the first taste. “I didn’t know that,” I admit.

“Yeah, we did. Katie–” he pauses after speaking her name–her nickname.

Only Uncle Ford called my Aunt Katie. We all called her Katherine, like Katie was only for him to use.

It’s not like the nickname was special or created in a moment of hilarity—still, Katie was just what Uncle Ford called her, and hearing him speak her nickname aloud gives us both pause.

“Katie wanted to write our own vows. Since we weren’t active in the church, repeating church vows felt disingenuous to her,” he remembers aloud.

“How’d you know what to write?” I ask him, staring down into the last few sips of caffeine.

I may feel more alert, but I’m no closer to vows.

It may be time to switch from caffeine to booze.

“Becuase I took today off to get my vows done, and to finish unpacking the rest of Avery’s stuff.

I’ve already unpacked everything the movers left last weekend, cleaned the house, and gone for a run. It’s noon and my mind is blank.”

Ford laughs. “You can’t force it just because you want to make the most of a vacation day, Sutton.”

I sigh. “That’s my fear.”

“They should come from the heart, be honest and real. It should be what comes into your mind when you think about Avery, and committing to her forever.” He pauses. “You went to the bookstore and purchased the romantic classics, didn’t you?”

I look at the pile of books with the most popular parts highlighted. “No.”

He laughs. “Yes, you did.”

I sigh. “Fine, I did. And not only do I still not know what to write, but after reading some of these, I’m starting to wonder if I can even write vows myself.

” I flip open the Emily Dickinson book to a neon yellow tab placed there by the girl working the bookstore counter.

I’d purchased these books last week, and paid her extra to tab everything that may help a person write wedding vows.

I drop my finger to the line and read it aloud.

“I think of love, and you, and my heart grows full and warm, and my breath stands still.”

Ford chuckles. “You’re not a Dickinson man, Sutton. You’re not a Lord Byron man, and you will not find a single line in anything Shakepeare has written that you can truly identify with. The vows need to come from you. You’re overcomplicating it.”

I scratch my head and get to my feet, abandoning the books in favor of pacing the length of my living room. “I think you’re probably right.”

My uncle laughs. “My best advice is to close your eyes and imagine Avery in that gown, standing in front of you, every whispered dream in the dark stretched out before you. What do you want to say to her?”

I close my eyes, and do what my uncle suggests, imagining Avery in a white gown, roses in her hands, blinking up at me, my name on her lips.

I would want her to know that I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone, more than I thought I could love anyone, in a way that I didn’t think existed until I met her.

I want to promise her a life of guaranteed happiness—because I vow to work as hard as I can every single day to make sure she’s happy.

“Well slow down now, don’t say everything at once or you won’t remember,” Ford jokes.

I laugh too. “No–I actually think that helped me. I may have been overthinking it.”

“I’m positive you were overthinking it, Sutton, that’s what you do.” He sighs. “Did you ask George for advice with this?”

“No,” I reply, shoving my free hand in the kangaroo pocket on my hoodie, I pace across the length of my living space, approaching the window facing my private drive.

Two cars are heading up, and speak of the devil, I recognize one.

From the side table near the couch, I grab my baseball hat and tug it onto my head.

“Actually, my father is just pulling up with someone else. I don’t know why he’s here.

I’ll have to call you back, Uncle Ford.”

“Hey–” my uncle’s voice rises, and I stop near my front door, focusing on him.

“What?”

“Ask Geo about your vows. He and your mother wrote theirs, too.”

I think about that. Did I know that? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I have zero plans to ask my father for advice related to weddings or relationships. “He’s the last person I’m asking for advice.”

“Sutton–” My uncle interjects but my father’s car door opens, and so does the door of the vehicle who came with him.

A tall man with silvering hair and broad shoulders, wearing what I recognize to be Kiton Italian cashmere suit, steps out of his vehicle—a brand new Bentley Bentaga—and shakes my father’s hand.

“I have to go, Uncle Ford. Thanks for the advice. I’ll call you later.”

“Talk to your father, Sutt. Okay? Promise me?” Ford asks before I offer him an empty “sure,” and end the call.

Thankfully I went for a long run today, and have a reason to be wearing track pants, sneakers, a hoodie and baseball cap in the middle of a Tuesday.

I may be out of office today, but a vacation day does not typically equate to not getting properly dressed.

Today was a special exception–stress. I’d planned to finish unpacking Avery, have a run, finish my vows and then put a few unexpected hours in at the office.

Normally I do not care for pop ins, but anything to give me momentary respite from these vows.

I love Avery. But finding the words for that love, in front of our friends and family, is where I struggle.

I pull open my back door and take the few steps down to the drive, adjusting the Giants baseball cap on my head.

“Sutton,” my father greets, adjusting the tie at his throat as he approaches, suited man in tow.

I nod my head at my father, and reach past him, extending my hand to the other man. He reaches, and shakes hands. The man looks familiar, like someone I’ve seen on Extra after the news is over in the evenings. “Sutton Mercer,” I introduce myself.

“Quincey Parker,” he greets, and the fancy suit and gleaming clip on his tie suddenly click in place.

He’s an attorney—a famous divorce attorney for jilted wives in the greater San Francisco area.

I have in fact seen him on TV, when he won a large settlement case for a socialite just a few months ago.

“Quincey, this is my son, the top sales agent at Mercer,” my father says, shoving his hands in his suit pockets as he stands between us. “Sutton, this is Quincey Parker, he’s an attorney at Parker and Pen, here in the city.”

I nod my head. “I’m familiar. I think I just saw you on Extra a few weeks ago.”

He rolls his eyes. “I fucking hate that shit. Those faux gossip news shows that highlight the worst parts of total strangers' lives. It’s sick.”

I nod my head again. “I agree.”

“Anyway,” my father wastes no time, and I never had a question as to why he showed up here.

Property. A Sale. Money. That’s the only thing between my father and I, so when he brings a client here, I know it’s because he needs the keys, code, information or something property-related.

“Quincey is interested in one of our properties in the FiDi,” my father says as I pull open the back door and guide the two men inside.