Page 96 of My Ex-Fiance's Best Men

“And he doesn’t want you to see him like this,” Maura replies with a nod. “However, you’re already here. Mr. Coates will just have to deal with it. Come, let me take you to the tearoom, and I’ll escort him down to see you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back,” Maura says after getting us settled in the tearoom.

“We’re not going anywhere,” I politely reply, then wait for her to leave before I finish my thought. “Even if we wanted to.”

“Screw it, we’re already here, right?”

“I haven’t been this nervous since we sat him down and told him we weren’t taking over the company like he wanted.”

“Hell, after that,” August sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, “everything else should be easy.”

“But it isn’t, is it?”

“Not with him, no,” he concedes.

Minutes pass in heavy silence as I glance around the room. Only then do I notice the abundance of framed photographs and newspaper prints. I move closer to gloss over them, surprised to observe a detailed record of our performance in the business sector.

“August, check this out.”

My twin joins me with equal fascination as we go over some of the photos and the headlines. “Coates Brothers Make a Killing on Wall Street with Secura 2.0,” August reads. “This is from five years ago.”

“I know. And look, here we are with the Under-Secretary of the Chamber of Commerce last summer.”

“The golf tournament we sponsored for that Silicon Valley fundraiser.”

“He’s been keeping track, August.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“I thought he hated it when we went into business on our own,” I mutter.

Our father’s voice startles us both. “I wasn’t happy about it, that’s for damn sure.”

“Dad,” I whirl around, and so does August. “We didn’t hear you come in.”

Instantly, I realize how bad his condition has gotten. Maura pushes his wheelchair into the tearoom, but then he waves heraway. “Just get us some cold drinks, darling, if you will,” he says, then shifts his focus back on us. “What brings you two all the way down here?”

Neither of us are able to answer because we’re still trying to wrap our heads around the sight of him. He looks so old and feeble, so breakable and fragile. He wears linen pants and a breezy shirt, his tan profoundly caramel. His hair is thinning and white as snow. He’s lost a lot of weight, and his steely blue eyes are sunken into his face.

“We wanted to talk to you. How’ve you been?” August finally says.

“Not as well as I’d like, but I’m still here,” Dad replies.

“I can see that. You don’t look too hot, either,” my brother tells him, unwilling to cut him any slack. I’m tempted to rein him in, but August has a heavy history with our father—perhaps more upsetting for him than for me. “What are the doctors saying?”

“The doctors can kiss my ass, August. I know I’m a dying man. I can feel it. What are you doing here?”

“Dad, we’ve got some news for you. We’re hoping you’ll see it as good news. We’re certainly happy about it,” I take over the conversation.

Dad thinks about it for a moment, then motions for us to join him at one of the round, glass tables by the window overlooking the pool. “Make yourselves comfortable, at least,” he says. “Ah, here comes Maura. Finest PA I’ve ever had.”

Maura smiles gently as she brings a tray of iced teas over—bold peach pink with plenty of sliced lemon poured into highball glasses. She sets it on the table, then politely leaves the room.

“Alright, what’s the good news?” our father asks after a tentative sip of his iced tea.

August and I look at each other. I let him handle it.