Chapter 5 - The Memory of Rain
By nine o'clock, Table 42 was no longer a forgotten corner.
It had become the epicenter of the room. The hotel management had rushed six waiters to our section, replacing the clearance-rack atmosphere with fine crystal, vintage champagne, and silver platters of prime rib. Senators came over to shake my hand; young officers asked for career advice; and Evelyn’s family—a distinguished dynasty of decorated Marines—sat around me, treating me with the quiet warmth I had been denied for two decades.
Across the room, Table 1—where Conrad and Damian were supposed to sit—was completely empty.
My father sat alone at a small bar near the back exit, nursing his melted scotch. Damian was outside on the terrace, frantically screaming into his cell phone as he tried to mitigate the fallout of the defense contract news.
I excused myself from the table and walked toward the high arched doors that opened onto the hotel’s private courtyard garden.
The night air was cool and damp. A light drizzle had begun to fall over Charleston, misting against the polished cobblestones and the white marble statues surrounding the fountain.
I leaned my back against a stone pillar, closing my eyes, taking a long, deep breath of the rain.
“It smells the same,” a voice said from the shadows.
I opened my eyes.
Conrad stood ten feet away under the shelter of the overhang. He looked stripped of his majesty. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his silver hair was damp from the mist, and the sharp, piercing light in his eyes had been replaced by a hollow, haunting emptiness.
“The rain,” Conrad added, his voice raspy. “It smells the same as the night you left.”
“I remember,” I said, keeping my posture relaxed.
Conrad walked slowly toward me, stopping three feet away, staring down at my face as if searching for some remnant of the nineteen-year-old girl he had discarded.
“I spent twenty-one years believing I was right,” Conrad whispered, his fingers trembling at his sides. “I told myself that a daughter who defied her father was a broken link in the chain. I told myself you would come crawling back when you realized how hard the world was without my money.”
“The world is hard, Conrad,” I said gently. “The Navy was harder. But unlike you, the Navy didn't care about my last name. It only cared about whether I could stand the watch.”
“I destroyed my own house,” Conrad choked out, tears finally breaking through his aged eyes, tracking down the deep lines of his face. “I spent twenty-one years boasting about building a legacy... and the only thing of real value this family ever produced was sitting at Table 42, wearing a clearance dress.”
“You didn't produce me, Conrad,” I said, stepping closer, looking him dead in the eye. “You threw me away. The ocean produced me. My sailors produced me. My own choices produced me. You don't get to claim the fruit of a tree you tried to chop down.”
He pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest—an heirloom passed down through four generations of Voss men—and held it out to me with shaking hands.
“Take it,” he sobbed softly. “Please, Elise. Take it. Let people know you come from something.”
I looked at the gold watch. It was heavy, expensive, and useless.
May you like
I pushed his hand gently back toward his chest.
“Keep it, Conrad,” I said softly. “I already have the time.”
