A Sensitive Arrangement

Chapter 29

March fourth. The only date in the English language that makes a full sentence. Also the day my father died. Sometimes I swear he did that on purpose. Like it was a command from beyond the grave, telling me to carry on with my life. Ironic, considering March fourth was now the day of his annual memorial.

Our family home was currently being leased to a charity, free of charge. The brownstone of my childhood now housed families for short periods of time while their loved ones underwent treatment at the nearby hospital. Dad set it up before he died. He wanted to make sure the house was being used for something good instead of sitting there rotting. 

On my twenty-fifth birthday I would inherit it. So of course, the charity made sure to appeal to my sense of sympathy whenever they could. Every year, they held a celebration of gratitude there in my father's memory, always exploiting the cutest or youngest current resident by giving them the honorary position of tour guide. 

The grand tour mostly consisted of a short walk around the communal areas and ended with my overly adorable tour guide showing me inside their private bedroom. It was a gesture of thanks for providing them with the roof over their head while their parent or sibling underwent chemo or surgery. As if merely being born a Watson somehow made me worthy of their gratitude.

Max remained my trusty sidekick through all of this. He was in charge of the business and it was PR gold for CalWat. He was much better at the schmoozing than I was, I typically just followed the leader. I had learned when to smile and when to look nostalgic. I didn't let myself get sad anymore though. Not since the third memorial. 

I was a hormonal, twelve year old, ticking time bomb of emotions. And it just so happened my heartwarming poster child tour guide was staying in my old room. The floodgates burst and the tears wouldn't stop coming. Even the traditional post-memorial cannoli couldn't cheer me up. Everyone learned which bedrooms were best to steer clear of after that.

This year was shaping up to be the normal charade of cute children and honorific speeches about Dad's philanthropy. Before the tour we always sat in the living room and had a chat with the current residents. Normally it was just a lot of "thank yous" and "sorry for your losses." At first, it seemed like this time would be no different. Until a precocious little girl asked the last question I expected.

"Is Julian coming?" She was practically bursting out of her skin waiting for the answer.

I choked a little, but luckily Max was there to save me. "He's in Boston right now. Studying hard so he can get good grades." He answered sweetly.

"He's so handsome." The little girl replied. She was clearly anything but shy.

"Thank you. Although, I think my wife probably deserves the credit there. She did most of the work making him." Charm oozed out of his smile as I watched all the women in the room swoon. There was no question where Julian got it from. The projection of apples from the Callaway tree was so minimal you'd nearly have to squint to see the difference. 

I, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to grimace at the thought of Max and Ella "making" Julian. I much preferred the stork theory. Or maybe some Greek myth about him being chiseled from marble. That would fit.

"Shall we start the tour?" The charity ambassador offered, kindly tearing me from the visuals that threatened to invade my thoughts.

She led us through the usual route, into the kitchen, through the den, out to the courtyard, then upstairs to the bedrooms. The precocious child proudly showed off the few belongings she had brought with her. One of them being a preteen magazine featuring a picture of Julian on the cover. She had drawn a heart around his face. I wasn't sure whether or not I liked this girl, but I had to give her points for confidence. I would have been mortified if my Dad had found anything like that of mine when I was her age.