I didn’t see him for four months. Howard told me he was living in a studio apartment and working for a small property-management company, answering the phones and fixing
sinks. I told Howard I didn’t want to hear more. That wasn’t quite true. I listened to every word.
The twelve-month condition was never mine to waive. Raymond had written it into the trust, and I kept it exactly as he wrote it, even though I could have broken it in an afternoon. Trevor, to his credit, never asked.
Epilogue
One Sunday in October, almost a year after the birthday dinner, I was on my porch with a cup of coffee when a dented gray pickup turned into my drive.
I watched it come up the gravel slowly, as if the driver wasn’t sure he was welcome.
Trevor got out. He wore work boots and a canvas jacket with a crew’s logo on the chest. He had lost the polish. He looked like his father at thirty.
