Make it believable, Patrick thought, recognizing their grief as a shield against small talk. Keep the work focused. “C’mon. Drinks, he’s asking. Juice or milk?”
“Juice!”
“Grant?”
“Goose.”
“Two juices. Do you have apple? And one mimosa, light on the OJ.”
“Our orange juice is freshly squeezed.”
“Either way. A whisper of juice. I’m serious. You can really just wave an orange over the glass and that’s probably still too much juice.” Patrick stared at Barry’s golf pencil, willing it to move. “You’re not writing this down.”
“Two apple juices and one glass of champagne. I’ll give you some time with the menu.” As abruptly as he had appeared, Barry retreated.
Patrick drummed his fingers on the table. “So, guys. There’s something we need to discuss.” He looked down at his place setting and aligned the silverware as if he were some footman on Downton Abbey. “I thought we could eat brunch, the three of us, and have a little chin-wag.” He looked up to nothing but blank expressions. “That means talk. Your father, he’s very sad with your mom, well, you know. We all are. He’s asked me to—while he takes a little time for himself—take care of you.”
“WHAT?” Grant hollered.
“Don’t worry. I said no. I wanted you to hear that from me. I believe in treating kids like people.”
“You said no?” Maisie offered an expression that was difficult to read.
“It’s nothing personal. It’s just. You know. The whole kid thing is not my bag.”
“For how long?” Grant wondered.
“Not forever, by any means, or even very long, but for long enough that you would have to come stay at my place in Palm Springs.” He wondered if they found this entire proposition as ludicrous as he did, but how could they really? They couldn’t possibly remember his house with its pristine midcentury décor, white terrazzo floors—his Golden Globe, for heaven’s sake. It was a fine bachelor pad, but no place for children. “Can you imagine? He wanted you to come after Maisie finished school.”
“College?” Maisie asked.
“Are you in college?” Patrick looked to the skies for strength; there was a wad of gum stuck to a ceiling tile. “No, third grade. You’re done next week.”
“Where’s Daddy going?” Grant was very concerned, justifiably so. Patrick bit his lip; how do you explain to a six-year-old who just lost his mother the difference between temporarily and forever?
“A special place that helps daddies who are sad.”
“Will he see Mommy?”
Patrick’s heart sank. He thought of the website he had viewed, the one he’d pored over with their sister, Clara, once Greg had confided in her, too. It had photos of beige rooms with small windows, each with its own pitiful Black & Decker coffee maker. “No. The place is not that special.”
“Why do you live in Palm Spwings?” It surprised Patrick that all this pushback was coming from Grant and not from Maisie, who quietly studied her menu. “Why do you live tho far away?”
“It’s not that far away. It’s not like I live in Botswana. C’mon. You’ve been there. Remember? You came with your mom.” He realized the trip was now three years ago; Maisie was probably Grant’s age and Grant was not even three.
“Dad said it’s far because you can’t fly direct.”
Patrick looked at Maisie with disbelief. “You can from New York!” He sighed. “Look, we’re getting off track here, but if you must know, I’m young in Palm Springs. Okay? This is the sad truth for gay men. Forty is ancient in Los Angeles, middle-aged in San Francisco, but young in Palm Springs. That’s why I live there.”
“You’re forty-three!” Maisie bellowed.
“Who are you, the DMV? Lower your voice.”
“That’s almost fifty!” Grant’s eyes grew big.
Patrick took the jab, then closed his eyes and bit his lower lip; the observation was just shy of a hate crime. Do not punch a child, do not punch a child. “Can we please focus?”
“Why can’t you stay with us here?”
He put down his menu to retake the reins of this conversation. “Well, here has certain advantages. I’m thin here. But Connecticut only gets like eleven days of sun a year and I’m solar-powered. I need the sun or else I’ll . . .” Patrick had just enough sense to stop himself before he said die.
“Or else you’ll what?”
He answered in slow motion. “Slow down . . . like a . . . windup . . . toy . . . until . . . I . . . stop. But again, we’re not the right match. No one would swipe right on the three of us.”
“How long will Daddy be gone?”
Patrick tried to recall the details Greg had peppered on his request. “I don’t know. Ninety days? Something like that.”
“That’s three hundred weeks!” Grant exclaimed. Patrick couldn’t tell if it was excitement or exasperation.
“We need to check your math on that one, buddy. But it’s not your fault. You’re the product of a failing public education system. And I share the sentiment. Which is why we have to find you someone appropriate.”
As if that were his cue, Barry appeared carrying a tray of drinks. “Here we are, two apple juices, one champagne. Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
Patrick had a fleeting thought: Could Barry babysit for three hundred weeks? No. Barry was a stranger. He knew enough to know that would not do. He turned back to the kids. “What sounds good? Pancakes? Waffles? Lobster thermidor?”
The kids stared back at him blankly. This news about their dad had left them reeling.
“C’mon. That’s the great thing about brunch. You can have almost anything. Pick your poison.” Now they were at a loss for words. “How about French toast, then? Two orders of toast in the French style with fruits mélangés.”
“And bacon,” Maisie pleaded.
“Fine. And bacon.” Bacon was not a hill to die on today. “And I’ll have poached eggs with a side of fruit and also some low-fat cottage cheese if you have it, but no meat because I don’t want to hurt any pigs or cows or birds.” He looked up and snorted at his niece and nephew, who warmed to his porcine impersonation.
“Very good, gentlemen. And madam.” Barry still didn’t write any of this down; Patrick was beginning to wonder why he bothered with the pad if it was only a prop. Surely he could make better use of his hands—perhaps hold a tin can for donations so he could afford to dye his hair. They sat quietly as Barry sauntered to the kitchen, each looking around to study other diners presumably living better, more carefree lives.