Chapter 13 - Richard Finally Told Me When It Started
Dad called me that night.
Not company business.
“Come over.”
I almost said no.
Then went.
Mom was upstairs.
I didn't ask whether she'd decided to stay.
Dad sat at the kitchen table with two beers.
I took one.
Didn't drink.
He said:
“You think this started two years ago.”
“Didn’t it?”
“No.”
He looked older.
Not ruined.
Just older.
“Four years.”
I stared.
The pandemic recovery year.
A major hotel client had gone bankrupt owing Carter nearly $900,000.
I remembered.
Dad told us insurance and reserves absorbed most of it.
Apparently they absorbed some.
The rest came from the bank line.
Then new deposits.
Then a second large customer delayed payment.
Then materials spiked.
Dad used incoming deposits to keep crews employed.
The company caught up.
For a while.
“That’s why you thought it worked.”
“Yes.”
He drank.
“We covered every job eventually.”
“Until we didn't.”
“Yes.”
“Why not tell us after the first time?”
“Because we recovered.”
“Why not change the system?”
“I thought the system had proven itself.”
That was the most dangerous answer he'd given.
Not desperation.
Success.
The first time crossing the line had not destroyed anything.
So the line moved.
Dad continued.
“Then you expanded fabrication.”
I looked at him.
The second CNC line.
My proposal.
I had pushed it hard.
Said we'd stop outsourcing.
Increase margins.
Win bigger healthcare work.
“Don't.”
“I'm not blaming you.”
“You're about to.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You asked if I had capital.”
“Yes.”
“I said yes.”
“You didn't.”
“I had borrowing capacity.”
“That's not capital.”
“I know that now.”
I laughed.
“You absolutely knew that then.”
He looked away.
Fair.
“What did the expansion cost?”
“More than I told you.”
“How much more?”
“Three hundred.”
My stomach tightened.
I had thought the equipment lease and install totaled around five hundred.
Closer to eight.
“Why?”
“Electrical work. Ventilation. Delays.”
“And you hid it.”
“I didn't give you every invoice.”
“Same disease.”
He almost smiled.
Then:
“You were proud.”
“What?”
“Of the expansion.”
I stared.
“You finally felt like this company was partly yours.”
That was true.
Dad had cut the ribbon and made a stupid speech about the next generation.
I had believed we were growing.
He had been refinancing old problems underneath it.
“Did you keep going because of me?”
“Partly.”
I hated the answer.
He continued.
“Partly because of employees. Partly because your mother. Partly because I had spent forty years being Richard Carter.”
There it was.
Not a noble motive.
Not a villain motive.
Identity.
He looked around the kitchen.
“Do you know what people say when your company fails at sixty-five?”
“No.”
“I don't either.”
He laughed softly.
“I was trying not to find out.”
I finally opened the beer.
Didn't drink.
Dad asked:
“You think I should go to prison?”
I stared.
“I don't know what's criminal.”
“Rachel's lawyer says there could be questions.”
“Yes.”
“Bank certifications.”
“Yes.”
“Benefit remittances.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I’ll deal with it.”
I looked at him.
“Will you?”
“What does that mean?”
“No more refinancing reality?”
His face tightened.
“Cute.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
He looked toward the stairs.
“Your mother asked me for every personal account.”
That surprised me.
“Did you show her?”
“Yes.”
“All?”
He gave me a look.
Then:
“All.”
Good.
I asked:
“Are you two okay?”
Dad laughed.
“No.”
At least we were getting better at that answer.
Before I left, he said:
“Take Hollis.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“The job.”
“You hate them.”
“I do.”
“Then why?”
“Because you're good at running a plant.”
I waited.
“And?”
Dad looked down.
“You were never good at being my finance department.”
I almost laughed.
“Neither were you.”
“Apparently.”
He looked at me.
“If forty-eight people keep jobs because Karen wants you there, don't make my pride part of their unemployment.”
That sounded like my father.
Not the man from the last six months.
The one from before.
Or maybe both had always been there.
I nodded.
No reconciliation.
May you like
No absolution.
Just one piece of useful advice from somebody who had finally lost the right to decide for me.
