At the end of the meal, after dessert had been cleared, my father arrived to help carry down a box of childhood things Prescott had insisted I bring over that night. Dad had driven in from Lancaster in an old truck because he refused to hire a car when his own vehicle worked fine. He wore faded jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt stained with grease from repairing the truck’s alternator that afternoon. His knuckles were rough, his beard slightly uneven, his expression quietly amused by all of it.
He smiled at Randolph and offered his hand. Randolph shook it with two fingers. That was all it took. He never looked any further than the flannel. He never wondered why the watch under my father’s cuff cost more than his own car. He was too arrogant to think he needed to look closely.
By the time Prescott and I got married, Randolph had convinced himself he was protecting the family line from contamination. He summoned me to his office one afternoon, set a brutal prenuptial agreement on his desk, and told me in a voice as smooth as polished stone that if I did not sign it, there would be no wedding.