He met his father at the same highfalutin restaurant in West Van’s British Properties called On the Hill that they’d been going to since the divorce. It was a place for high profile businessmen, high ranking government workers, and the occasional stuffy celebrity. Tucker hated it. They sat at the same table with a stunning view overlooking the Burrard Inlet and the ships transporting everything imaginable in and out of it; and he watched with a longing to escape, as if confined to a prison cell.

“Don’t tell me about your work, I’m not interested,” his father started. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d opened with before. “I’ve asked Sharon to marry me. We’re getting married next spring.” It was his fourth.

“You sure you’ll be able to make it that long?”

“Hold your tongue, boy. We were going to this fall, but I caught wind of an Indian Band trying to set up a large gaming facility on their reserve without the province’s input. Bloody hassle negotiating with them,” he growled.

Tucker had meant for the jab to be about his father’s health; he looked red- faced and old, as if he were constantly having minor heart attacks by the minute that were making him look more dead than alive. He may have had a couple of more heart attacks since the last time they saw each other for all Tucker knew. But his father took the remark to be about his short attention span with women, and his irritability suggested he’d grown sensitive around that topic, something Tucker found rather interesting. He looked at his father’s heavily made up face, the red beaming through like a ripe piece of meat, and felt a mixture of pity and contempt for him. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt these emotions, he realized, but it was distinctly clear to him that it was obvious this time. His father was showing signs of worry, confusion, and shame. Tucker relished it.

“Well, it’s just like you to let work control the rest of your life,” he said boldly, though there was noticeable hesitancy in his voice.

His father gave a playful scoff, as if he enjoyed his son’s weak and simpleminded remark. With heavy condescension in his voice, he said, “So sensitive, just like your mum. How is she?”

Tucker shrugged his shoulders; it wasn’t that he didn’t care for his mother, but that he didn’t care to talk about her with him.

The waiter brought in the first disgusting display of pretension and went off on a two minute rant explaining everything about it, as if anyone ever cared or asked for the info. Tucker was in a mood and interrupted at every chance to make a point of it.

“Our first course is haricots verts—”

“Green beans, you mean.”

“Yes, that’s right…Haricots verts.”

“Say ‘green beans’.”

“…green beans…with smoked duck breast from Harrington Farm. The duck was raised—”

“Continue on, nobody cares where it’s from.”

The waiter’s face went pale. “Uh, the smoke is a mixture of—”

Tucker stuck his fork into the duck and shoved it into his mouth, chomping noisily in front of the waiter. “Continue.”

Senator Martin, as if watching a play and thoroughly invested in the outcome of the two characters, looked eagerly at them.

“Um, the dressing is a vinaigrette of framboise, wildflower honey, and sea salt.”

“Good lord! Raspberry vinegar dressing. Or Raspberry vinaigrette, but not both. Wild flower honey? What does wild flower taste like? That’s not rhetorical. Tell me.”

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“And sea salt? What’s this here?” he asked, pointing to the table salt.

“Table salt, sir.”

“Will it be ok for me to mix the two salts without the chef imploding in his large chef’s hat?”

“Well, sea salt has more minerals, sir. It’s less refined than table salt.”

“So the minerals will be adding a certain je ne sais quois to the dish? Is that it?”

“Precisely, sir,” he replied, happily, not catching the sarcasm in Tucker’s voice.

“Very well then,” Tucker said, finishing the small amount of food in two more large bites and handing him back the plate. “Yes. Delicious. Compliments to the chef on his choice of minerals.”

The waiter left, shaking, as if he’d just been mugged, or worse.

A thought went through Senator Martin’s brain and was reflected in his small, narrow brown eyes. He narrowed them further, if that was at all possible, and formulated his thoughts into words. His son turned his gaze away deliberately, and just by this Senator Martin knew he’d already figured out what was on his mind. “Hm, perhaps he’s smarter than I thought,” Senator Martin mused to himself. He let him stew in limbo for another minute before opening his large mouth and exposing his whitened smile.

“I’ve a grand idea,” he said, looking out at the inlet as his son did. “I’d like to put you on retainer, with the province, and put you in charge of handling this sensitive and important case. You’ll liaise directly with the Indian Band and report to…” he paused to think for a moment. He didn’t want to have his son reporting to him, that was too dynastic, and in all likelihood would simply be a nuisance. At last he shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, anyone will do. I’ll send you the information.”

“I don’t want to,” Tucker said, sullenly.

“Nonsense. This will be beneficial to your career,” he began to proselytize, but something was different in his son’s tone and posture than before. He seemed more steadfast, more stubborn. The Senator wondered about the difference in his son and whether it was real or just imagined. Would his same tactics work on him? Could he, for example, threaten to cut him off as he usually did? Could he guilt him into it? These options felt inadequate this time around. So Senator Martin, utilizing one of his many skills, sought agreement through different means. “I know you feel I’m harsh with you…and that I’m not proud of you. But it’s because I’m proud of you that I push you. Perhaps I push too much so that you won’t come back. But really, I’m just not as good as I ought to be. To be honest, I need help. I need someone capable. And I trust you, because you’re brilliant, resourceful, and shrewd, like your old man. You may feel you need to prove yourself to me, but you never needed to. I’ve been proud of you and convinced of your greatness since the day you were born. So what do you say? Take on this job for your old man, and whatever you want after, I’ll make a call, or not if that’s what you want or just stay out of your way. Up to you.”

The table next to them found it to be a thoroughly moving speech. They waited with baited breath for the reconciliation of father and son to take place, for the son to leap up over the table and hug his dear old dad, for his dad to break that time-old hardness and shed a tear for his devoted son. Should they applaud? Should they congratulate them? Should they toast them? The table next to them were practically in tears as they thought of their own parents and their own children and their duties to each. Was there a newspaper editor somewhere in the restaurant that could get a photo and write a short but heartwarming blurb about the magical moment on the mountain between a father and his son? It would be an inspiration to everyone. Stop your bellyaching and call your father and say sorry! call your brother and make amends! call your mother before you regret it for the rest of your life!

But Tucker’s face had turned a fabulously scornful shade of red and before he uttered his next words, his father knew he’d slipped up.

“You said that last year,” he said, grinding each word out between his teeth.

“Damn it,” Senator Martin said to himself. “I’m getting old.” Then with a careless wave of his hand as if he possessed magical abilities, as was something he’d done many times over and over and something he would continue to do until his death, said to his son, “Well, you’ll do it anyway or I’ll cut you off and out of the will. I’d invite you to my wedding but it’s a two hundred dollar ticket. Probably a bit much for you on your assistant’s salary. See you in six months.” And with that, Senator Martin left.

Tucker Martin, after a moment’s reflection, scoffed, took a sip of water, and left the stuffy restaurant. He didn’t even bother to glance around at the nearby tables to witness the look of shock, embarrassment, and sympathy pouring out of their faces at what had transpired. He didn’t care. He’d seen the looks a thousand times before.