Randy T has a vision for the company’s future. The old man installed and serviced HVAC units; Randy T toils in “thermal control design and construction.” He didn’t need a Wharton MBA to know that Nocera/Olsson needed a Director of Sales and Marketing to take it to the next level. The title was a compromise because family pride, which I graciously allowed my sister to defend, would not permit the son and heir of the Founding Father to agree to be called a “Vice” anything. It wasn’t a hard decision to make. Lying awake in my bed at Magnolia Towne Courte, full of midnight courage, I’d plotted my escape to Atlanta or south Florida. But when I gazed into the crystal ball in the harsh light of day, the future was daunting: the anxious interview, the entry-level sales position, the young and hungry competition, difficulties closing the deal, the sweet temptation of bourbon as an antidote for loneliness. Fearlessness isn’t one of my virtues. I’m still the boy who opted for the comfort and safety of Sweet Home Carolina when I hit a speed bump on the yellow brick road to Chicago.

A leopard doesn’t change its spots.

The time had arrived to step forward and embrace my legacy. I’d been preparing for this since I withdrew from Duke. Selling thermal control systems is a step up from persuading gullible retailers that Shelton/Murray design solutions will turn their pumpkins into Cinderella’s coach and it’s a whole other league from hawking cheap pieces of glued fiberboard for the King of Unpainted Furniture. I could even say it’s a noble endeavor, preserving the Nocera in Nocera/Olsson, carrying on the family name.

Besides, supporting Robert has turned out to be an expensive proposition. There’s tuition, room and board, spending money. Robert couldn’t sleep on the sofa forever; a boy needs the privacy of his own room. He knows there is a place he can call home during school breaks or the occasional weekend when Chapel Hill doesn’t feel so friendly. He’s taken up residence for the summer and tries to act enthusiastic about spending ten weeks on the Nocera/Olsson payroll, spending eight hours a day trying not to look totally useless. Randy T’s son has taken him under his wing.

Things have come full circle.

“Andy, uh, there’s someone here to see you,” Randy T says, standing awkwardly at my office door, looking a little flustered.

Goddamn it. It’s Friday afternoon and if there’s any chance of making Durham by the first pitch we need to be on the road in an hour. The Charlotte Knights are playing the Bulls tonight and rumor has it that Josh Strickland, the ace of the Triple-A pitching staff, is going to be called up to the majors after the game. Harold says he’s a highly prized prospect, the jewel of the White Sox farm system. Every general manager in the majors would like to hold his rights, and the Sox, desperate to trade one of their aging superstars to strengthen their bull pen, can’t close a deal because all of the potential trade partners insist that Josh be part of the package. Harold is a repository of useless sports trivia. Not trivial, not useless, he protests, since this is knowledge he needs to defend his championship of his fantasy baseball league.

Somewhere up there my father is smiling.

Harold’s a sweet kid, although Robert is quick to remind me he’s barely ten years younger than I am. It’s just that he seems like a kid with his floppy hair and his aversion to any Gillette products and his wardrobe that consists almost entirely of Official NCAA and MLB Sanctioned UNC and White Sox gear. He manages a Charlotte branch of an office supply chain but he’s only twenty-six credits away from his bachelor’s degree in secondary education. He wants to teach American history and coach high school hoops, an ambition I caution him he’s not likely to achieve if he keeps on spending happy hour at the Carousel and insists on broadcasting his lifestyle with that ridiculous rainbow bumper sticker. He says he’s not worried about stuff like that, that people don’t care who you sleep with so long as you don’t rub it in their face. Maybe he knows something I don’t, but I doubt it.

Anyway, I won’t have to comfort and console him when he smacks into a brick wall of disappointment. It’s not like I expect him to still be around when he discovers that the good Christian people of Mecklenburg and Gaston counties have no intention of giving him an opportunity to pat their impressionable young sons on the ass when they make a free throw. Harold is a temporary thing, no doubt about it. It’s hard to believe it’s sustained itself for three months. It’s still surprises me that he wakes up in my bed most mornings, brushes his teeth (with his own toothbrush, nestled in the cup beside mine), chugs a glass of orange juice, and says “call you later” as he walks out the door. He calls by noon, every day, for no reason at all, not because he has to, only to ask “how’s it going” and we decide where and when to meet after work. And every morning at 11:45 I start to fidget, growing irritable, because I’m certain that this is the day he’s not going to call, then the phone rings and by 12:15 I’m content and satisfied, a man with plans and someone to be with. Someone whose odd little tics are more endearing than irritating.

Usually.

Harold can barely carry a tune, but he loves to sing. Actually, his taste in music isn’t bad, even if he refuses to concede that his beloved Jesus and Mary Chain ought to pay the Velvets royalties for ripping off their songbook. He says it wouldn’t hurt for me to try to appreciate music recorded after the invention of the compact disc. Robert says it’s all very romantic. I think it’s preposterous, this thing with Harold. Robert asks what’s so preposterous about falling in love? God, he’s so young. Where does he get these ideas?

I’m about to call Harold to warn him we might run a little late. But I drop the phone, dumbfounded, not knowing how to greet my surprise guest.

“Fucking Jesus, I don’t fucking believe it! Oh Jesus, I’m sorry, damn, I wasn’t thinking!”

“It’s okay, Andy.” Alice laughs. “I think Bradley is a little young to be permanently scarred by your dirty mouth.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask, forgetting my manners. “I mean, I’m glad to see you. It’s just, well, I don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

The baby is fussing, demanding her undivided attention. Alice looks like a suburban sherpa, saddled with her infant and an overstuffed, oversize canvas bag.

“Here, let me take that,” I offer.

“You can call him Bradley.”

“No. No. I mean the bag, not the baby,” I say as I roll my chair from behind my desk.

“Thanks,” she says. “Can you get the bottle out of the bag? Is there a microwave around here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Ah well, we’ll make do, won’t we, kiddo?” she asks.

I start to answer, then realize she’s talking to her son. Baby Bradley is soon sucking away, drifting into sleep.

My wife, by Bellini, Madonna and Bambino, placid, content, destiny fulfilled at last.

“He’s beautiful,” I say.

“Don’t forget we were together for twenty years. I know you think all babies look parboiled.”

“Other people’s babies,” I say. “Not yours,” I add quickly so there’s no room for misinterpretation. “But what are you doing in Gastonia? You didn’t make the trip to our fair city just to see me.”

“We came to Charlotte to spend the weekend with Barry’s parents. I drove over to Gastonia to see you.”

“Well,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you again for the baby gift. It was lovely.”

“It was nothing.”

“Well, it was a lovely nothing.”

“Your thank-you card was sweet.”

“You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“I was a mess. I don’t think I ever thanked you for coming to the funeral. I wouldn’t have made it through the day if you hadn’t been with me.”