(Sebastian)
My grandfather asked me to dinner, which meant he already knew something.
He didn't ask me to dinner for company. He had company, more than he wanted, nurses and old friends and men who'd served on the board when the board still meant what he'd built it to mean. When he asked me to his house, alone, it was because he'd decided a thing and wanted to watch my face while he circled up to telling me part of it.
His house sat above the water, the one he'd bought when the company was young and never left, even after it stopped fitting him. He was on the terrace when I arrived, a blanket over his knees he'd have thrown off if I'd mentioned it, and he waved me into the chair beside him without turning his head.
"You look tired," he said. "The Pryce business."
"You heard."
"I hear
