“There is a tradition in our family,” Frank began.
Danny groaned.
“They’ve been here two minutes.
Don’t scare them away.”
Frank ignored him.
“We argue honestly, we listen reluctantly, and we pass the potatoes before they get cold.”
The room laughed.
For the first time since arriving in Boston, Danny did not feel as though he were borrowing someone else’s life.
Frank was not there to reclaim the story or pull him back to New York.
He was there long enough to remind Danny that the Reagan legacy had never depended on one city, one office, or one commissioner.
It lived in choices made under pressure.
It lived in refusing to open the wrong folder.
It lived in admitting when trust had been misplaced and repairing what that mistake had damaged.
Most of all, it lived in the quiet moment after humiliation, when a person could choose anger or discipline and discover that restraint was not weakness at all.
After dinner, Frank stood by the apartment door with his coat over one arm.
“When are you coming back?” Danny asked.
Frank gave him the familiar look that meant he knew exactly how much the question mattered and had no intention of making the answer easy.
“When I’m needed.”
Danny shook his head.
“You really can’t give a normal answer.”
Frank opened the door, then paused.
“I came this time because you were in danger,” he said.
“Next time, I’d rather come because my son invited me to dinner.”
Danny smiled.
“Sunday.
Seven o’clock.
Don’t be late.”
Frank’s expression softened.
“I won’t be.”
