12. Prodigal Son
So he came.
Mitchum could hear the muffled voices of Shira, Logan, and Rory through the door of his study. Absent-mindedly, his fingers rubbed against the newspapers splayed on the sidetable. The Washinton Post, The Daily Telegraph, The New York Times, circa May to July. There were more, a two-foot pile more of The New York Times neatly arranged chronologically under the coffee table. He's never kept so many issues of a newspaper that he didn't even own, in his own house.
He's a good read, he reasoned, when he caught himself reading the same articles twice, many times over. A good writer. Damn he's a good writer! Mitchum would have been first in line to offer him a post at one of his papers. The only obstacle, of course, was that Logan was his son. And naturally, he would refuse.
Or would he? Mitchum needed to know. His curiosity got the better of him. As had Logan. His son had thrown him for a loop, first by refusing to go to London, then traipsing off to Asia, writing that critical series of articles, then taking a job, an actual job at the Times. He had done nothing that Mitchum expected. He didn't get into any stupid scrapes, didn't ask for money, and he completely ignored the Robert Stansfeld connection at Morning Cup Enterprises. Mitchum's motives for telling Logan to work for Bob were simple: he wanted to make things easier for Logan. After all, what would Logan do with himself, make of himself, without him and the Huntzberger name?
But Logan flung his mistrust right back at his face and is making a name for himself. He's not quite like me, after all. Mitchum drank the last of his scotch as he pondered the irony of what he was about to do.
A knock. "Yes?"
"Mr. Huntzberger? Madam says it is time."
"Yes, I'm there."
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"So…what's the occasion?" Logan finally asked, as the four of them tucked into their tiramisu.
They had survived long enough to savor the incredible dessert, Praise Be, Rory thought. Strangely, the subject of Logan's work or Asia had not come up at all. Such an important epoch in Logan's life, and it was as if Mitchum and Shira have denied the very existence of the last 6 months. There was rather a lot of idle and meaningless chit-chat instead. She was ready to raise her arms in mock surrender and cry out, "Uncle!", when Shira brought up the "Fallon girl" for the second time that evening (and who in God's name is the Fallon girl anyway?).
"Logan, by the way, we're planning a lovely baby shower for Honor at Martha's Vineyard in the spring. Would you pencil that in your calendar? I know how busy you must be, the news 'man of the hour'…"
"Isn't Honor due in the summer, though?" Rory commented.
"Well, it's just so hot in the summer, and Honor at the height of her pregnancy would feel it 10 times worse. That poor Fallon girl had her wedding there last June, and she near fainted in the middle of her vows!"
"I remember that. Her dress was too tight and she was obviously pregnant, Shira; it wasn't the weather," Mitchum said.
"Pregnant? Mitchum, wherever did you pick up these awful rumors?" Shira exclaimed.
"Oh please, Shira. It's probably in the gossip column of the DAR newsletter. Her father told me, he was upset about it," Mitchum replied shortly.
"Well I don't know what's to be upset about. Marrying into a good family and having children are important achievements for a woman, and certainly more fulfilling than any tiresome career. I'd wish that for Honor and for Logan's future wife. Wouldn't you say, Rory?"
Rory jabbed and speared the leaves on her salad plate with her fork.
"Rory has accomplished so much at Yale. I'm really proud of her," Logan said, squeezing Rory's knee under the table.
"Oh I'm sure, Emily talks about you all the time…so do tell, what have you been up to?"
"Well, it's nothing really. I'm graduating with a double major in Political Science and History in May…"
"With honors, and despite having missed a term" Logan chimed in.
"And I'm about done with my term as editor of the Yale Daily News. I had to extend into my senior year because I came into the position in the middle of last year. I've applied for some internships, and I've received a couple of positive responses…"
"Why don't you run those internships by me, and I'll tell you what I think," Mitchum interrupted, catching Logan's glare.
"Well, isn't that nice? Rory, I didn't realize you were so…determined. So bright," Shira said, witheringly.
Rory smiled at Shira. "Yes, it should be a considerable improvement in your gene pool, wouldn't you say, Shira? That is, if Logan actually has the audacity to, you know…'knock me up'. He does have a rebellious streak in him," Rory blithely said.
She might as well have dumped the contents of her soup bowl (cream of tomato and basil) on Shira's salon-dyed-and-styled head. Logan sputtered into his water glass, and Mitchum could hardly disguise the rumble of laughter that was coming up from his chest. Shira looked at him, and he coughed instead.
Thank God she had Emily Gilmore's blood running through her veins. Shira's comeuppance set the tone for the rest of their meal, which continued in relative calm and civility.
"Actually, I do have my reasons for inviting you here, Logan," Mitchum started, picking up Logan's question as to the occasion for their dinner.
"Wouldn't expect anything less than an ulterior motive from you, dad."
It was Rory's turn to squeeze Logan's knee under the table. Shira excused herself, and moments later, cigarette smoke wafted into the room.
"I've been keeping up with your work at the Times, and I must say, you've impressed me."
"I'm glad to have fulfilled the reason for my being."
Mitchum ignored his comment and plowed on. "I've decided to offer you a position at Huntzberger Publishing, Logan. I want you on board. You're free to negotiate your terms, of course."
Logan stared into his coffee cup. Rory couldn't believe she didn't anticipate this. She knew that right now, more than anything, Logan wanted to be left alone by his father. This doesn't qualify as leaving Logan alone.
"Are you asking or telling me, dad? Oh, and did you just say I'm free to negotiate with you?" Logan asked incredulously.
Mitchum took a deep breath. "I'm asking you. I don't consider that you ever left, however. You asked for time, Logan, and I gave it to you. You used it well. But your current post is temporary…it's not enough, not for what you can do. And if you're wondering, needless to say, your position and pay will be higher than what you're currently getting as a reporter."
Damn the man for being so crass. "Do you think this is about money? I don't care about money. Do you think none of this—none of what I've been doing--is as important to me as your company?" Logan retorted. He stood up abruptly, and cups and saucers clattered. He left the room.
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"Logan."
Rory found Logan pacing back and forth in the foyer, running his hand through his hair. He stopped moving, gave her a brief, sidelong glance, then turned his back on her. The look in his eyes caught her off-guard. Was he angry? Frustrated? At Mitchum? At her?
"Logan, it was just a question. It was just an offer." Trying to appease him, her voice small.
"I knew this was going to happen, Rory. I knew this was going to come up. I knew it, and that's why I didn't want to come." He turned to face her.
"You couldn't keep avoiding him, Logan. If not now, it would have come up sometime. I'm not sorry we came."
"Well I am. I didn't want to have to deal with Mitchum, not now, maybe not ever," Logan bit out in a hushed and ominous tone. "Why do you have to try and fix everything, Rory? My family is not anything like the Gilmores. Just stay out of this. I've been dealing with his crap my whole life."
Rory's eyes stung at his words; her face felt hot. She didn't expect this reaction from him, and it scared her a little. Why was he so angry? She fought the urge to turn around and walk away, to just leave him at the mercy of Mitchum. Rather, she strode up to him and took his arm.
"Hey! Do not turn your anger on me, Logan, please. I'm not doing this out of some twisted sense of goodwill to bring you back into the good graces of your family. If anything, I'm being partly blamed for how you've 'abandoned' the company and turned your back on them! Were you there? Don't you see how she doesn't want me here? How she doesn't want me with you? So please, do not accuse me of 'fixing' your issues with Mitchum. I don't have any reason for being here other than you asking me."
Rory spun around and half-ran to the door, grabbing her coat along the way. "Rory," Logan called, trying to catch up with her. "Ror, wait." He took her in his arms, her back against his chest. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry," Logan murmured, apologizing not just for his outburst, but for his mother's treatment of her.
Rory turned around in his arms and stared at the lapels of his jacket. "Since Asia, we've hardly talked about Mitchum. And at first I thought it was because you've finally let it go, like you told me in Bangkok. That all you needed was to know what you wanted and do it, regardless of what that meant for Mitchum or your family. But Logan, you haven't let it go."
Logan backed away a few steps, kept his hands in his pockets, as if to challenge her. "All these months, I've been okay, Rory. We've been okay. I'm completely…satisfied where I am right now."
"You have been okay. Still, Logan. You buy and read Huntzberger-owned papers, every chance you get…"
"…out of habit," he interrupted lamely.
"…even if they all say the same thing. Even if you have to spend the extra $2 or walk the extra block to get a specific paper from a specific drugstore."
"I need the exercise."
"You need a reality check. You keep tabs on how HPG is doing, changes in staffing, new writers, how its faring in the stock market…"
"…'cause technically, I haven't removed my investment from there. I need to know what my name is worth," he reasoned cheekily.
"…and despite being in their payroll, you manage to mock and scoff your way down every name in the editorial and management staff box of The New York Times. "
"Well-deserved criticism, if you ask me. Though their reporters are brilliant, of course."
"Logan." Rory held his neck and forced him to look at her. "You haven't let it go. This is why I wanted you to come. You don't want to admit it, but you think about Huntzberger Publishing all the time. It's been a sitting elephant in the room, and its growing bigger. It's making you want to do things you don't want to accept that you want to do."
A long silence ensued, as Logan closed his eyes and dropped his forehead to hers. Rory could sense the battle being waged inside of him, and bided her time, letting her words sink in.
What did he want? Hadn't he already answered that question 6 months ago? Seeing Mitchum tonight, his self-assuredness deflated and doubts began creeping in, as he felt the indescribable pull of the man and the company—the family "destiny" (damn, he hated that word!)—that held sway over him his entire life.
Rory's words rang true. But his feelings towards his father—this tangled mass of anger, resentment, confusion, hurt, whatever it was that made his chest hurt and heart cold—ran deep and clouded his judgment. Mitchum was there, always there, pushing, relentless and critical, at his back. …For my dad to be truly disappointed in you, he had told Rory once, your name would have to be Logan. Whatever he did was not good enough, whoever he was…he wasn't enough. Maybe that's why Mitchum was never really there, not when it mattered; not when he almost died jumping off a cliff even. It was easier to stop trying and caring about what Mitchum thought. But maybe he never did stop caring.
"I'm sorry," he finally said, quietly, shrugging his shoulders as if defeated.
"What for?"
"For taking the long-winded route and coming back to where I started. Guess I'm not a very good 'rebel' after all."
"Well, you are a little too rich and clean-shaven to pull off a James Dean," Rory replied with a small smile. "Long-winded, but you had to do it. It's not been a waste at all."
"Wasn't it? I'm back, under his wing, or more accurately, under his thumb. He's probably gloating right now; toasting himself for the return of the prodigal son," he said with a sigh.
"It wasn't a waste, and you are not back where you started," Rory insisted. "You've been miserable and—and angry, and a drunken wretch, about the 'pre-ordained-ness' of your life, for your entire life," Rory pointed out. "You're no longer there, you're in a different place now. You have a choice, Logan."
He rubbed the nape of his neck. "I think I should lie on the couch now, Anna Freud."
"Just look at yourself," Rory continued. "You're 24 and a reporter for The New York Times. Your Asia series has been reprinted in countless papers across the country and Asia, even Time International picked it up. That was you, all you, not Mitchum, not anyone. And I'm running out of accolades, so here, I'm just going to hand you your Pulitzer," she cajoled.
"Why, I'll take that Pulitzer, thank you," Logan finally cracked a smile. Then he shook his head. "But it wasn't all me, Ace. You take some of the credit…I can't imagine what I would have done this past year without you." He took her chin and dropped a kiss on her mouth.
"You're welcome," Rory replied. "But don't turn all mushy on me now, you're just trying to distract me and take me home sooner than we need to."
"Rats."
"Don't fight it, Logan. The decision is yours now, not Mitchum's." Rory put her face against Logan's and whispered against his cheek. "It's okay to want to be part of Huntzberger Publishing. It has your name. Maybe that's where you should be…"
"He's such a bully."
"He is. But this doesn't have to be about Mitchum. It's not him you're fighting; you're fighting yourself. Don't."
Logan held on to Rory, tightly. She read him so well, like one of the dog-eared novels piled up on her side of their bed.
"Uhm-uhm." A cough in the distance. Rory and Logan sprang apart and turned behind them. Mitchum.
"I'll just go and leave you two alone." Rory kissed Logan's cheek, then left the two Huntzbergers to themselves.
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"I was short-listed for a Pulitzer, you know," Mitchum began. Logan remained silent, looking at him from across the room. "But for all that, words were never my strong suit when it came to you."
"Then maybe you shouldn't talk anymore…let's not talk. I mean, don't bother, dad…" Logan shrugged as if to say, it can't be helped.
"This time around, you should be the one to hear me out." Mitchum put his hands in his pockets and approached Logan. "Look, I didn't mean for my offer to come across the way it did…"
"How do you think it came across?" Logan asked.
"That I'm negating or belittling all you've done for yourself in the last few months. That I'm assuming you'll come back to HPG." Mitchum began to pace, rubbing his nape. "The truth is, it seems I can no longer make any assumptions about you, Logan."
"Let me guess. You thought I would fail. That I would continue to…disappoint."
"I assumed you would need me. To straighten things out, to pull you up, lay out the safety net."
Logan stared at their family portrait hanging on the wall. "Maybe I never needed 'straightening out' or 'pulling up'. I didn't need you for all that."
"So I was wrong. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised by you. Your insistence not to go to London. Your writing, your ideas. You've cancelled your Black card. In the half-dozen media functions I've attended, your name invariably comes up." Mitchum became more passionate, as if he was talking to Logan about another person.
"You have always told me I don't fulfill your expectations, dad. Just business as usual," Logan replied with some sarcasm.
Mitchum narrowed his eyes as he looked at his son, looking older than he last saw him, looking…calmer, more settled somehow, despite the stiff stance. Looking like he did when he himself was 24. But knowing he wasn't like him, not as he always thought. Mitchum finally said, "I guess I don't know you."
"No. You don't."
"But I'm damn proud of you, Logan."
Logan looked down at the swirl of blue and gray on the marble floor, until it swam before his eyes.
"I suppose you don't need to hear that…"
I do, Logan thought to himself.
"…but I'm saying it anyway. I know that none of this, none of what you've achieved, has been for my benefit. But I'm still your father. And even if we're…this way, even if I don't know you, even if I have regrets, I can still feel pride in what my son is doing."
Logan felt pins at the back of his throat, and he coughed to clear it. "Pulitzer-worthy, those words."
"Logan—"
He looked up at his father. "Thanks for saying."
A pause. A heartbeat. Then Logan walked towards Mitchum and extended his hand. "So I've decided," Logan began, emphasizing the words I and decided, "that I want to work for Huntzberger Publishing."
Mitchum blew out a breath. Relief. He shook Logan's proferred hand. "I'm happy to hear that."
"I'll be in New York from Tuesday to Friday next week. You going to be at the New York office, then? I can meet you there to…uh, negotiate with you on the terms of my contract," he said, without flinching. Already, he set the pace of their interaction.
"Fine. I'll have my secretary get in touch with you on the specific date and time."
"Okay." Logan looked at his father a few more moments, not quite feeling how he expected to feel about being part of Huntzberger Publishing again. He turned and started walking back to the dining room, where Rory had gone.
"Oh, and Logan—" Mitchum called, before turning back to his own study.
"What?"
"Thank Rory for me."
