Miles dropped his peeler and beamed up at Malcolm.

“I was accepted into the London College of the Arts! My instructor this year said I had a huge amount of talent but also a huge amount to learn, so I applied, and I got a place, and with a scholarship! I start in the autumn!”

Malcolm sat down across from him.

“That is exciting, but . . . I don’t understand. You’ll be at Oxford next year.”

Miles shook his head.

“No, no, this is instead of Oxford. I can’t wait to learn more and more and devote myself to my painting. Mum keeps ragging on me, but I know that you’ll—”

“Instead of Oxford?” Malcolm couldn’t remember the last time he’d shouted at his nephew—probably the cigarette thing—but he couldn’t help it. “Devote yourself to painting?” He shook his head and laughed. “No. You are not doing that.”

Miles’s lips tightened.

“Yes, I am!” He dropped the potato on the table. “I can’t believe you’re reacting this way. You’ve always been supportive of me and my art; I thought you’d be thrilled that I’m working hard and making real progress and listening to my instructor when she says—”

Malcolm sighed.

“I am supportive of you and your art, Miles. I love your paintings, I agree with your instructor when she says you have a lot of talent, and I am thrilled that you’re working hard. I see nothing wrong with you planning for a future in the arts—haven’t I taken you to museums hundreds of times? But you also need contingency plans. Good Lord, you’re not giving up Oxford for art school. You don’t get to throw your future away like this.”

Miles jumped up. Thank God he was still taller than the boy, though not by much.

“It’s not throwing away my future! I’m investing in my future! I know what I want my future to be, and this is how to get there—not some stuffy lecture hall or library.”

Malcolm sighed.

“I know that’s how you feel right now, but you have to be strategic about your career—this is your life you’re talking about, not just next year. Oxford can set you up for the rest of your life; you and I both know that.”

Miles threw his arms in the air. He really had gotten his flair for drama from his mother, hadn’t he?

“My life? Who knows how long my life will be! My father died when he was thirty-eight; no one can say how many years I have left. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life doing something I’m not passionate about—I want to enjoy every moment. I can’t believe you want me to give up on my dream!”

Malcolm took a deep breath. And then another one.

“Miles. I don’t want you to give up on your dream. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying you need to think logically about this. And while I sympathize with your feelings about your father, you need to plan for the long haul. You worked so hard to get into Oxford, and a degree there can help pave the way for so many things for the rest of your life. You can’t and you won’t throw that away.”

Miles shoved the peeler down the table.

“I’m nineteen years old. I’m a grown man. You can’t tell me what to do. Neither can my mother.”

Malcolm laughed out loud.

“You’re a grown man? At nineteen years old? I have some news for you—you’re still a child, and you’re acting like one.”

“I am not!” Miles stamped to the other side of the kitchen. “You’re just mad because you wanted me to go to Oxford to follow in your footsteps, then go work in some stuffy office somewhere and shuffle papers all day, just like you do. I don’t want to be like you. I want to live my life! You’ve never had any dreams; you don’t know what it’s like to have them, unless your dream was to be at the beck and call of that old woman!” He stopped by the door. “I thought you were better than this. I trusted you! But you’re just like all the rest.”

He stormed out of the kitchen, and a few seconds later, Malcolm heard the front door slam. He dropped his head in his hands.

Chapter Nine

Malcolm walked into the lobby of The Goring hotel at 11:55 a.m. on December 28. He’d realized the day before that he and Vivian hadn’t communicated since those quick texts early on Christmas Day, so he’d texted her and arranged to meet her at her hotel at noon. He’d been so consumed with everything going on with Miles that he hadn’t thought of it until then.

Miles hadn’t come back home on Christmas Day until after Malcolm had left. Malcolm was pretty sure Miles had spent the day at his girlfriend’s house, but he had no idea. And to top it all off, Sarah had also been furious at him—she’d apparently been counting on him to make the situation with Miles better, not worse. He’d spent days getting angry texts from her, all of which just served to make him more frustrated and upset about this whole situation.

Malcolm knew he should have handled the conversation with Miles differently. He didn’t think he’d ever yelled like that at Miles in his life. But he’d been so shocked and blindsided, he hadn’t been able to think straight.

He sighed. He’d spent his whole career—maybe his whole life—successfully avoiding conflict. He’d even managed to have a conflict-free divorce, for God’s sake! And he’d somehow blown that all up in one conversation.