Father and Son
By the time they reached the lobby, it was late afternoon. Robert thanked her warmly and prepared to leave—just as Margaret came storming across the room, red-faced.
“Catherine!” she barked. “We need to talk—”
“Actually,” said a calm voice behind her, “I need to speak with Miss Walsh first.”
Catherine turned—and there he was. Michael Hartwell himself.
Margaret stammered, “Mr. Hartwell, I was just going to address her unprofessional—”
“She was helping my father,” he interrupted. “And from what I saw, she did an excellent job.”
Margaret froze.
Michael turned to his father, his voice softening. “Dad.” Then, slowly and carefully, he began to sign.
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t know you were here until I saw you with Catherine. I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”
Robert’s eyes shone. “You’ve been learning to sign?”
“I’ve been trying,” Michael replied. “I should have done it long ago.”
Father and son embraced, tears in both their eyes. Catherine stood motionless, overwhelmed.
