The headline beneath the photo catches my eye.
CHARLES CARTER III BATTLING PANCREATIC CANCER
My lungs forget how to work. I flatten the paper against the sticky bar counter, fingers suddenly clumsy as I scan the article.
Palm Beach business titan Charles Carter III revealed yesterday his ongoing battle with stage three pancreatic cancer. The announcement came during the dedication ceremony for Carter Pavilion, the new $12 million pledge to revitalize downtown.
"The Carter family remains committed to giving back to the community that has supported us for generations," Charles Carter stated. "This investment into our beloved town represents our dedication to Palm Beach's future."
My eyes skip down paragraphs of flowery praise about my father's "generous philanthropy" and "business acumen." Words like "pillar of the community" and "respected leader" jump out at me.
The Carter name has weathered its share of controversy. In 2005, Charles Carter IV, then heir to the family empire, was involved in a tragic accident that claimed the life of college student Melissa Thornton when his vehicle veered off Ocean Boulevard into the Intracoastal Waterway. Carter served four years of a seven-year sentence.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack. Accident. They still call it an accident.
Charles Carter III stood firmly by his eldest son throughout the ordeal, refusing to let one tragic night define the Carter legacy. "Family stands together," became his oft-repeated mantra during that difficult time.
A harsh laugh escapes my throat.
Today, Charles Carter IV serves as Executive Vice President of Carter Enterprises' hospitality division, overseeing their luxury hotel properties.
Not a single word about me. The son who watched was punched by his drunk brother when he tried to take his keys. The son who testified to what really happened.
The son who was cut off, disowned, erased. How is that for family standing together?
My existence, my truth, doesn't fit their narrative.
I fold the paper with trembling hands, crumpling itslightly. My throat burns with what might be anger or grief. Maybe both.
Whether I like it or not, he's still my father. The man who taught me to fish off our dock when I was six. The man who exiled me for refusing to lie.
And now he's dying.
I toss a twenty on the bar. "Thanks, Vince."
"You good to drive?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
The night air hits my face as I step outside, heavy with the promise of rain. My phone rumbles in my hand before I reach the truck. Caleb Vance’s name flashes on the screen.
“Carter,” I answer.
"Warren. I'm glad I caught you," his voice is all business. “I never got your answer about Friday. You’ll be at the CHG Foundation Gala Friday, yes?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got a full docket this week. I’m not sure parading around in a penguin suit and drinking top-shelf liquor is the best use of my time.”
“I'm sorry if I wasn't clear. It’s not optional,” Caleb cuts in. “This is our first major fundraiser. We need to show Palm Beach that CHG isn’t just about concierge care. The community outreach initiative is brand-new, and donors are skeptical. They’ll write checks if they see every board member unified behind it.”
I grind my molars. “You’ve got everyone else going. Does it really matter if I'm not there?”
“Yes, it really matters. Janie Harrelson will be presenting her plans. The board needs to be standing behind her, literally and figuratively.”
I bite back the instinct to argue. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
I straighten my bow tie for the third time, squinting at my reflection in the ballroom's ornate mirror. The manstaring back looks polished, professional, a perfect mask hiding the storm inside.
The CHG Foundation gala swirls around me in a blur of designer gowns and tuxedos. Waiters glide between clusters of Palm Beach's wealthiest, balancing trays of champagne that catch the light from crystal chandeliers overhead.