Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (warren buffett book recommendations .txt) 📕

a fellow veterinarian?”

Her eyes started to water. “He wouldn’t.”

I took her hand.

She pulled it away. She folded the pages up and shoved them back in the large envelope. “Take these,” she said, slamming the folder against my chest, “and leave.”

“Wheeler?”

“Get out!” she screamed.

I stood and walked toward the door. I turned. Wheeler had her head in her hands, openly sobbing.

I cleared my throat.

She glanced up at me.

“Lunhill gave Neil Felding fifty thousand dollars a month to keep this quiet. They probably gave your dad money too.”

Then I left.

“This is my wife, Joan,” Jerry said, nodding at a fair-skinned blond woman in a blue summer dress. “And this is Tyler. And that little guy is Patrick.”

Tyler was seven. He inherited his mother’s blond hair, freckles, and blue eyes. Patrick was four. He had darker hair like his father but, like his sibling, he had his mother’s light blue eyes.

I gave Joan a hug, then shook hands with both the boys.

“Where should I put this?” I asked, lightly shaking the bottle of red wine I brought.

“I’ll take that,” Joan said, taking the bottle. Then, giving the label a cursory glance, she quipped, “Oh, goodie. I love Malbec.”

She headed off toward the kitchen and instructed Jerry to give me a tour of the house.

Jerry spread his arms wide and said, “So this is the house.”

“Nice tour,” I said.

Tyler gave a tug on the bottom of his dad’s collared golf shirt and said, “Can we finish up our game before dinner?”

Jerry glanced at me and asked, “You play Madden?”

“It’s been awhile.”

Thirty-five years to be exact.

Jerry gave Tyler a little shove in the shoulder and said, “Me and this punk are tied with five minutes to go.”

Tyler smirked and said, “But I’ve got the ball on his six-yard-line.”

The four of us made our way to a door off the hallway and headed down to a finished basement. There were two huge black leather couches, the kind with the reclining chairs built in, surrounding a curved flat screen TV.

Jerry and Tyler plopped down on the couch and picked up their respective controllers.

“Who’s who?” I asked, taking a seat next to Tyler. Patrick climbed up on the couch and nestled in next to me.

“I’m the Redskins,” Tyler said, “and my dad is the Cowboys.”

On-screen it showed the score was tied 31-31.

I nudged Patrick and said, “Who are you rooting for?”

His little face scrunched, then he said, “Tyler.”

“Good man,” I said, giving him a poke in the belly. “Always stick with your brother.”

He giggled.

“You picked the wrong side,” Jerry said with a maniacal laugh.

The two boys chuckled.

You could tell the three of them were great buddies.

The game resumed, and I watched the last five minutes, which I have to be honest, was almost as exciting as watching a real game. With just twenty seconds left, Tyler was winning by four points. Jerry marched the Cowboys down the field and they were on the Redskins’ fifteen-yard line.

“My dad’s gotta score a touchdown to win,” Patrick said, bobbing up and down in his seat.

Jerry threw a pass into the end zone, but it was batted away by one of Tyler’s Redskins at the last moment.

Jerry yelled, “Shit!”

“Daaaaaddddd!” Patrick screamed, then extended his hand.

The game was paused. Jerry stood up, took out his wallet, and gave both Tyler and Patrick a dollar.

“I wish I would have known about this rule on the golf course,” I ribbed him. “You’d have owed me sixty bucks after that shot out of the sand trap.”

Jerry laughed.

Three plays later, the game was over. Tyler won. He did a quick victory dance, then his dad took his wallet out a second time and handed him a five-dollar-bill.

I asked Jerry, “Does he have to give you five dollars if he loses?”

“No,” Tyler said. “I have to clean his car.”

“My turn,” said Patrick, grabbing Tyler’s controller off the couch.

Jerry said, “Why don’t you play, Uncle Thomas?”

Uncle Thomas.

I wasn’t technically their uncle, but if Lacy got knocked up, I might someday be an actual uncle. I, Thomas Dergen Prescott, would be partially responsible for helping to shape a child’s life.

God help us all.

Tyler coached me in my game against Patrick, but it was still a bloodbath, and he beat me 46–14.

When the game was over, Patrick glanced up at me and said, “It’s okay, you don’t have to give me any money.”

“Do you take plastic?” I asked.

He looked confused. I took out my credit card and swiped it behind his ear. He went into hysterics.

Joan called down a minute later that dinner was ready.

After dinner, the boys took their dessert—cherry pie and vanilla ice cream—down to the basement.

Jerry topped off both Joan’s and my wine glasses, and I asked, “Where did you guys meet?”

Joan, who hadn’t spoken much over dinner, save for the occasional reprimand of one of the boys, said, “We met at work.”

“At the bank?”

She smiled. “I was working at a branch in Springfield when my first marriage went south. I was looking for a fresh start somewhere and put in for a transfer. Tarrin had an opening.”

“How long ago was that?”

She took a sip of wine, set it down, then said, “Ten—no, eleven—years ago.”

I turned to Jerry and asked, “How long did it take you to get her to go out with you?”

“Six months,” he said. “I asked her out on Halloween.”

I turned to Joan and saw her grinning.

Jerry continued, “She was working one of the teller windows and she’d worn these little cat ears and drawn whiskers on her face.” He turned to Joan and said, “She just looked so damn cute.”

Joan said, “I still have the ears.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

Joan answered, “After we started dating, I had to transfer to the Mexico branch.”

“Company policy that you can’t date someone at the same branch,” Jerry explained.

“I worked in Mexico for a few years,” Joan said, “got promoted from teller to loan officer, then I got pregnant with Tyler.”

Jerry smiled and said, “Then I chivalrously asked her to marry me.”

We all laughed.

Joan