“Is that what happened to you?” I ask.
Kayla smothers a laugh. Elizabeth jabs me in the ribs with a bony elbow. “Play nice. People are listening.”
Ah yes. The people whose opinions matter more than our actual lives.
Elizabeth coughs twice into her hand. I recognize our childhood Dad Alert.
“Here he is.” I hear my father’s booming voice before I see him. “Finally, all three of my illustrious children in one place.”
I swivel to face him. “Hey, Dad.”
“Charles, you remember Judd Pinkerton, don’t you?” He steers me away from the group.
“Of course,” I lie. “Nice to see you again.”
The blush of Judd’s cheeks and the empty glass in his hand suggests he’s not going to recall this conversation later. “You’re the baseball player, right?”
“Not for a long time now.”
He pumps my hand like he’s trying to reach the bottom of a well. “Well, it’s good to see you again, son. What is it you do these days?”
“Charles is about to become the youngest partner in his firm’s history,” my father replies, the picture of paternal pride.
“Actually, I’m not. They made someone else partner.”
My father blinks, taken aback by my admission. “I didn’t realize they’d made a decision.”
“I also made one,” I say. “I resigned.”
Judd’s gaze dances between us, and I can tell he isn’t sure whether to stay for the front seat to the family fireworks or quietly extricate himself from what is sure to be an epic showdown between father and son.
“I should check on my wife,” he finally says. “Humidity gives her a migraine.”
The second Judd disappears, my father’s mouth twists into a sneer. “When did you quit?”
“Maybe a month ago. Not sure.”
He stares at me for a beat, as though the cloud of insanity might pass us by. “You’re a Thorpe for Pete’s sake. We don’t quit.”
“I did.”
Splotches of red span his neck and face. “They turned you down for partner, so you took your business elsewhere. Is that it?”
“I’m not working for another firm.” I swipe a beer from the tray of a passing server and take a long drink from the Pilsner glass.
The color drains from his face. “Penelope,” he croaks.
My mother magically appears by his side, as though waiting in the wings to be summoned. “What is it, Owen?”
He unfastens the top button of his collar. “Tell her, Charles. Tell your mother what you told me.”
“I quit my job.”
My mother swoons like a nineteenth-century debutante. I resist the urge to call for smelling salts.
“What’s gotten into you, Charles?” she asks. “You didn’t return the RSVP for the party. You showed up late. You quit your job. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Bruno and I broke up,” Elizabeth blurts. I don’t realize she’s standing beside me until she speaks.
