"You're always fine." But my mother lets it go, turning to accept my father's kiss on her cheek as he pulls out her chair.
We settle into our seats. The waiter appears immediately with champagne and my father makes a toast.
I notice it gradually, the way you notice a draft in a room. Kate answers my mother's questions about her life—yes, Aspen was lovely, no, she's not seeing anyone, yes, she's thinking aboutthat charity board position, but she says it in a way that we know she has no intention of taking it.
But when my father speaks, she looks at her plate and then he speaks directly to my mother or to me. He barely says a word to Kate.
I haven’t seen much of Kate this last year. She’s been busy and so have I. I must have missed a real doozy of a fight this time.
When my father finally asks her directly about her plans for the summer, she gives a three-word answer and immediately turns to me.
"How's the campaign going? Looks like you’re getting good coverage."
"It's going well. Lots of town halls, lots of handshaking. The usual."
"You looked good on that CNN segment last week. Very statesmanlike."
"Thanks." I'm thrown by the compliment. Kate usually teases me about my media appearances.
My father is watching the exchange, his jaw is tight.
"We should discuss the Klein Foundation dinner," he says, cutting across whatever Kate was about to say next. "Carter, you'll need to prepare remarks. Warren's drafted something, but I want your input."
"Of course."
"It's an important event. Lots of donors, lots of press. We need to project confidence."
"We always do."
"Especially now." He sets down his glass with more force than necessary. "The investigation is still dragging on. The longer it takes, the more it looks like they're actually finding something."
"They're not finding anything because there's nothing to find." The words come out automatically.
My father meets my eyes. "Exactly. So we project confidence. We don't give them anything to work with."
"Of course.”
The food arrives, breaking the moment. My mother directs the conversation toward safer territory—a friend's daughter's wedding.
I catch Kate’s eye across the table, raising an eyebrow in silent question. She shakes her head minutely and looks away.
Dessert is a chocolate torte with my mother's name written in raspberry coulis. We sing happy birthday. My father presents her with a gift: sapphire earrings, my mother’s favorite stone. She exclaims over them with perfect delight and kisses his cheek.
Kate excuses herself before coffee.
"Early meeting tomorrow," she says, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Happy birthday, Mom. I'll call you this week."
She kisses my mother, squeezes my shoulder as she passes, and walks out without acknowledging our father at all.
The silence she leaves behind is deafening.
"Well." My father's voice is carefully neutral. "Kate seems to be in a mood."
"She's been working hard," my mother says. "The foundation board is very demanding."
"The foundation board." My father's laugh is short and humorless. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Not tonight." My mother's voice has an edge I rarely hear. "It's my birthday. Whatever this is, it can wait."
