My father looks at her for a long moment, then he nods and signals for the check.
"Of course. You're right. I’m sorry, my dear."
He's charming again after that, warm and solicitous as he helps my mother with her coat, as he guides her through the restaurant with his hand on the small of her back.
Outside, the valet brings our cars around. My father's town car first, then mine. He kisses my mother goodbye—she'll ride with me; he has calls to make—and clasps my shoulder.
"Good to see you, son. Keep up the good work on the campaign."
"Thanks, Dad."
"And don't worry about Kate. She'll come around. She always does."
He says it with such certainty.
"Good night, Dad."
He nods and slides into his car. I watch it pull away, then turn to my mother.
"Ready?"
She doesn't answer immediately. She's standing very still, watching my father's taillights disappear around the corner. In the glow of the restaurant's entrance, she looks older than I usually think of her.
"Mom?"
"Let's go home, darling."
The drive to the estate takes forty minutes. For the first twenty, we don't speak.
My mother stares out the window at the passing darkness. Her hands are folded in her lap, perfectly still, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask finally.
"About what?"
"Whatever's going on with Kate. The whole dinner felt like walking on eggshells."
She's quiet for a long moment. I think she's going to deflect—my mother is a master of deflection, of redirecting conversations away from anything uncomfortable. It's a survival skill, I think, honed over thirty-five years of being a Crane.
"Pull over," she says quietly.
"What?"
"Pull over, Carter. There's a rest stop ahead. I need to—" She stops, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I need to tell you something, and I can't do it while you're driving."
My stomach drops. I signal and ease the car into the rest stop—a small parking area with a few picnic tables, deserted at this hour. I put the car in park but leave the engine running, the air conditioner humming against burgeoning summer heat.
My mother doesn't look at me. She's staring straight ahead, her profile lit by the dashboard glow.
"What I'm about to tell you stays between us. Do you understand? Not Warren. Not anyone."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Carter. This cannot leave this car."
"I understand."
She takes a breath. Lets it out slowly. Her hands are still folded in her lap, but now I can see them trembling slightly.
