“Good to be home, Daddy.”
When he releases me, he turns to Ronan. The two men exchange a brief handshake that’s cordial but stiff and restrained. Two men with a certain level of ego sizing each other up and deciding to keep things peaceful. At least for this evening.
Children’s laughter trickles in from other rooms in the house. Karter and Dante’s kids running amok leading up to Christmas dinner.
I love the sound. Pure and joyful and so different from the heavy tension that seems to follow me everywhere these days.
We head toward the dining room, and Karter emerges from the living room with a glass of eggnog in his hand. He crushes me into a one-armed bear hug the moment he sees me.
“There she is! Looking more grown than ever.”
I laugh as I pull away and shove at his shoulder. “I’ve been grown, cuz. Did you forget?”
“I damn sure didn’t forget how you used to beg us to go caroling every year and it was my ass who had to take you.”
“And sang along with me!” I tease, poking him in the ribs.
He’s grinning until his gaze lands on Ronan. Then the warmth vanishes from his expression, replaced by an icy coolness. “Thought it was just going to be family tonight.”
“Now, Karter,” Mom simpers, stepping between us. “Itisjust family tonight. Everyone here is family of the Langstons, or have you forgotten your little baby girl cousin is a married woman now?”
“Aunt Ashante, I meant?—”
“Mind your manners. Shall we head into the dining room?”
It’s not a request. It’s an instruction, one Karter and everyone else recognizes.
I glance at Ronan, but his expression gives nothing away. If Karter’s comment bothered him, he doesn’t care enough to show it.
The formal dining room matches the rest of the house. Crisp white walls, a long mahogany table set with fine china and crystal, dark gray accents in the curtains and upholstered chairs. A centerpiece of poinsettias and evergreen branches runs down the middle of the table, flanked by tall tapered candles.
The meal is a feast.
Traditional American favorites mingle with Ghanaian dishes. Honey-glazed ham and roasted vegetables sit alongside jollof rice and fufu with chicken. The savory aromas blend together so well it’s enough to make your mouth water.
We’re still taking our seats when the doorbell rings, and a moment later, Senator Banks and Chantal sweep into the dining room. Chantal carries a bottle of wine, which she presents to Mom with an air kiss to each cheek.
“Riesling,” Mom says sweetly. “And Joh Jos at that. Always such impeccable taste, Chantal. Thank you.”
Though the compliment’s genuine, the contrast couldn’t be more glaring. Mom thinks highly of the Banks’s offering while finding Ronan’s lacking.
Once everyone is officially seated, the conversation flows. Stilted at first, but loosening as the wine is poured and the food is passed around. Dad and Senator Banks fall into a discussion about the upcoming special election in New York, where Senator Hardman’s vacancy will be filled.
“Gacy’s going to eke out a win,” Dad says confidently, cutting into his ham. “He’s got the momentum.”
Senator Banks shakes his head, swirling the wine in his glass. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve heard Rothschild’s gotten a little extra help. From the underworld if you catch my drift.”
“The Ferreras?”
“Who else?” the senator chuckles. “The Italians are almost as ruthless as the Iris?—”
He stops abruptly, clearing his throat as his gaze flicks to Ronan.
The table goes quiet, an awkward blank space now occupying the room.
To his credit, Ronan simply grins. “It’s okay to tell it like it is, Senator. The Irish. You were gonna say the Irish are ruthless and cunning, right?”
Senator Banks stammers, blinking rapidly. “I... well, I didn’t mean?—”
