Page 27 of Ricardo

Hugh laughs, more genuinely this time. “Well, there’s Patrick’s daughter.”

My father smiles. “Yes. There she is.”

The pride in his voice sounds almost real.

It would be easier if it were not so often attached to ownership.

Dessert is a small pear tart with cream. Coffee follows. The conversation becomes lighter because dinner has already done what dinner was meant to do. Hugh has asked enough questions. Bunny has collected enough details. My father has learned that I am less manageable in public than he would prefer. My mother has learned that I am still capable of wearing the pearls.

At 9:20, Hugh and Bunny leave.

There is a long round of goodbyes in the foyer. Coats appear. Promises are made. My mother kisses Bunny’s cheek. My father shakes Hugh’s hand. I smile, accept Bunny’s hand on my arm, and listen to her tell me to take care of myself in the same tone she might use for a woman recovering from a bad haircut or cancer.

When the door finally closes behind them, the atmosphere in the house changes.

Only slightly. Still very civilized because we couldn’t be less than that, even behind closed doors.

My mother exhales through her nose and turns toward me. “You could have been warmer.”

I laugh once. I do not mean to. It just happens.

Her eyebrows lift.

“Sorry,” I say. “Which part lacked warmth? The part where Bunny asked about my broken engagement over fish, or the part where Hugh implied I only have a job because I know Dante?”

My father walks toward the sitting room. “Come in here.”

I almost turn and just walk out the door. Instead, I stifle a sigh and follow.

I follow them into the room where we started, though it feels colder now. My father goes to the bar cart and pours himself another Scotch. My mother sits on the settee and smooths her dress over her knees. I remain standing.

My father turns with the glass in his hand. “You were defensive tonight.”

“I was answering questions.”

“You were correcting people.”

“They were wrong and needed to be corrected.”

“Julia,” my mother says.

I look at her. “What?”

“You know how this works.”

That old sentence.

The family prayer.

You know how this works. You know how this looks. You know what people will say.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

My father studies me for a moment. “Then you should know better than to make your private disappointments everyone else’s problem.”

The words hit me right where he intended, but probably not in the way he intended.

I do not flinch. I want to. I do not.