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“Oh, I remember Larry, all right.” Sylvester clutches his broom and stares at her defiantly. The statement feels like a challenge, a confusing one.

“Yeah, well, he’s pretty memorable, I suppose.” That’s an understatement. Lawrence Hartwell wouldn’t enter or leave a room without ensuring that his commanding presence was felt, respected, and remembered, whatever that took.

“Something like that. How long you known that man?”

“Um, let’s see. About a decade or so.” She doesn’t remember details or dialogue from the day Alex brought her home to meet Poppy for the first time. What registers all these years later are the nerves—hers and Alex’s. Her sweaty palms, her high-pitched voice, the gift bottle of scotch she almost dropped and couldn’t afford in the first place. She could tell Poppy liked that she was anxious—he took it and her efforts to ingratiate herself—to be a sign of respect.

“Hmmm.” Sylvester shakes his head slowly, as if disappointed in her or the world, though she can’t fathom why this conversation warrants either reaction. Or why she feels suddenly uncomfortable, like there’s something she’s missing, which is the last thing she needs with guests arriving in mere minutes. “Ummm, can we see about the lights, please?”

“Follow me.” He moves down the hallway and she follows silently. He leads her to a small electrical closet and turns a wide white knob.

“That should suffice.”

“Thank you.”

“No trouble.”

Simone suddenly yearns to win Sylvester’s approval despite likely never encountering him again. “Listen, you’re welcome to join us. I’m sure Poppy… Larry… would love that. There’ll be plenty of food.”

The man grimaces as if she’s sprouted another head, seemingly insulted by the invitation.

“I’ll pass, thank you very much.”

“Well, if you change your mind…”

“I won’t.” He shuffles away faster than she’d thought would be possible.

When she gets back upstairs, Simone finds Alex has arrived, along with a smattering of other guests. Langston is doing cartwheels across the carpet like he’s dressed for PE and not in a little tuxedo. Alex just lets him, even knowing he’ll get all clammy and sour-smelling from the exertion. She swallows her irritation and embraces her husband from behind, careful not to get makeup on his suit.

“Hey, you,” Simone says softly into his back.

“Hey, you.” Alex grasps both her hands wrapped around his taut stomach.

After a squeeze, he turns so she can better appreciate him. Weeks ago, he’d decided to grow a beard, and though she was initially skeptical, now she loves it. The scruff adds maturity. It’s distinguished, as if he’s evolving into his new role.

Langston darts over and wedges between them. “Do you like my tie, Mommy?” Simone straightens the polka-dot bow tie slightly and showers her beautiful boy with kisses until he protests about lipstick covering his face.

“You are the most adorable seven-year-old in existence.”

Simone maintains greater reserve with her father-in-law, offering a kiss on his papery cheek. Doctors warned them there would be good and bad days with Poppy’s condition. Tonight he appears lucid and clear-eyed. He’s always been imposing, with thick jowls and a full mop of dark hair betraying his eighty-three years. In his better days, as recently as last year, he would often offer to drop and do twenty push-ups on command. The days for that party trick are over, but he still appears strong relative to his struggling health, how he was able to fool people for so long.

“Everything looks exquisite, Simone. Thank you for your efforts.”

She appreciates Poppy’s consistent politeness. Whether mere formality or generational conditioning, it softens his harder personality traits.

“You’re welcome. You deserve to be celebrated. Look at my guys! How did I get so lucky?” Simone observes three generations of Hartwell men standing together, her beautiful boys. Poppy wears the “family jacket”—a 150-year-old herringbone blazer with LAH monogrammed in the lining—which only appears for special occasions and otherwise remains carefully stored in a thick garment bag. Family lore claims Landon Albright Hartwell immigrated from England in 1881, possessing only this Harrods jacket and American dreams. He gave his only son identical initials and passed down the garment, establishing a tradition. Alex’s given name is Logan Alexander Hartwell, and one of his earliest rebellions in life was insisting on using his middle name’s abbreviation. During Simone’s pregnancy, naming negotiations grew tense—primarily between Simone and her mother, who declared, “You’re not naming any grandchild of mine some nonsense like Landover.” Donette suggested “Langston” after making her feelings about “that foolish tradition” known. “Must’ve been nice arriving here voluntarily, let alone with a suitcase of bespoke suits and big aspirations.”

Naming their son after a Black icon perfectly balanced honoring both heritages—fitting for the first Hartwell heir with coffee-colored skin and wiry curls who would inherit the suit originally owned by his great-great-great-grandfather with those distinctive LAH initials in careful red embroidery.

“Come on, Pop Pop—I want chocolate-covered strawberries.” Poppy happily follows Langston toward the chocolate fountain Simone ultimately deemed appropriate after much internal debate.

“Do I look all right?” Alex isn’t fishing for compliments but expressing genuine uncertainty, despite appearing ready for an Esquire fashion spread. “I went with a different tie after noticing a small stain, but I’m not sure if it goes with this suit. You’re better at this.”

Alex’s humility has always been endearing to her. It’s what made her agree to go to lunch with him in the first place—the way his voice trembled a little when asking her.

“It’s perfect. Really. I love the yellow. How are you feeling?”

He looks around at the guests trickling in, and pink shadows fill his cheeks. “I don’t know. Ask me tomorrow.”