Page 140 of Winterveil

When he came downstairs he was shocked to find his mother in the kitchen, humming as she stirred a pot on the stove. He could not remember the last time he’d seen his mother do anything more elaborate than pour wine into a glass. Olivia sat at the island, absorbed in a book.

It looked like a scene from a commercial, so perfect it acquired a glaze of absurdity. Some shadowy parody of his old life.

“Good morning,” his mother said. “You must be hungry.”

He wasn’t really, but he sat down anyway. His mother placed a glass of juice and a plate of eggs and toast in front of him.

At the sight of it, Julian realized he felt not only not hungry but vaguely ill. His mother watched him with a hopeful, tremulous smile. Reluctantly, he took a bite of the toast.

His mother beamed. Olivia giggled at something in her book.

“Where’s Dad?” Julian asked.

“Office,” Olivia said, without looking up.

Julian glanced at the oven clock. It was nine in the morning and, if he recalled, a Saturday. His father was making a point to be absent.

“Eat,” his mother said, rushing to fill the silence. “I already made us plans for tonight. We’re having a dinner party to celebrate you being back.”

Julian choked on his toast. “No. God, Mom. Please, no.”

His mother’s face fell, and instantly he felt awful.

“I just wanted to do something special,” she said softly. “It’s been so long. . . . What about just the Downings and the Cabots? Would that be all right?”

A small gathering of close family friends was easier to swallow. “Okay. Yeah.” He let out a breath. “It’ll be great.”

His mother beamed again, but a heaviness had settled in the pit of his stomach. Julian pushed his plate away and stood up, mumbling a half-hearted excuse before ducking out of the room.

After working up the courage, Julian stood outside his father’s office door. His fingers hovered an inch from the wood, quivering in hesitation. More than once he considered giving up and just shuffling away, like a dog with its tail between its legs.

In the end, he steeled himself with a breath and knocked.

Silence. It went on for so long that Julian prepared to knock again. But just as he lifted his hand, his father’s voice called out, “Come in.”

Feeling both relief and dread, Julian pushed open the door. His father’s office was precisely how he remembered: gleaming wood and overstuffed leather, his Harvard degree framed on the wall. Shelves of antique books, unread. No family photos.

His father sat behind his desk, staring intently at his computer. He barely looked up as Julian entered.

After several more moments passed in silence, his father let out a breath. “Yes, Julian?”

All the eloquent words Julian had prepared seemed to escape him. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I . . .” He swallowed. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

His father, too, was precisely how Julian remembered: crisp blue eyes, a sharp-edged, patrician face. What little hair remained on his head was wispy, closer to silver than to blond. His father had been balding since his late twenties, a fact that Julian often considered with deep and abiding concern.

Nothing about his father’s face ever changed. Not even when his son’s corpse was being cut down from a tree.

“Why were you at the gala?” Julian asked.

“I told you. Business.”

“Business with Chane?”

Clearly his father sensed the revulsion in Julian’s voice, because he said, “Business is business. It doesn’t matter who it’s with.”

“Did you know I was going to be there?”