Page 91

Absurdly enough, that was what stayed with me. Not the way she opened the door when she was ready for me to leave, not the declaration about there being no proposal on Friday, not even the look on her face when I admitted I’d thought of her as suitable, even a partner in life, but not love.

The sensible thing would have been to go home, pour a drink, and wait until morning before deciding anything else. Sensible had been the organizing principle of my life for so long that I could hear its voice as clearly as my father’s, telling me that anger made poor decisions, that nothing improved after ten o’clock at night, and that family business belonged behind closed doors.

But I’d waited too long already. So instead of driving to my apartment, I turned the Saab toward my father’s house, driving through the dark streets of Maple Bluff with my hands tight on the wheel and the radio off.

My family house was set back on a quiet street near the lake, not as large as the Hales’ place, something that had always bothered my mother, but larger than others on the street. Every shrub was clipped, every window framed by drapes she’d chosen after rejecting fourteen other possibilities, and even the brass lanterns beside the front door were polished often enough that they caught the porch light like jewelry.

My mother’s Chrysler was in the drive, but my father’s Mercedes was not. For a minute, I sat with the engine running, watching moths hit the porch light while the air conditioner blew cold against my shirt. I’d expected him to be home, had wanted him to be home because if I waited until morning, I might find a way to make the conversation easier.

Then the garage door rumbled open, and my father’s headlights swept across the shrubs, the porch, and finally the windshield of my car.

He pulled in, parked, and got out slowly, carrying his jacket over one arm and his briefcase in the other hand. Even at ten-thirty at night, after a day that should have wrinkled any man, he still looked pressed and composed, his tie knotted, his hair silver at the temples and carefully combed back from his face.

When he saw me in the driveway, he stopped. For one strange second, I was ten years old again and had broken something expensive playing baseball in the backyard.

“We need to talk,” I said as I shut the car door.

His eyes moved over my face. “I gathered, seeing as you’re here this late on a Tuesday.”

I followed him inside and caught the scent of lemon oil and my mother’s gardenias. A lamp had been left on in the living room, where a copy of Architectural Digest sat on the coffee table beneath a crystal paperweight. From upstairs came the muffled sound of the television in my parents’ bedroom. My mother watched the late news most nights even though she complained it gave her unpleasant dreams.

Dad set his briefcase near the stairs, glanced up, then walked down the hall to his study as I followed, closing the door behind us.

The study was very much him with it’s heavy desk, leather chairs, dark shelves, framed photographs from golf tournaments, a bar cart near the window, and on one wall a picture of the three of us at some brokerage dinner when I was seventeen. My mother looked elegant, my father looked important, and I looked as though I wanted to be elsewhere.

Dad went directly to the bar cart. “Drink?”

“No.”

He poured one for himself, then settled in the chair behind his desk.

“Talk.”

“Lorrie knows.” I sat in the chair across from him, watching his face.

He stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth, and for the first time in a long time, his composure slipped.

“What exactly does she know?”

“That there are problems at the firm. That there have been transfers, and that her family’s name is attached to conversations about liquidity after the upcoming dinner.”

My father set the glass down without drinking.

“How?”

“Martin Vale.”

The name did what I expected. His face hardened.

“That little bastard.”

I blinked at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Who else has he spoken to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then you should find out.”