Page 22 of Ricardo

The O’Brien house sits on a quiet street lined with old trees and older money. Stone facade, black shutters, gas lanterns, clipped hedges, white flowers in planters that are changed with the season before any of them have a chance to look tired. There is nothing out of place from the curb. There never is.

A man opens the front door before I can ring the bell.

“Miss O’Brien,” he says.

“Hello, Paul.”

His smile is polite and brief. He has worked for my parents for eleven years. Longer, maybe. Time moves strangely in this house because nothing ever really changes. Staff changes quietly. Rugs are replaced with similar rugs. Rooms are repainted in shades that require someone else to explain the difference. My father’s official portrait in the study gets dusted every Tuesday.

My mother appears in the foyer before I can take more than three steps inside.

“Julia,” she says, as if she has been waiting for me only because punctuality is an extension of character.

“Mom,” I reply.

Her eyes move over me quickly. Dress, hair, earrings, shoes. She takes inventory with the speed of long practice.

“You look lovely,” she says.

“Thank you.”

“You’re tired.”

There it is.

Not concern. Assessment.

“I worked today.”

“You always worked before. It didn’t show as much.”

I take off my coat and hand it to Paul. “I’ll try to look more unemployed next time.”

Her mouth tightens. “Don’t be sharp. Hugh and Bunny are already here.”

“Punctual.”

“And your father is in a good mood.”

Which means he expects everyone else to keep him there.

My mother touches my arm, light enough to be affectionate for anyone watching and firm enough to steer me toward the sitting room.

The house smells like lilies, furniture polish, and expensive white wine. It has smelled that way for most of my life. The foyer opens into a hall with marble floors and a staircase that curves just enough to be considered grand. The chandelier above it throws light over the walls.

My mother changes the flowers twice a week, whether anyone is coming or not, because flowers that wilt where guests might see them are apparently a moral failure.

I used to sit on the third step when I was small and listen to my parents host dinners like this. I learned their voices through the banister before I learned half the things children are supposed to know. My father’s public laugh. My mother’s softer one. The way guests lowered their voices when cases, campaigns, donations, or favors came up. The way everyone pretended dinner was only dinner.

Tonight is no different.

My father stands near the fireplace with a glass of Scotch in his hand, tall and silver-haired, every inch the honorable Judge Patrick O’Brien. He is in a dark suit, though dinner is in his own home, because my father likes reminders of authority even when he is standing on his own rug.

Hugh Vanderbilt is beside him, ruddy-faced and broad through the shoulders, with thinning blond-gray hair and the comfortable posture of a man who has never had less than nine digits in his bank account. His wife, Bunny, sits on the edge of a cream settee with a glass of wine. Bunny is not her real name. I learned that as a child and have never once heard anyone use the real one.

“Julia,” my father says.

“Dad.”