Page 26 of Ricardo

“Yes,” I say. “It is.”

The next course saves everyone for a moment. Plates are taken, wine is poured, lamb is served. My father moves the conversation to Hugh’s latest foundation project, and Bunny allows herself to be redirected because she has already gotten enough to make a few calls tomorrow.

I eat what is placed in front of me and say very little.

My father does not like that.

I can feel it.

A quiet Julia is acceptable when the quiet is graceful. Mine is starting to feel like refusal.

“So,” Hugh says later, because apparently the lamb, and his third glass of wine, have made him brave, “how is Mario Conti as an employer?”

My father sets down his glass.

My mother’s smile remains fixed.

I wipe the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “Demanding.”

Hugh chuckles. “I imagine that family is demanding in several ways.”

“Most successful families are.”

My father’s eyes sharpen faintly.

Bunny leans in. “You knew the son, didn’t you?”

“Dante,” my mother says before I can answer. “Ricardo Conti’s son.”

“Ah,” Hugh says. “Ricardo. I’ve heard of him.”

I bet he has.

“Julia and Dante were friends years ago,” my mother continues. “During her study abroad.”

“We are friends,” I say.

My mother pauses.

I take a sip of water.

My father watches me over the rim of his glass, and I know this version of him. He is collecting every answer, every correction, every small refusal, and saving them for later when there are no guests.

Bunny smiles. “That must be nice, then. Having a friend at the company.”

“Dante doesn’t work at the company in the same capacity,” I say.

“But he helped you get the job, I assume,” Hugh says.

There it is again. The assumption that I could not have simply gotten anything because I was qualified for it.

“He recommended me,” I say. “Mario interviewed me.”

“And hired you quickly,” my father says.

“He needed someone competent.”

The words are out before I can make them prettier.