Page 28 of Ricardo

“My private disappointments,” I repeat. “That they asked me about.”

“You and Harrison made a decision,” he says. “It was unfortunate. Embarrassing, perhaps, given the timing and visibility, but not unrecoverable. What I will not have is you returning to Chicago and behaving as though everyone who asks a question has committed some grave offense.”

I stare at him.

For a second, I cannot even answer.

Not because I have nothing to say. Because I have too much, and most of it would burn our relationship to the ground.

My mother stands. “Your father means people are concerned.”

“That’s not what he means,” I say. “Don’t filter him. And no, people aren’t concerned. They’re curious. And nosy.”

“Curiosity is natural,” she says.

“So is privacy.”

My father’s mouth tightens. “Privacy is earned by discretion.”

“I have been discreet. Remember?”

“Yes,” he says. “So far.”

There it is.

The warning beneath the conversation.

“So, let me get this straight,” I say. “If people ask me about it, I am to answer and not brush them off, but I am also to be polite and discreet so as to earn my privacy.”

My mother folds her hands in front of her. “No one is attacking you, Julia.”

“I didn’t say anyone was.”

“You are acting like it.”

“I am acting like I don’t want to discuss Harrison with Hugh and Bunny Vanderbilt, and by extension, everyone they know.”

My father’s expression sharpens at the name. “Harrison is not a forbidden subject.”

“He is to me.”

“He was almost your husband.”

“Yes,” I say. “Almost.”

“People will ask.”

“They are not owed an answer.”

My mother’s face pinches. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“Vulgar?”

“This attitude,” she says. “This sharpness. It isn’t like you.”

That almost makes me laugh again.

Maybe it is like me. Maybe it was always like me, and I spent too many years sanding it down so I would not ruin anyone’s evening.