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Mr. Stanley blinks. “What?”

“Children,” I say. “Or pets?”

Silence for a moment. Until the woman across from me makes a small sound into her napkin that might be a laugh.

Nathaniel turns his head slightly away. I can’t tell whether he’s irritated or impressed.

Maybe both.

Mr. Stanley stares at me as if I’ve sprouted a third breast. “No,” he says.

“To children or pets?”

His mouth twists. “Both.”

“Oh.” I take another sip of wine. “That’s…interesting.”

Nathaniel coughs once.

My brain scrambles for something else. Anything else. Anything from the lessons Nathaniel gave me earlier. Golf. Sailing. Shooting. The safe topics. The rich-man topics. The words people use when they want to prove they belong to clubs instead of actual communities.

“Do you golf?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I nod as if he just offered a fascinating anecdote. “That must be relaxing.”

“No.”

“Competitive, then?”

“Yes.”

I take another sip of wine.

“Sailing?” I try.

Mr. Stanley dabs his mouth with his napkin. “Occasionally.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“When the weather is agreeable.”

“And shooting?” I ask, because apparently I’ve decided to keep digging until I reach hell.

Mr. Stanley’s eyes sharpen with the first hint of interest. “Yes.”

I wait.

Nothing more.

Nathaniel looks across me to him. “You might try asking Ella something about her own life.”

My stomach dips.

Oh no.

No, thank you.