House on Fire

16

Just then there came a loud, blatting noise from outside, like a car with a hole in its muffler.

“Well, let me guess,” Megan said to me, and shook her head, scowling. A little louder she said, “Nice of him to show up.”

There was muted laughter up and down the table.

“In one of his jalopies,” said her father.

I took out my phone and fired off a quick text message, then set it down on the table.

Paul Kimball sat down next to me, while his brilliant girlfriend sat across the table from us. He introduced himself. “You’re with Sukie?” he said.

I nodded, shook hands. “Nick Brown.”

He took the napkin off the table, placed it in his lap, and smiled at one of the servants who came right over with a tray of food.

“Thank you, Andrea,” he said. “I’m starved.”

After he was served his ribs and cornbread, he turned to me and leaned his head in confidingly. “Be careful with that one, please,” he said as he nodded at Sukie.

“She’s in good hands,” I reassured him.

“Not worried about her,” he said. “Worried about you. She’s a tricky one. Complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“Like no one you ever met.”

Then he turned away.

I noticed the pale-haired security chief had left the table and was now lurking in the doorway to the hall, looking in.

I excused myself, got up from the table, left the phone there. At the entrance to the room, Fritz Heston looked at me.

“Excuse me,” I said quietly, as if he were a servant, “where would I find the bathroom?”

He pointed, didn’t reply. Up close I could see he had white hair and was probably around sixty.

I found the small guest bathroom right off the foyer, all black and white tiles and nickel fixtures, like a restroom in a men’s club from the 1920s. Took my time in there. When I came back, I could see at a distance Fritz walking away from the table.

I returned to the table, picked up my phone, and glanced at it. On its screen, and visible to anyone, were a couple of texts. One was from a Mark_Foster@mckinsey.com, its subject “quick wins.” Another one from Kerry_Granville@mckinsey.com, subject “MECE analysis.” I slipped it back into my breast pocket. I had no doubt that Fritz Heston had taken a peek at my phone. He couldn’t resist. Then I sneaked a glance and saw that he had left the room. Maybe the ruse had worked.

Suddenly a slight blond man in his early twenties burst into the room. He had on ripped jeans and Chuck Taylors and a wrinkled tuxedo jacket worn ironically. “Happy birthday, Dad,” he sang out. “Sorry I’m late. Car trouble.” He laughed delightedly. Cameron was weaving slightly as he approached the head of the table. Accompanying him was a woman I at first saw only from the side, but I recognized her gait before I knew for sure who she was.

I felt my blood jump.

It can’t be.

“The prodigal son arrives at last,” said Conrad, extending his arms. He wasn’t smiling.

I kept staring at Cameron’s date. Everything else fell away.

“The gang’s all here,” Cameron said. “Saving the best for last.”

As the couple came up to Conrad, I could finally see the woman’s face. I startled, jerked my head like a cartoon character.

It is her.

Megan must have noticed me gaping like an idiot, because she said, “Wait, you know her?”

At least I recovered quickly. I shook my head. “No. She just looks like someone I used to know,” I said.