Page 25 of Ricardo

One second. Maybe two.

My mother notices. My father notices. Bunny notices too, because Bunny notices everything that might be gossip.

Harrison Winthrop III.

There it is. His name in this house for the first time since I came back to Chicago. Spoken between courses, as if he were a wine pairing or a weather report.

I set my fork down carefully.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say, just as carefully.

Bunny’s mouth softens into sympathy. “Of course. I only meant it must be difficult. Such a public end to things.”

It was not public.

Not really.

There was a statement. Two lines. Mutual respect. Different paths. Continued admiration. A polished lie necessary only because people like Bunny Vanderbilt don't know when to mind their own.

“It was handled,” I say.

My father’s jaw shifts slightly.

My mother reaches for her wine. “Julia has been very discreet.”

I look at her.

She does not look back.

Discreet. As if my silence is a family accomplishment.

Hugh clears his throat. “Harrison has a future ahead of him. Bright young man. Ambitious.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say.

My father gives me another look.

I do not care for this one either.

Bunny tilts her head. “Do you think you’ll go back east at some point?”

“No.”

The answer is definitive enough that my mother’s eyes flick toward me.

“No?” Bunny says.

“For now,” my father says.

I look at him. “I will not be going back east.”

The table stills in the smallest possible way.

No one gasps. No one looks openly uncomfortable. People like this do not make scenes at dinner. But the air shifts.

My mother recovers first. “Chicago is home.”

It has never felt like home in this room.