Suzanne threw him a glare. “And have you up on murder charges? I don’t think so.”
“It’d be worth it.”
She retrieved a spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and held it to his mouth. “How’s this?”
He leaned forward and tasted, licked his lips, looked thoughtful. “Hm. Perfect.”
“You always say that,” Suzanne said, frowning. Warren grinned and kissed her forehead.
Celia sat at the kitchen table. She’d asked about three times if she could help. The table had already been set when she got to her parents’ penthouse, and Suzanne insisted she didn’t need anything. Her parents could have afforded a dozen live-in maids, cooks, butlers, whatever. They didn’t have any help, though, apart from someone who came to clean once a week. Suzanne had always set the table herself.
Celia couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together like this, at home, in civilian clothes, quiet and relaxed. She bit her lip.
Warren looked at her. “What are you smiling at?”
She chose to interpret his tone as casual. Ten years ago, she would have taken the words as a personal attack. “I’m thinking you may have a point. What’s a few years in jail if it keeps Sito from hurting anyone ever again? Heck, I might do it myself.”
“You see?” Warren said to Suzanne.
Her mother frowned at her. “Don’t encourage him. And you—don’t encourage her.”
The pasta finished cooking, the sauce finished simmering, Suzanne let Celia serve the salad, and they sat down to eat. Celia didn’t even mind that they couldn’t find anything to talk about except work. Really, work was what any normal family talked about around the dinner table, wasn’t it?
“Bronson’s not going to make you testify, is he?” Suzanne asked.
“No. That is, he’d better not. I wouldn’t want to have to say something that would cause trouble.” This was treading on very touchy ground. More than anything, she didn’t want her father to start in on the subject. “I’m just there to do my job. It isn’t about me, and Bronson knows that. He’ll keep me out of the spotlight.”
Warren nodded like he approved, and Celia sighed.
Celia traced the bottom of her wineglass, fidgeting. “This is nice. Thanks for having me over. Maybe next time you could come over to my place. It isn’t fancy or anything, and I can’t cook, not like this, so you might get pizza delivery—”
“I’d like that,” Suzanne said. “We both would. Just let us know a time and we’ll be there.”
Maybe this would be easier than Celia thought. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have a decent family life. Her parents had never seen her apartment. The idea made her a little giddy, a little nervous, like getting ready for a test. She’d have to clean. “Okay,” she said.
Suzanne said, “Maybe we could make it a weekly thing. We’re all so busy, but if we had a scheduled time we wouldn’t go for six months without seeing each other. Robbie and Arthur could come over. And Celia, if you ever want to bring someone along, that’d be all right. I’d really like to meet your friends. Or if there’s someone, you know, special.” She shyly lowered her gaze to the piece of pasta she’d been twirling on her fork for the last minute.
Celia had to repeat to herself, She means well, she means well. But the thought of bringing Mark—or any guy—here gave her a mild panic attack. My parents, the superhuman crime fighters. And what do you do, son? Stockbroker? You don’t say …
“Maybe.”
“Detective Paulson seems nice.” Suzanne eyed Celia.
“He is.”
Her father huffed. “His father’s a—”
“Warren…” Suzanne gave him the look.
“I’m just saying Celia needs to watch her back. Who knows what they’re up to.”
Suzanne said, “You shouldn’t judge people by their fathers.”
Amen, Celia thought. “It’s okay. He’s never liked anyone I’ve dated.” Warren was about to say something; a red flush was creeping into his features.
Klaxons wailed. And wasn’t that a blast from the past, the Olympiad alarm system sounding in the middle of dinner?
Warren dropped his fork and leaped from the table. Suzanne hesitated, looking at Celia apologetically.