After the Golden Age

As they ate, she watched Mark across the table. Broad shouldered, frowning, his eyes alight, animated and resolute, an ideal poster boy for the city’s police force. He looked ready to leap to the rescue of a damsel in distress, willing to save the city from whatever dangers befell it. Another crusading hero, in his own way.

She ought to kick him out right now, before it was too late.

“You look all serious all of a sudden.”

“Sorry.” She smiled and glanced away.

The table was small enough that he was able to reach across and touch her face, a light brush of fingertips across her cheek. Quelling a smile, he drew his hand away. Too late.

He helped her clear away the dishes, and he stood too close, so that she could feel the heat of his body. She let her arm brush his as she reached for a towel. After drying her hands, she twined her arms around his waist. He was kissing her before he brought his hands to her shoulders.

She was hot and bothered, unthinking, and let it happen. Watched herself pull off his shirt, press her hands to his bare chest, and give a sigh of satisfaction.

She needed, she decided, to be held in his arms.

NINE

“CELIA. It’s your father. Your mother would really like you to come over for dinner. She thinks it’d be a good idea for us to get together, when it isn’t the middle of a crisis. And … I guess I think it’d be a good idea, too. Call back.”

Celia stared at the telephone for an astounded moment. She couldn’t remember her father ever calling her at home. She couldn’t remember him ever calling her at all. Suzanne, yes—as soon as Celia had given her a number she called every week.

Mom put him up to this. She’d probably held her blowtorch finger up to his skull to make him call. He wouldn’t have had to; she’d have just scorched him a little. But he’d swallowed his pride enough to call her.

How could she say no?

* * *

“Jury selection’s taking forever. I’m not surprised. Who hasn’t heard of the Destructor? The guy published a best-selling autobiography, for crying out loud. Who knows when the trial is actually going to start.” Suzanne chatted amiably.

The scene was incongruously domestic. Suzanne, who stood at the stove testing a piece of fettuccine, wore jeans and a sweater, oversize and baggy, exactly the opposite of Spark’s uniform. She was a good cook. Celia hated to admit she was looking forward to her mother’s marinara, which she hadn’t tasted in years.

The pasta conventionally boiled away in a pot on the stove. The saucepan with the marinara sat on a cold burner. Suzanne held her hand against the outside of the pot. That was what glowed red-hot. She used her power to heat the pot and simmer the sauce. She’d always done it that way, saying she could control the temperature exactly and not let it scorch that way. Celia had been in grade school before she realized that not everyone’s mother made marinara by holding the saucepan in her hands.

Suzanne also made an excellent crème brulée—by hand, so to speak.

Warren, Captain Olympus himself, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching his wife. He wore a blue oxford shirt, khakis, and had bare feet. “I could take care of the problem in a minute. None of this would even be an issue.”

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.