After the Golden Age

“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.

“Don’t worry. I’ll let myself out and lock up. You guys be careful.”

Her mother smiled, squeezed her hand, and followed her husband to the Olympiad control room.

Ten minutes later the penthouse trembled for a moment as the jumpjet launched from its rooftop hangar. Celia’s wineglass chimed, rattling against a piece of silverware. She grabbed it to hold it still.

She finished eating, though her heart wasn’t in it. Not with two half-eaten meals staring at her. Leftovers in this house were never a problem, though. Suzanne just waved her hand at them—instant hot meal.

Her parents had remodeled the kitchen since she moved out. They’d traded the slate tile floor for hardwood, the black lacquer cabinets for oak, and the stainless steel appliances for off-white. They were mellowing in their old age.

The Tupperware was still in the cupboard next to the dishwasher. Celia packaged the leftovers and found room for them in the fridge, ran the dishwasher, rinsed out the wineglasses, and took a nostalgic swing around the place.

An entire floor of Celia’s apartment building would fit inside the West penthouse. More than half of that was taken up by the Olympiad’s base of operations. That still left a spacious home that had been featured in City Living Magazine, back when the Wests were still just the Wests, socialites and heirs to a mercantile fortune. Floor-to-ceiling windows made up one wall of the great room—living room and rec room on one end, dining room on another. It was like having a gymnasium in your house. The carpet was soft and newly cleaned, not a speck of dust or a wrinkle anywhere. The place hardly looked lived in. Her parents probably didn’t spend much time here anymore. It had been a while since they had a kid losing popcorn down the sides of the cushions on the leather sofa while she watched videos.

Visitors never noticed the décor at first. They always went to the windows, which looked over the city: a grid of streetlights, a mosaic of buildings stretching out to the distance, to a black band that was the river and harbor. A faint noise—the hum of car engines, an occasional siren or barking horn—could be heard despite the thick glass. A person could feel like a god, standing up here, gazing over a world that seemed smaller—like a picture, or a model. They might feel like they owned it all. Wonderful view, people always said.