After the Golden Age

“Shall we have a seat in the parlor? Dinner will be in just a few minutes.”

The four of them retired to an honest-to-God parlor. It had plush Persian carpets on hardwood floors, antique furniture in rich woods and velvet upholstery. Each painting on the wall had its own display lamp. The whole mansion was the real deal, a Victorian edifice built by an early industrialist and donated to the city. The ground floor, with its wide foyer, opulent sitting rooms, and formal dining room, were often used for city receptions and ceremonies. The West Plaza penthouse looked almost homey in comparison.

Mayor Paulson settled at the edge of a regal wing-backed chair and said, “Celia, Mark tells me you’re working with the DA’s office on the Sito prosecution?” He waited expectantly for an answer. She’d hoped she could sit back on the chintz sofa and watch the Paulson family dynamic, smiling and nodding politely now and then.

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s quite a coup for him, I imagine. It’s like having a stamp of approval from the whole West family. Looks great in the papers.”

If he’d only seen that altercation with her father outside Bronson’s office. She smiled demurely. “I’m just trying to do my job as well as I can.”

“For which the city thanks you. This trial may be the most important one we’ve ever seen.”

God, he was on all the time. Was that the trick of politics, that you had to actually mean all the earnest things you said? Celia couldn’t change the subject by complimenting Mrs. Paulson on the clever and tasty hors d’oeuvres set out for them. The mansion’s cook had made them.

How would she have turned out if her parents had raised her in this kind of environment?

“Thank you, sir.”

Mark, bless him, caught the rebound. “So, Mom, you getting to play much tennis? Mom plays tennis,” he said in an aside to Celia. Andrea might have been one of the paintings, her smile was so fixed. She kept her gaze on her husband while she rattled on about tennis at the country club.

Dinner arrived, finally. Celia could relax as the conversation turned more banal.

That didn’t last, though.

Paulson, jovial, said, “I keep expecting to find a note on my desk one of these days announcing the Olympiad’s retirement—just like the Hawk did. How long have they been at this? Twenty, twenty-five years? The Hawk didn’t last that long.”

Celia smiled politely, as if acknowledging an old joke, and offered no reply. He couldn’t have waited until after dessert to bring up the Olympiad.

“I remember them at their peak. God, they were amazing.”

Celia could imagine what her father would say to that. He’d punch through a wall and say, How’s that for peak? And Spark might not even stop him.

He kept talking at her. “You must wish that they’d give up the double life. You must worry about them.”

Her polite smile turned wry. “They’re big kids. They can take care of themselves.”

“Of course. I’m only curious. They say they’re defending my city—I want to understand them.”

His city? What was it with people claiming the city?

“There’s not much to understand. They’re using their talents the way they see fit.” Was she actually defending them? She glanced at Mark. Get me out of this …

Mark shifted in his chair, calling attention to himself. “Celia can’t be expected to speak for the Olympiad, Dad.”

“No, no, of course not. My apologies. But Mark … let me run a thought by you. I’ve been wondering if our police forces have gotten soft.” Understandably, Mark straightened in preparation of some vehement denial. His father waved him down. “Now, no offense, this certainly is no reflection on you personally. With a criminal like the Destructor, who was so far out of reach of what any normal law enforcement agency could handle, of course I can see how they might come to depend on the Olympiad, who were a bit better equipped to face opposition like that. But these recent crime sprees—they’re perfectly ordinary crimes. They’re fully within the ability of any law enforcement agency. I chastised the Olympiad for not getting involved—but after giving the issue some thought, I don’t see that they, or any of the city’s superhuman crime fighters, should involve themselves. They’re simply not needed.”

Celia was getting to practice her polite face. “I always thought that maybe they could work together. With law enforcement.”

Paulson offered a thin, condescending smile. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

“Sir, I’d hate to think you invited me here because you thought I’d take this conversation back to my parents and throw a little kerosene on the feud you all are having.”

“Feud?” Paulson said.

“Ah, dessert’s here!” Andrea Paulson announced brightly. “Celia, I hope you like chocolate.”

Dessert was chocolate raspberry torte. Brilliant. It almost made up for Mayor Paulson.

As the house staff cleared dishes away, Andrea stood—abruptly, almost rudely, if it had been anyone else’s table.