After the Golden Age

“Celia, would you like a tour of the upstairs? That’s one of my jobs—giving tours. We have some really wonderful paintings that don’t get seen much.”

Mark gave an encouraging smile, and Paulson didn’t seem inclined to accompany them. All that made the offer attractive.

“Sure,” Celia said.

The second floor was as impressive as the first. Andrea and her husband lived on the third floor, so even here wasn’t much evidence that this was an actual home. They occasionally hosted dignitaries in the guest rooms, or held charity concerts in the music room.

Andrea gushed about the house, the history, and her husband. “Tony is so dedicated. He gives so much of himself. He truly is the most generous man I’ve ever met. Don’t you think? I hope Mark follows in his footsteps.”

“He seems to be,” Celia offered. “Being a cop’s a tough job.”

“Hm, yes. Normally in this situation I suppose I’d ask you to tell me about your family. But I think they’re in the news even more than Tony. It must have been so interesting for you growing up. I hope this isn’t prying too much, but I’m terribly curious—”

Celia smiled inwardly and waited for the inevitable question: What was it like having Captain Olympus and Spark as parents? Isn’t Captain Olympus wonderful?

Instead, Andrea Paulson asked, “Do you ever worry?”

She shrugged. “I suppose. I worry about them getting hurt. Growing up I was always a little scared until they came home—”

Andrea gave a tiny, impatient shake of her head. “Don’t we all worry about that sort of thing? I mean, do you worry about yourself? It’s my understanding that your parents’ powers might be passed on genetically. Now, I understand you didn’t inherit anything like that. But do you worry that your children might inherit some of their more … unusual qualities?”

If you marry my son, will my grandchildren be mutant freaks? Celia could have used a cup of tea, a cup of coffee—any kind of social crutch to occupy her hands and keep her from reaching out and breaking something. As it was, she had to use willpower. Not her best attribute.

“Honestly, Mrs. Paulson, it’s not something I’ve ever thought about.” And thank you so much for adding that to my list of anxieties. “I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

“Of course, you’re young yet.” She offered the polished smile of a politician’s wife. Paulson had probably married her for that smile. “I was simply curious. Really, I don’t suppose anyone can help but wonder … what was it like having Captain Olympus as a father?”

* * *

The ride home with Mark started awkwardly. Mark clutched the steering wheel, Celia leaned on the passenger-side door, head propped on her hand, feeling surly. He kept glancing at her, stealing quick looks out of the corner of his eye when he wasn’t driving through intersections. She waited for him to say something; he seemed on the verge of it, if he could just take a deep enough breath.

It was endearing. It didn’t matter who you were or who your parents were, they’d always embarrass you.

Mark pressed back against the seat and smirked. “That was a disaster, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If it had been my father, he might have broken a few walls.”

“Not really,” he said. “You always say he’s like that … but you’re exaggerating, right? He always seems so together.”

“Sure,” she drawled, and decided then and there that she would never, ever take Mark to dinner with her parents. “Hey—did your mom seem okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“She was just so different than she was when I met her at the symphony. I guess I’m wondering which is more like the real her.”

“She did seem a little perky, didn’t she?”

“You tell me.”

He shrugged, resettling himself against the seat. “I don’t know. I don’t think she’s ever been real happy with Dad in politics. I remember, the first time he ran for mayor, she’d have a glass of wine before the publicity photos. It was the only way she could relax.”

“She must have had a glass of wine before we showed up, because she looked like a publicity photo all night.”

Mark didn’t respond, and by the time they got back to her place, she had no intention of mentioning his parents again.

FIFTEEN

THE prosecution’s case dragged on for two weeks. For all his fire and brimstone behind the scenes, Bronson was solid and methodical in the courtroom, not taking any chances with speculation or questionable evidence. The financial evidence was plain, the witnesses primed and well spoken. Every objection Sito’s lawyers made was overruled.