What he didn’t text was the thought burning in his mind: When did your mother’s dinners become more important than your son?
The Raymond house sat in Kenilworth, one of Chicago’s wealthiest suburbs—a Georgian colonial that Christa never failed to mention was historic. Frank pulled into the circular driveway at 6:30 the next evening, Todd silent in the back seat.
“Remember,” Frank said, turning to look at his son, “you don’t have to pretend to be happy if you’re not. Just be yourself.”
Todd nodded but didn’t meet his eyes.
The front door opened before they reached it. Bobby Raymond Mills stood there—Ashley’s older sister—wearing a cashmere sweater that probably cost more than Frank’s monthly podcast budget.
“There they are. Come in, come in. You’re late.”
“We’re actually five minutes early,” Frank said evenly.
Bobby’s smile never wavered. “Well, everyone else has been here for thirty minutes.”
She turned to Todd. “Your cousins are in the playroom. Run along.”
Frank watched Todd trudge toward the back of the house, his small frame disappearing around the corner. Bobby’s children—Madison, nine, and Harper, six—had already received more Christmas presents in the past week than Todd would get all year, if the shopping bags Frank had seen Ashley hiding were any indication.
Christa Raymond swept into the foyer, champagne glass in hand, diamonds at her throat catching the chandelier light. At 62, she maintained her appearance with the dedication of a general planning a campaign.
“You brought the Veuve Clicquot,” she said, voice bright and thin. “How thoughtful. Though I must say, the moët is really superior for lamb. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Frank held out the bottle anyway.
Harvey Raymond appeared behind his wife, tall and silver-haired, with the bearing of someone accustomed to deference. He’d made his fortune in commercial real estate and never let anyone forget it.
“Frank. Good to see you. Ashley’s in the kitchen with her sister.”
Dinner proceeded as these dinners always did. Christa held court at the head of the table, directing conversation like a conductor leading an orchestra. Harvey discussed business deals. Bobby talked about Madison’s acceptance into an exclusive summer program. Renee Mills, Bobby’s husband, made safe jokes and laughed at Harvey’s stories.
Ashley sat across from Frank, and he studied his wife in the candlelight. They’d met nine years ago when he was covering a story about urban renewal and she was volunteering at a community center. She’d been passionate then, bright-eyed, talking about making a difference. Now she wore pearls that matched her mother’s and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.
“Todd seems quiet tonight,” Christa observed, her tone suggesting this was somehow Frank’s fault. “Is he feeling well?”
“He’s fine,” Frank said. “Just tired from school.”
“Madison never gets tired from school,” Bobby interjected. “Of course, she’s in the advanced program. Keeps her engaged.”
Frank felt Ashley’s hand on his knee under the table. A warning.
He took a breath.
“Actually,” Christa continued, “I’ve been meaning to discuss Todd’s schooling with you both. Bobby found a wonderful tutor. Very exclusive. She works with gifted children, but I think Todd might benefit from some extra attention to help him catch up.”
“Catch up to what?” Frank asked.
“Well, to his peers, naturally. You want him to have every advantage.”
“Todd is doing fine.”
“Fine isn’t excellent, Frank.” Christa sipped her champagne. “The Raymond family has standards.”
“He’s seven years old.”
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