Patricia’s greeting was cooler, a brief, dry handshake, her eyes moving over my outfit with a disappointment she didn’t bother to fully conceal. “Thomas. How lovely. Please, sit.”
Christopher didn’t bother standing at all. He simply nodded. “Chris.”
I sat beside Michael, across from Richard. A waiter appeared almost instantly with menus bound in soft leather.
“The dover sole is exceptional today,” Richard said, not quite looking at me. “Though I suppose, Tom, what do you usually order when you dine out?”
“Depends on the place,” I said easily. “Can’t go wrong with a good burger.”
Patricia’s smile went tight at the corners. “How practical.”
Jessica jumped in quickly, sensing the current beneath the surface. “Michael tells me you worked in finance, Mr. Warren. That must have been interesting.”
“Tom,” I reminded her gently. “And yes, for many years. I’m retired now.”
“Retired at—” Richard let the question dangle in the air, unfinished, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Fifty-nine.”
“Early retirement.” Christopher smirked slightly over the rim of his water glass. “That’s quite a luxury.”
“I saved well,” I said, simple as that.
“And what do you do with your time now?” Patricia asked, the question carrying the faint weight of a woman genuinely unable to imagine a life without a title attached to it.
“Golf sometimes. I travel a bit. I read a great deal. I help Michael when he needs it. Take walks around the neighborhood most evenings.”
The waiter returned for our orders. I watched the Bradfords order without so much as glancing at the prices — the lobster, the Wagyu, the heritage pork belly. When the waiter turned to me, I said, “I’ll have the chicken breast, please. Plain. And water is fine.”
Michael’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. The Bradfords exchanged a quick, unmistakable glance across the table.
Richard leaned back in his chair. “So, Tom. Michael mentioned you live in South Boston. That’s quite a diverse area these days.”
“It is,” I agreed. “My neighbors are teachers, firefighters, nurses. Good people, every one of them.”
“Of course,” Patricia said, in a tone that plainly meant the opposite. “And you rent, I assume.”
“I own the apartment.”
“Smart investment,” Richard offered, though his tone suggested he thought it anything but. “South Boston’s been gentrifying nicely. You might turn a small profit when you decide to sell.”
