The Bradford table sat in a private alcove overlooking the golf course, the kind of table reserved for people the club considered worth the good view. As we approached, I took in the family one by one.
Richard Bradford, mid-fifties, silver hair styled with the kind of precision that costs money, wearing a suit I recognized immediately as Brioni. Patricia Bradford beside him, elegant in a cream-colored dress and a strand of pearls that probably cost more than my car. Christopher Bradford, early thirties, his father’s easy arrogance already written across his face like a family crest. And Jessica, twenty-six, pretty and composed — but I noticed her eyes right away. They were kind. Genuinely kind, in a way that couldn’t be taught or purchased.
Jessica stood first, and her smile was real. “Mr. Warren, I’m so happy to finally meet you.”
She hugged me warmly, without an ounce of hesitation, and in that single gesture I understood immediately why Michael loved her.
