After the Golden Age

The table was small enough that he was able to reach across and touch her face, a light brush of fingertips across her cheek. Quelling a smile, he drew his hand away. Too late.

He helped her clear away the dishes, and he stood too close, so that she could feel the heat of his body. She let her arm brush his as she reached for a towel. After drying her hands, she twined her arms around his waist. He was kissing her before he brought his hands to her shoulders.

She was hot and bothered, unthinking, and let it happen. Watched herself pull off his shirt, press her hands to his bare chest, and give a sigh of satisfaction.

She needed, she decided, to be held in his arms.

NINE

“CELIA. It’s your father. Your mother would really like you to come over for dinner. She thinks it’d be a good idea for us to get together, when it isn’t the middle of a crisis. And … I guess I think it’d be a good idea, too. Call back.”

Celia stared at the telephone for an astounded moment. She couldn’t remember her father ever calling her at home. She couldn’t remember him ever calling her at all. Suzanne, yes—as soon as Celia had given her a number she called every week.

Mom put him up to this. She’d probably held her blowtorch finger up to his skull to make him call. He wouldn’t have had to; she’d have just scorched him a little. But he’d swallowed his pride enough to call her.

How could she say no?

* * *

“Jury selection’s taking forever. I’m not surprised. Who hasn’t heard of the Destructor? The guy published a best-selling autobiography, for crying out loud. Who knows when the trial is actually going to start.” Suzanne chatted amiably.

The scene was incongruously domestic. Suzanne, who stood at the stove testing a piece of fettuccine, wore jeans and a sweater, oversize and baggy, exactly the opposite of Spark’s uniform. She was a good cook. Celia hated to admit she was looking forward to her mother’s marinara, which she hadn’t tasted in years.

The pasta conventionally boiled away in a pot on the stove. The saucepan with the marinara sat on a cold burner. Suzanne held her hand against the outside of the pot. That was what glowed red-hot. She used her power to heat the pot and simmer the sauce. She’d always done it that way, saying she could control the temperature exactly and not let it scorch that way. Celia had been in grade school before she realized that not everyone’s mother made marinara by holding the saucepan in her hands.

Suzanne also made an excellent crème brulée—by hand, so to speak.

Warren, Captain Olympus himself, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching his wife. He wore a blue oxford shirt, khakis, and had bare feet. “I could take care of the problem in a minute. None of this would even be an issue.”

Suzanne threw him a glare. “And have you up on murder charges? I don’t think so.”

“It’d be worth it.”

She retrieved a spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and held it to his mouth. “How’s this?”

He leaned forward and tasted, licked his lips, looked thoughtful. “Hm. Perfect.”

“You always say that,” Suzanne said, frowning. Warren grinned and kissed her forehead.

Celia sat at the kitchen table. She’d asked about three times if she could help. The table had already been set when she got to her parents’ penthouse, and Suzanne insisted she didn’t need anything. Her parents could have afforded a dozen live-in maids, cooks, butlers, whatever. They didn’t have any help, though, apart from someone who came to clean once a week. Suzanne had always set the table herself.

Celia couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together like this, at home, in civilian clothes, quiet and relaxed. She bit her lip.

Warren looked at her. “What are you smiling at?”

She chose to interpret his tone as casual. Ten years ago, she would have taken the words as a personal attack. “I’m thinking you may have a point. What’s a few years in jail if it keeps Sito from hurting anyone ever again? Heck, I might do it myself.”

“You see?” Warren said to Suzanne.

Her mother frowned at her. “Don’t encourage him. And you—don’t encourage her.”

The pasta finished cooking, the sauce finished simmering, Suzanne let Celia serve the salad, and they sat down to eat. Celia didn’t even mind that they couldn’t find anything to talk about except work. Really, work was what any normal family talked about around the dinner table, wasn’t it?

“Bronson’s not going to make you testify, is he?” Suzanne asked.

“No. That is, he’d better not. I wouldn’t want to have to say something that would cause trouble.” This was treading on very touchy ground. More than anything, she didn’t want her father to start in on the subject. “I’m just there to do my job. It isn’t about me, and Bronson knows that. He’ll keep me out of the spotlight.”

Warren nodded like he approved, and Celia sighed.

Celia traced the bottom of her wineglass, fidgeting. “This is nice. Thanks for having me over. Maybe next time you could come over to my place. It isn’t fancy or anything, and I can’t cook, not like this, so you might get pizza delivery—”

“I’d like that,” Suzanne said. “We both would. Just let us know a time and we’ll be there.”

Maybe this would be easier than Celia thought. Maybe it wasn’t too late to have a decent family life. Her parents had never seen her apartment. The idea made her a little giddy, a little nervous, like getting ready for a test. She’d have to clean. “Okay,” she said.

Suzanne said, “Maybe we could make it a weekly thing. We’re all so busy, but if we had a scheduled time we wouldn’t go for six months without seeing each other. Robbie and Arthur could come over. And Celia, if you ever want to bring someone along, that’d be all right. I’d really like to meet your friends. Or if there’s someone, you know, special.” She shyly lowered her gaze to the piece of pasta she’d been twirling on her fork for the last minute.

Celia had to repeat to herself, She means well, she means well. But the thought of bringing Mark—or any guy—here gave her a mild panic attack. My parents, the superhuman crime fighters. And what do you do, son? Stockbroker? You don’t say …

“Maybe.”

“Detective Paulson seems nice.” Suzanne eyed Celia.

“He is.”

Her father huffed. “His father’s a—”

“Warren…” Suzanne gave him the look.

“I’m just saying Celia needs to watch her back. Who knows what they’re up to.”

Suzanne said, “You shouldn’t judge people by their fathers.”

Amen, Celia thought. “It’s okay. He’s never liked anyone I’ve dated.” Warren was about to say something; a red flush was creeping into his features.

Klaxons wailed. And wasn’t that a blast from the past, the Olympiad alarm system sounding in the middle of dinner?

Warren dropped his fork and leaped from the table. Suzanne hesitated, looking at Celia apologetically.

“Don’t worry. I’ll let myself out and lock up. You guys be careful.”

Her mother smiled, squeezed her hand, and followed her husband to the Olympiad control room.

Ten minutes later the penthouse trembled for a moment as the jumpjet launched from its rooftop hangar. Celia’s wineglass chimed, rattling against a piece of silverware. She grabbed it to hold it still.

She finished eating, though her heart wasn’t in it. Not with two half-eaten meals staring at her. Leftovers in this house were never a problem, though. Suzanne just waved her hand at them—instant hot meal.

Her parents had remodeled the kitchen since she moved out. They’d traded the slate tile floor for hardwood, the black lacquer cabinets for oak, and the stainless steel appliances for off-white. They were mellowing in their old