After the Golden Age

took charge of the car. Mark was in college when his father was first elected mayor. He’d never lived here.

The Paulsons must have been waiting for them, because the front door opened, held by a butler, as soon as they reached the top of the landing. They then launched into the sort of domestic scene Celia had only ever seen on TV commercials during the holidays. The mayor—Mark’s father, in this context, Celia reminded herself—greeted them expansively, arms open as if to close them in a bear hug. He shook Celia’s hand in both of his own, then clapped his son on the shoulder, grinning madly all the while. They might have been already married and returning home from their honeymoon, the way he carried on. How desperate was he to see his son married off? What have I gotten myself into?

“Come in, come in! Good to see you again, Celia, you’re looking very well. Haven’t scared her off yet, Mark?” His enthusiastic demeanor always played well on television. In person, it was nearly overwhelming.

Behind Anthony Paulson, waiting quietly in the foyer for her turn, stood Andrea Paulson, hands folded in front of her, smiling graciously. She wore an expensive dress suit in a feminine, nonthreatening rose color. Evidently, she was much more comfortable on her home turf. Downright tranquilized compared to their last meeting. She must have been having a bad night at the symphony.

Andrea caught Celia watching her and strode forward hand extended. “Celia, I’m so happy to see you again.”

Celia shook the woman’s hand. Her smile was beginning to feel rather stricken. Andrea turned to her son next and stood on tiptoe so he could kiss her cheek.

“Shall we have a seat in the parlor? Dinner will be in just a few minutes.”

The four of them retired to an honest-to-God parlor. It had plush Persian carpets on hardwood floors, antique furniture in rich woods and velvet upholstery. Each painting on the wall had its own display lamp. The whole mansion was the real deal, a Victorian edifice built by an early industrialist and donated to the city. The ground floor, with its wide foyer, opulent sitting rooms, and formal dining room, were often used for city receptions and ceremonies. The West Plaza penthouse looked almost homey in comparison.

Mayor Paulson settled at the edge of a regal wing-backed chair and said, “Celia, Mark tells me you’re working with the DA’s office on the Sito prosecution?” He waited expectantly for an answer. She’d hoped she could sit back on the chintz sofa and watch the Paulson family dynamic, smiling and nodding politely now and then.

“Yes, I am.”

“That’s quite a coup for him, I imagine. It’s like having a stamp of approval from the whole West family. Looks great in the papers.”

If he’d only seen that altercation with her father outside Bronson’s office. She smiled demurely. “I’m just trying to do my job as well as I can.”

“For which the city thanks you. This trial may be the most important one we’ve ever seen.”

God, he was on all the time. Was that the trick of politics, that you had to actually mean all the earnest things you said? Celia couldn’t change the subject by complimenting Mrs. Paulson on the clever and tasty hors d’oeuvres set out for them. The mansion’s cook had made them.

How would she have turned out if her parents had raised her in this kind of environment?

“Thank you, sir.”

Mark, bless him, caught the rebound. “So, Mom, you getting to play much tennis? Mom plays tennis,” he said in an aside to Celia. Andrea might have been one of the paintings, her smile was so fixed. She kept her gaze on her husband while she rattled on about tennis at the country club.

Dinner arrived, finally. Celia could relax as the conversation turned more banal.

That didn’t last, though.

Paulson, jovial, said, “I keep expecting to find a note on my desk one of these days announcing the Olympiad’s retirement—just like the Hawk did. How long have they been at this? Twenty, twenty-five years? The Hawk didn’t last that long.”

Celia smiled politely, as if acknowledging an old joke, and offered no reply. He couldn’t have waited until after dessert to bring up the Olympiad.

“I remember them at their peak. God, they were amazing.”

Celia could imagine what her father would say to that. He’d punch through a wall and say, How’s that for peak? And Spark might not even stop him.

He kept talking at her. “You must wish that they’d give up the double life. You must worry about them.”

Her polite smile turned wry. “They’re big kids. They can take care of themselves.”

“Of course. I’m only curious. They say they’re defending my city—I want to understand them.”

His city? What was it with people claiming the city?

“There’s not much to understand. They’re using their talents the way they see fit.” Was she actually defending them? She glanced at Mark. Get me out of this …

Mark shifted in his chair, calling attention to himself. “Celia can’t be expected to speak for the Olympiad, Dad.”

“No, no, of course not. My apologies. But Mark … let me run a thought by you. I’ve been wondering if our police forces have gotten soft.” Understandably, Mark straightened in preparation of some vehement denial. His father waved him down. “Now, no offense, this certainly is no reflection on you personally. With a criminal like the Destructor, who was so far out of reach of what any normal law enforcement agency could handle, of course I can see how they might come to depend on the Olympiad, who were a bit better equipped to face opposition like that. But these recent crime sprees—they’re perfectly ordinary crimes. They’re fully within the ability of any law enforcement agency. I chastised the Olympiad for not getting involved—but after giving the issue some thought, I don’t see that they, or any of the city’s superhuman crime fighters, should involve themselves. They’re simply not needed.”

Celia was getting to practice her polite face. “I always thought that maybe they could work together. With law enforcement.”

Paulson offered a thin, condescending smile. “If it hasn’t happened by now, it never will.”

“Sir, I’d hate to think you invited me here because you thought I’d take this conversation back to my parents and throw a little kerosene on the feud you all are having.”

“Feud?” Paulson said.

“Ah, dessert’s here!” Andrea Paulson announced brightly. “Celia, I hope you like chocolate.”

Dessert was chocolate raspberry torte. Brilliant. It almost made up for Mayor Paulson.

As the house staff cleared dishes away, Andrea stood—abruptly, almost rudely, if it had been anyone else’s table.

“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—”