Page 14 of Making It Burn
“You never know with his generation.”
“I’m an attorney, Dad.Not an influencer.”
“Is there a difference anymore?”He lowered the paper.“Everyone’s got a brand these days.You probably have a LinkedIn.”
“Having a LinkedIn is standard professional practice.”
“In my day, we called that a résumé.“
Gracie, clearing my mother’s plate, made a sound that could’ve been a cough or could’ve been the verbal equivalent of throwing her hands in the air.Her face remained perfectly neutral, but her eyes saidLord, give me strength.
I had to look down at my eggs to hide my grin.
“Anyway,” my mother continued, clearly determined to drag this conversation across the finish line, “if something is bothering you at work, darling, you know you can tell us.Your father has connections all over Richmond.He could make a phone call—”
“Mom, no.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Please don’t make phone calls on my behalf.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“Claudia,” my father interjected, not looking up, “the boy is thirty-two.Let him handle his own problems.If he gets fired, he can move back in here and you can fuss over him all you want.”
“I’m not getting fired.”
“Not with that attitude.”
My mother sighed.“Howard, you’re not helping.”
“I wasn’t trying to help.I was making an observation.”
“Your observations are rarely constructive.”Mother’s lips pressed into a straight line.
“And yet I keep making them.”
Gracie, now at the sideboard arranging fresh fruit, closed her eyes briefly in what I could only describe as a silent prayer for patience.When she opened them, she glanced at me, and for just a second, her expression softened into something almost conspiratorial.
We survive,that look said.Somehow, we survive.
I finished my coffee in three gulps and stood.“I need to get to the office.”
“So early?”My mother frowned.“It’s not even eight.”
“Big case.Lots to do.”
“Will you be home for dinner?”
“Probably not.”
“Beau—”
“I’ll text you, okay?”I rounded the table and kissed her cheek, then clapped my father on the shoulder.“Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” my father muttered.
Gracie followed me to the front door, moving with the slow inevitability of a glacier.
