Wilde Lake(44)

But when AJ asked to take Lu to lunch to discuss “something confidential,” she couldn’t resist picking a restaurant she knew would annoy him. He’s taking her away from her Saturday afternoon with the twins, after all, the one carefree day on a weekly calendar that looks more like a battle plan, with babysitters ferrying Justin here, Penelope there.

She can’t recall the last time her brother asked to be alone with her. Maybe never? Over the years, they were always good about stay ing in touch, no matter the distance between them. Their father implemented a weekly call during AJ’s college years, then encouraged Lu to choose Bryn Mawr because AJ had embarked on an MBA at Wharton. Nine years of education—four at Yale, three at Columbia, two at Wharton—and now he’s basically the world’s coolest, richest farmer. At least he’s wearing a shirt with a collar to their lunch. Not exactly Brooks Brothers—it’s a little sheer, with some hippy-dippy print—but it’s fine. For Columbia, on a Saturday afternoon. She wonders if her brother even owns ties anymore. Probably one tie, one suit, and one shirt, suitable for funerals and weddings. They have reached that age when the funerals begin to creep into people’s lives. The parents of friends, mostly, but older work colleagues and even the occasional peer.

Then again, AJ and Lu had a big head start on death, first with their mother, then Noel. Almost thirty years after the fact, she still can’t believe he’s gone. For all the changes her father has made at the house, the kitchen window still faces the lilac bushes where they first saw Noel, spying on them. At night, when the window throws her own reflection back at her, she sometimes thinks it’s his eyes she’s seeing.

As for death—there’s Gabe, too, of course. But that’s more like a nightmare from which she can never awaken. “Mrs. Swartz?” “Ms. Brant.” “But you are married to Gabriel Swartz?” “Yes.” Irritable—it was dinnertime, she had twin toddlers, it had been a long day. “He was found in his hotel room, not breathing.”

To which she asked what seemed like the most logical question in the world. “But he’s started again, right? Breathing?”

He had probably died almost twelve hours earlier. He missed a meeting, but those things happen, and no one had tried anything but his cell, which had gone unanswered. He was discovered by a housekeeper who assumed the room was empty.

Lu says to her brother: “I’m sure Fred’s thinking he has a huge advantage—one case, no administrative duties—and that I can’t possibly keep up. But I will. I’m a better lawyer than he is. I proved that time and again when I was his deputy.”

She glances out at the lake. It is one of those January days that feels like a hangover. The holidays are past, her birthday is past, even her new job is losing its shiny-new luster despite the challenge of the Drysdale case. The Ravens, as of last weekend, are no longer in contention for the Super Bowl, not that she really cares. She often thinks that’s why the Super Bowl was invented—to give people a reason to party into February. The beer companies have been pretty effective at giving people reasons to drink at least once a month—Super Bowl, Mardi Gras, Cinco de Mayo, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Halloween. She’s surprised they haven’t figured out a way to make MLK’s birthday a bacchanal. Civil rights Jell-O shots for all! This Bud’s for you, Dr. King. She remembers when Penelope, age four, came home from school and began telling her there was a man, a very good man, who died too young and he would cry if he saw what life was like today.

For a moment, Lu thought Penelope was talking about Gabe.

“Maybe you should plead this one out, Lu. Take the air out of his tires.”

“No.”

“And here comes the famous Lu Brant chin action.”

It is family lore that Lu, when stubborn, sets her jaw and sticks out her chin. “Bridle” is the correct term. It refers to a horse in bridle, the way the jaw extends when the bit is forced into the mouth. She has never heard the term used to refer to a man. Bridle. Bridal.

Their food comes and she is delighted that AJ has chosen steak frites—it seems a victory over Lauranne—but mystified why he has yet to bring up the confidential matter that this lunch was supposed to feature. They’ve both had a glass of wine and a leisurely appetizer course—an eggplant Napoleon for Lu, a frisée salad with lardons for AJ. She wonders if Lauranne will be able to smell the meat on him when he comes home, then wonders if AJ cares.

He dips a french fry in mayonnaise, sighs with pleasure. “These are perfect.”

“Five Guys are almost as good. That’s where I usually go when I need a fix.”

“There’s not one near me.”

“There’s one in the Harbor and then one over in that neighborhood they’re now calling Brewers Hill. Also, just fifteen minutes down the parkway at Arundel Mills.”

“Sounds like you’ve made quite a study of this. You need better vices, Lu.”

She sips her wine, not at all flustered by the fleeting mental vision of her true vice, Bash. Compartmentalization is not a problem for Lu. Bash has a talent for it, too, despite that worrisome appearance at the open house over Christmas. If her fifty-three-year-old brother knew—well, what would he do? Take a swing at his old friend? AJ may be progressive in his politics, his ideas about climate change, and how to feed the planet, but when it comes to his sister, he’s stuck in retro big-brother mode. How silly.