Stephanie rolled her lovely eyes. “Here we go. Boys and their toys.”

“Dad, what was the ride like?” Marcus asked, his tone encouraging, and Christine sensed he was trying to be nice because it was his father’s birthday.

“It was unreal. So smooth. Have you never flown in one, Marcus?”

“No, never.”

Christine bit her tongue. Frederik knew that Marcus’s clients weren’t sending private jets to pick him up.

“The design of the cabin? Art. The finishes, top-of-the-line.”

Stephanie was smiling slyly. “Christine, you’re supposed to ask him whose jet it was. He wants you to ask and he’s not gonna be happy unless you do.”

Christine smiled. “Frederik, whose jet was it?”

“Before I answer, it’s incumbent upon me to make clear that she’s not my client yet. Mine is only one of the firms she’s considering. But if she picks those hacks at Scheller Whiting, I’ll shoot myself.” Frederik glanced over his shoulder again, and the waiter was hustling over with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a white napkin over his arm. “Finally!”

“Okay, so whose jet was it?” Christine repeated.

“Also, to be completely accurate, I’m not sure if she owns the G V. She might have rented it. A lot of these Hollywood people buy contracts in networks to share jets. Very few actually own their own jet.”

Christine caught Stephanie’s eye, and Stephanie smiled.

Frederik continued, oblivious. “A G V costs God-knows-how-much new, and it’s not all of the expense of the purchase, but running it that’s the expense. They may not fly enough to justify it.”

“Mr. Nilsson, sorry about the delay,” said the waiter, arriving at their table. He showed Frederik the bottle in a formal way, resting it against the napkin on his forearm. “Mr. Nilsson, is it to your liking?”

“No,” Frederik answered flatly, his disapproval plain. “I asked for the ’96 Salon. This is a special occasion.”

“Apologies, Mr. Nilsson.” The waiter pivoted on his heels and hustled away.

Frederick shook his head. “The ’96 Salon. What else? A sommelier wouldn’t have made that mistake. Salon has its own plot of land in the Champagne province. They’re their own grape producer, so they have better control. They release the vintages very late—”

“Dad, you were saying—” Marcus interrupted, and Christine knew that it was a diversionary tactic, designed to avert his father’s making a mountain out of a molehill over the waiter’s bringing the wrong champagne.

“Yes, right.” Frederik smoothed back his bangs, which were feathery and thick for a man his age. The gray at his temples blended with his ash-blond hair in a way that only made him a more striking figure. “What was I saying?”

Marcus answered, “You were telling us about the client you took the jet for, the G V.”

“Yes, of course, it’s a teardown in the Hollywood Hills, with a view of Los Angeles on the better side. It’s on eight acres, all wooded. Phenomenal. And at night, with the lights, it’s indescribable.”

“Whose jet was it already?” Christine asked again. She got along best with Frederik by acting like a clueless audience, so he could explain things to her that she didn’t care about or already knew.

“In a minute.” Frederik held up a long, slim finger, keeping them in suspense, making them hang on his every word. “I can’t tell you more about the job because I signed a confidentiality agreement, and you know that I take such things seriously, even among family.”

“Of course,” Marcus said quickly, but Christine flashed on the other confidentiality agreement, the one that had kept Zachary’s name confidential. She wondered what he was doing now and imagined him in prison. She didn’t know if Griff had what it took to get Zachary acquitted. She hadn’t liked how Griff had answered her, when she’d asked him about whether he believed Zachary was innocent.

Frederik was saying, “I must tell you, in the past six or seven years, I’ve signed more confidentiality agreements than I can count. Used to be that you signed them only when you got the job, or at the earliest, visited the site. Nowadays, you have to sign them as soon as you get the phone call, and the phone calls are placed by some fifth assistant.”

“Really,” Marcus said, undoubtedly noticing Frederik shifting in his chair, preoccupied by his waiter search.

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Christine chimed in, in a soothing tone. “I still want to hear who the G V belonged to.”

Frederik frowned. “Where is our champagne? This is a very special night! I want to celebrate!”

“We will,” Christine said.

Marcus nodded. “We will, Dad. We just got here.”

Frederik scowled, unplacated. “But I have big news, and I don’t want to wait another minute!”

“What, Dad?”

“My beloved bride has just given me the best birthday present ever.” Frederik broke into his toothy smile. “Guess what it is?”

Marcus answered, “Please, not a new putter.”

Christine chimed in, “A G V?”

Frederik guffawed. “We’re pregnant! Stephanie’s going to have a baby!”

“What, really?” Christine exclaimed, shocked. It was such a weird situation, and Stephanie and Frederik had always said they didn’t want children. Christine couldn’t organize her emotions. She and Marcus had gone through such a struggle to conceive that she couldn’t feel immediately happy, and she knew Marcus would feel much worse. It was just another way that his father proved superiority over him, although that was something only Christine and Marcus knew. Marcus hadn’t told his father or Stephanie about their infertility problems. Frederik and Stephanie knew only that it took Christine and Marcus a while to conceive, but then they got pregnant, end of story.

“Congratulations!” Marcus said, after a moment. He was smiling, but his forehead creased into a frown, as if the top half of his face and bottom half couldn’t agree on an emotion. “So this means I’m going to have a … brother or sister? At thirty-five years old?”

Frederik burst into hearty laughter again. “Better late than never, don’t you think?”

“Ha!” Stephanie flashed a grin. “Your father thinks this is so funny, but the joke’s on me. I already have morning sickness, I’m the most exhausted I’ve ever been in my life, and when I don’t eat, I feel like crying.”