Ruth watched Edward’s ears turn red and could feel Robert’s gaze imploring her to get her father, so they could get on with the evening.
“I am sure Edward can find his own dates, Mother.” Ruth prickled as she stood, smoothed her skirt, and crossed the room to look down the hallway. “It is getting late. Might you go see what is holding up Father?”
“Oh, Ruth. You know your father operates at his own pace. If you are in such a rush, perhaps you can go retrieve him from the study yourself?”
“Yes, darling, why don’t you go get your father? We do have so much to discuss with him this evening!”
Ruth shot Robert a look of warning. They decidedly did not have anything special to discuss.
She made her way down the hallway, feeling as always like that intrusive little girl about to get scolded as she tentatively knocked on the door. “Father, we are all in the library waiting for you.” She heard the rustling of pages, the closing of a book. Her thumping heart vibrated through her body as she stood still, waiting. Listening. Feet shuffled. A glass clinked. Liquid poured. Was he getting himself a drink?
“You never have been very patient, have you, Ruth?” She startled as the door opened suddenly. “I was just finishing up some reading.” Bernard Emeraldine had begun to age. He stood with a slightly stooped spine, which now set him at eye level with his daughter, rather than the imposing several inches above her that he once had. His knees had become arthritic, and he compensated by shuffling along the floor in his slippers. Still, he remained terrifying.
“Good evening, Father. Sorry, it’s just that, well, Mother called dinner for six thirty, and it’s nearly eight. We have Edward here as well, and I just feel awful to make him wait and . . .”
“Stop your equivocating. I’m here, aren’t I? Come then.”
Ruth followed her father down the hall, past the library where she momentarily stopped to gather the group. Bernard continued on directly to the dining room and sat in his oversized chair at the head of the table. The others took their seats, sitting in strained silence. Ruth almost felt as if her father knew that the three of them were hiding something and was testing her, challenging her compunction to address him head-on like a proper professional. Of course, he couldn’t know anything. She hadn’t told him, and she knew Charles had intentionally remained vague.
“Dr. Wilkinson, how do you feel about your post at our hospital now that you have nearly a year with us?” Bernard turned to Edward almost warmly.
“It has been terrific, sir. Everything I could have ever wanted.”
Ruth saw Edward pulling at his napkin under the table.
“I must say I am still surprised that you were interested in the position. I know my son-in-law has his outlandish ideas about treatments that alter the brain somehow, and that’s all well and good for a researcher, but I would think a true surgeon would want to pursue a path that enabled him to use the knife for real work, outside the lab.”
Ruth watched Robert bristle at Bernard’s condescension and began to panic.
“Not at all, sir. Working with Dr. Apter—Robert—has been even more rewarding than I could have ever imagined. He is quite a genius.”
Robert smiled tightly and Ruth held her breath, fearing that Robert might say more. Thankfully Arnold entered the room with the soup, and as the sweet-spicy smell of pumpkin bisque filled the room with notes of Christmas, Ruth took the opportunity to change the subject to something entirely banal. “Mother, I was surprised that the two of you are heading south so early this year. I thought you never miss the holiday party season?”
“Well.” Helen took a dramatic breath. “We felt that the warmer climes would be best for our ailments.” Helen looked pointedly at Bernard, intimating that his deteriorating health was to blame. “Of course, there is quite a festive season in Palm Beach as well.”