The Harringtons lived in a gated community with houses that could have swallowed my modest home five times over. Christine answered the door – a pretty, intelligent girl who genuinely seemed to love my son. I’d only met her twice before, but she hugged me warmly.
“Mr. Wilson! I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Please, call me Frank,” I said, handing her the bottle of wine I’d brought. Not my usual drink, but Bobby had recommended it.
The judge and his wife appeared in the foyer. William Harrington was exactly as I’d imagined – tall, stern, with silver hair and the confident posture of a man accustomed to others rising when he entered a room. His wife, Elizabeth, had the polished appearance of someone who considered cocktail parties a competitive sport.
“Frank,” the judge said, extending his hand. His grip was firm, assessing. “Christine has told us so much about you.”
I doubted that very much, but I smiled anyway. “All good, I hope.”
“James mentioned you own a motorcycle shop,” Elizabeth said as she led us to the dining room. “How fascinating.”
Her tone suggested she found it about as fascinating as a documentary on paint drying.
Throughout the appetizers, I answered their questions with carefully edited responses. Yes, I’d served in Vietnam. No, I didn’t talk much about it. Yes, I’d owned Wilson’s Custom Cycles for forty years. No, I wasn’t planning to retire anytime soon.
I caught James watching me nervously, like a trainer afraid his bear might suddenly remember it was wild. Every time the conversation veered toward my past or the club, he would redirect, asking the judge about his golf game or Elizabeth about her charity work.
