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filled when he wasn’t looking. He’s embarrassed to be caught not reading his own dad’s books, but frankly he can’t get excited about the exploits of Dash Hammond, international spy. When he was younger, he liked the car chases and explosions, and there was something so decadent and yet unnerving about reading sex scenes penned by one’s own father, even the mild, PG-rated versions in his dad’s books, with lots of vague references to “warm places” and “dampness.”
    But as Ivan’s own tastes grew toward the literary and high-flown modern fiction, his dad’s potboiling page-turners just didn’t boil his pot anymore.
    “What’s the fate of unfortunate Nicky?” asks Ivan.
    “I dunno. Cement boots are a bit cliché. Maybe I’ll dangle him over a vat of acid.” Max winks, and Ivan smiles. It was their old joke about the ever-more-ridiculous hero-in-peril situations that a long-running series tended to create.
    Max asks, “How about you? Any news on your songs?”
    “Oh, you know.” Van tugs on his ear, thinking his dad probably doesn’t know, having had his books in print for so long he hadn’t been rejected since Van was in diapers. “It’s all subjective, you know. One of the bands said to bring them something else sometime.”
    “Oh, well that’s good. I remember when Jane told me…” And Max launches into a “struggling writer” story, which Van tunes out immediately. He’s heard most of his dad’s repertoire, anyway.
    It is not strictly true about the band, and Van feels both guilty and foolish for exaggerating—lying—to his father. His fondest wish—aside from becoming the next Bob Dylan—would be toturn back time and never, ever mention his songwriting ambition. To anyone. If no one knows you’re trying, no one can ever know you’ve failed.
    Max’s story is winding down, and Van feels his family’s eyes on him, waiting for him to respond.
    He pushes his face into a smile. “Anyway, you all just wait. I’ll win a Grammy yet. You’ll see.”
    Max looks up from his dish into his wife’s eyes, with a squinting, earnest gaze. The silence falls heavily.

CHAPTER 8
Irina
    “ SO, YOU WANT ME TO WAIT IN THE CAR? OR WHAT ?”
    “Why would I want that?” Irina twirls her wedding ring, still unable to believe she had a wedding. She’s stalling, openly stalling, and Darius is smart enough to know that. On the flight back from Vegas, she imagined just walking in and introducing Darius as “my new husband, and the father of my baby” but her plan fell apart when they pulled up the drive behind Katya’s Escalade and her brother’s rusty VW. To her right, the enormous spire on the front of the house looms above her, and Irina feels twelve years old again, when she used to scare herself witless imagining ghosts and ghouls up there.
    “If I wait in the car, you can shock them first with just our wedding, then I can walk in and shock them again by being black.”
    “I told you about that; it won’t bother them.”
    “And I told you, I’ve dated white girls before. I don’t care howliberal your parents are, no one expects it. This one dude was president of the ACLU in his county, and his jaw still fell open. I thought his wife would pass out.”
    Irina shakes off an unexpected pang of jealousy at the mention of other white girls. “I don’t care. I need you with me.”
    Darius nods and straightens up tall. Irina knows he’s glad to be called on for strength and support. He was always courteous before, but the pregnancy brought out a whole new level of deference. She starts to open the car door, but Darius puts a hand on her arm, gives it a gentle squeeze, then hops out to open it for her.
    Irina steps out slowly, not from any physical need but to stall again, just a little longer, before getting into that old soup of family issues. She stands at last, fluffing out her loose, flowing blouse.
    She bites back the urge to shake off Darius’s hand on her elbow as she steps up the