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Sometimes I wished we all lived in a modest little home that made it impossible for us to ignore each other or avoid confronting each other’s worries and sadness. Here, anyone could find himself or herself on another planet, never having to confront anyone else’s dark face all day if he didn’t want to. I used to feel, and still did to an extent, that going down to dinner was like visiting strangers who lived miles away.

Ryder went directly to the piano and ran his hand over the top.

“It’s a beaut,” he said.

“That’s an East Indian rosewood,” Jordan said. “Do you play?”

“I did,” Ryder said, which took me by surprise. “My mother had me take lessons for years. She always managed to have a piano for me wherever we went to live when she or my father was on location for extended periods. I stopped about two years ago.”

“Why?”

He shrugged and then, smiling at me, said, “I ran out of notes.”

“What?” Jordan held her smile. She looked at me.

“He’s kidding,” I said quickly. “You never mentioned you played the piano. Really, why did you stop, Ryder?” I asked pointedly. The expression on my face was clear. Give her a serious answer, or else.

“I just lost interest,” he said. He shrugged. “I was never very good, and taking lessons wasn’t going to change it.”

“That’s a mistake.” We turned as Mr. March entered. He had changed into his black velvet smoking jacket and black slacks. His light brown hair looked as though he’d had it trimmed and styled an hour ago, but that was Mr. March, always looking impeccable. Sometimes I thought he saw himself as a modern-day prince living in a palace. I thought he looked quite tanned and rested for someone who had gone on another business trip.

“Oh, this is my husband, Donald March,” Jordan said. “Donald, this is Ryder Garfield, the young man who just entered Sasha’s school.”

From the way she widened her eyes when she mentioned Ryder’s name, I understood that she had already discussed Ryder with him to make sure he knew who he was and who his parents were. Mr. March nodded, glanced at me, and then extended his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Ryder,” he said when Ryder shook his hand. “But I couldn’t help hearing your excuse for giving up piano. I find that most people give up on themselves before other people give up on them, especially young people today. Too often, your generation doesn’t have the staying power necessary to find success. You’ve got to work on that,” he said, wagging his right forefinger.

“Thanks for the free advice,” Ryder said. “One thing your generation isn’t stingy about,” he added, and Mr. March’s cheeks took on a slight crimson glow.

“Well, I wish I had listened more to my parents,” Mr. March countered.

Ryder widened his smile as if he had won a point in a debate. “You mean you don’t feel successful enough?”

Mr. March’s spine seemed to petrify. For a moment, I thought he had turned to stone entirely, but then he smiled. It wasn’t a smile with any warmth behind it.

“You can always improve. Once you stop thinking that, you might as well put yourself on a shelf. Perseverance, determination, ambition . . . those are the building blocks for a successful life. And you don’t sit on your laurels and soak in your own sunshine,” he continued, still in lecture mode. Even I was surprised at how insistent he was being. “You have to be like a man walking a tightrope.”

“How’s that?” Ryder asked, with more of a smirk than a smile.

“You don’t look down to see how high up you are. Once you do that, you fall. You just keep going forward.”

“It’s got to end somewhere,” Ryder insisted. They were acting like two stubborn little boys.

“It ends when you’re willing to give up, and I say, for those who do, failure’s meant to be. I’m sure both your parents had many obstacles and overcame them with perseverance, determination, and ambition.”

Ryder was silent. Mentioning his parents was to him like someone hitting below the belt. I could see the conflict raging in his face. His eyes were like windows revealing the tension. Jordan might have sensed it, too, when she looked at the expression on my face.

“They’re too young for such talk,” she said, hoping to take the heaviness out of the conversation quickly.

“You’re never too young for such talk,” Mr. March insisted. “So what are your interests, if I may ask?” He sat and nodded toward the settee across from him. “Are you inclined toward some show-business career as well?”

Ryder looked at me with accusation in his eyes. Did he think I had led him into some sort of trap? Put him under a spotlight for a cross-examination and interrogation? I shook my head slightly.

“Doubt it. Right now, I’m into model planes and boats,” Ryder said without sitting.

“Pardon?”

“I find them interesting and relaxing. What do you do for relaxation, Mr. March?”