Page 13 of Time After Time

This has always led to interesting and, often, heated conversations around the dinner table.

“I got a great opportunity with Dr. Mel Camacho,” I reply, sipping my wine, aware that Ransom’s attention is on me.

There was a time when we were so intimate that Icould touch him, hold his hand, lean against him, and now…nothing. He’s a stranger. And I have no rights.

The rights you had were temporary, Ember, even then, and you knew it.

I did know it, but I’d hoped that he felt the same way I did. That he could sense the magic between us.

But the sparks are gone now, right? They’d better be because he’s apparently getting married tothatwoman.

She is more his type. A lot like his ex. Blonde, beautiful, charming, socially adept, age appropriate (as far as he’s concerned)—all things I’m not.

“You’re doing your postdoc under Camacho?” Ransom asks, some disbelief tinging his voice.

“Yes.” I face him bravely. It’s been five years. I’ve had plenty of dalliances in between. I can handle Ransom Marchand.

He arches an eyebrow. “I know him.”

I lick my lips and then worry my lower lip nervously.He knows my boss?Well, that isn’t good news at all.

“Oh,” I murmur. Thankfully Mama starts eating, giving me the perfect excuse to chew instead of talk.

“He’s very particular about who he works with. You must’ve impressed him.”

The way he says it is condescending. I don’t like it. I nod absently and focus on the veal and bouillon. It’s excellent. The drizzle of truffle oil on top is particularly delicious. I save that detail for the next time Icook—it’s a passion of mine, which I use as a stress reliever.

Initially, it was a way to feel closer to Ransom, especially when I was trying to heal my broken heart, because we used to cook together; in fact, I learned how to cook from him. Now, I did it because it makes me feel closer to myself.

This man has had such a visceral impact on me, while I was just a fling for him. If that isn’t sad, I don’t know what is.

Soon, silverware is clinking against China. Conversations are aplenty. Jonathan asks Ransom a question about Stanford Medical, and I’m left alone to eat, to watch, to learn as I’ve always done.

We eat in the shadow ofMagdalene with the Smoking Flame, the original Georges de La Tour hanging above the sideboard. Its presence is almost oppressive in its stillness—a reminder, perhaps, that reflection can be its own form of judgment.

The soup is followed by seared duck breast in cherry jus, accompanied bypommes dauphinoiseand braised endives. The paired wine is a 2005 Châteauneuf-du-Pape, brought by Aksel, of course, and served in tall crystal glasses that catch the light like jewels. I continue to drink the 2019 Chassagne Montrachet that Aksel opened for me. I’m a lightweight. I can drink about two glasses of wine before I’m out.

It’s during the cheese course, after a few glasses ofwine have been drunk, that the conversation moves from the weather and skiing conditions to politics with all the inevitability of gravity.

I know they say don’t talk about religion, politics, or sex at the dinner table, but not in the Rousseau household. We discuss all three with gusto and passion.

There was that one time when Freja threw a Baccarat crystal vase onto a wall behind Aksel. She was eighteen then. She doesn’t do that kind of thing anymore…at least,Ihaven’t seen her do it.

I am spreading an ash-coated chèvre on walnut bread when Gisele sets down her glass of wine purposefully and leans in, “Jean, you must be in love with the EU’s revised climate budget.”

I add a small blob of honeycomb and a slice of pear onto the chèvre.

Ransom spears up an aged Comté and some Fourme d’Ambert onto his plate before sending the cheese plate along to Calypso.

Jonathan chuckles. “Now, Gisele, that’s provocative, and you know it.”

Papa slices into a wedge of Morbier. “It’s another round of performative idealism. They want emissions cuts and renewable targets, but won’t confront the inefficiency of bureaucracy. The subsidies are bloated and poorly managed.”

I take a sip of the wine. It’s softened since it was opened, mellowed into something exquisite. Wasn’t it inWall Streetwhere Michael Douglas said, words tothe effect, that his wife could have the house and kids in the divorce, but he was keeping the Montrachet?

“You think subsidies for coal and fossil fuels should exist, which in itself is the problem,” Heidi remarks.

I’ve sat at dinner tables often enough to know that soon the ping pong of heads toward the speaker will begin. Slowly, but steadily, tempers will rise, and eventually the conversation will peter out, and something new will be discussed. No opinions or minds will be changed in the process.