"You brought a hostess gift," Nixon repeated, like he was trying to make sense of those words.
"It's good manners," I insisted, pulling out the boxes.
To that, he shook his head, running a hand across the back of his neck. "Babe, we are from completely different worlds," he declared.
There was some truth in that, of course. He'd been, well, I don't know. Likely middle class. Or lower if it eventually led him into a life of crime. I knew enough about wealth disparity to admit that, yeah, in a way, we did come from completely different worlds.
"Of course you wouldn't bring a hostess gift. You are family. I'm not. Besides, I figured you would want me to make a good impression."
"What did you get them?" he asked, eyeing the boxes.
"For Mr. Mallick--"
"Charlie. Call him Charlie."
"Okay. For Charlie, I have Cedros Deluxe Cervantes."
"Cigars?" he clarified.
"Yes. And I got..."
"Helen," he filled in for me.
"Helen La Maison Du Chocolat."
"That sounds stupidly expensive."
"They're not so bad. The chocolates, I mean. I think they were like seventy-five."
"For a box of fucking chocolates? Do they give you an orgasm when you eat them or some shit?"
My smile was immediate and wide, finding myself oddly charmed by his attitude. "Practically, yes."
"Wait... you clarified that the chocolates weren't expensive. Does that mean the cigars were?"
"I mean, I guess that depends on your budget."
"Reagan..."
"They were only about two-hundred."
"Only," he scoffed.
"It is a nice gesture," I insisted.
"I'm not disagreeing with you," he said, holding up a hand. "It's just a little over-the-top."
"Over-the-top is the fifteen-hundred-dollar cigars my father and his friends smoke during think tank meetings. These are just, you know, a little taste of luxury. I mean, not that they don't know luxury. This is a beautiful home."
It was, too.
I wouldn't quite call it a mansion, but I felt justified in referring to it as an estate with its beautifully managed grounds and the pristine outside of the home.
Loansharking paid well, it seemed.
"The Mallicks have very diverse portfolios," Nixon told me as we started walking, reading my mind. "They own something like a dozen legitimate businesses. And, lately, a fair amount of real estate. They could go fully legit if they wanted to."
"Why don't they?"
"I guess it is a legacy thing. The only reason they got all of this is because of how hard Charlie and Helen worked for it in the beginning. I get that."
"I do too, I guess," I agreed, feeling myself stiffen when his hand pressed to my lower back. I couldn't just move to the side like I did back at the office. We had to appear like we were comfortable touching. Even if his palm felt like it was burning a hole in my dress.
"Fair warning," he said as we came up to the front door. "It is going to be loud as fuck in here. And not just because of the kids. Doesn't sound like you have a big family, so I thought I would prepare you."
I didn't. It had been my parents and my siblings only. Both sets of grandparents had passed in my early childhood. There had been no siblings for our parents, no distant cousins.
"I am warned," I agreed with a little nod as he reached for the door with his free hand, then ushered me inside.
If I thought the exterior was nice, the interior put it to shame.
I'd always been raised in very carefully curated homes. Everything was white. All the pieces of furniture and art were carefully chosen and placed. It was, if I was being objective, a bit like living inside a catalog shoot full time. Lovely, but not exactly comfortable.
Helen, on the other side, had chosen her home for comfort, for long evenings spread over the living room sectional with her children and grandchildren, for giant family dinners in the massive dining room. Family pictures littered the walls and the mantle. It was beautiful too, but still homey.
I immediately wanted to kick out of my shoes, grab the blanket on the back of the couch, and cuddle up to watch a show.
It never occurred to me until that moment that my life was lacking that homey feeling.
"You weren't kidding," I said when a chorus of voices--surprisingly, mostly adult- met my ears as soon as we moved inside.
The door closing behind us seemed to mute one voice in particular, the man who must have been the patriarch Charlie Mallick himself with his handsome face, bright eyes, and black and silver hair.
"You made it," he said, smile inviting as he moved away from the men he was standing with, all of them younger versions of himself, one of them I was pretty sure I recognized from my occasional trip to the gym for a cycling class when I needed to clear my head. "And you brought a girl. Helen will let you eat now," he said, moving to stand before us.