Georgie, one; Andrew Mulroney, Esquire, zero.

Ramon’s been more or less ignoring us, due to a sudden influx of phone calls, but there’s finally a gap in the incessant ringing and he leans forward to get our attention, his hand resting on a familiar Bergdorf box. “Mr. Mulroney, Ms. Watkins, before I forget: I’ve been off for the past two days, but I got your package when I got in late last night. I’ll wait until I’m with Marta to open it, but I saw the card and wanted to say thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

I clap my hands together happily. “Oh, you got it! Lovely!”

Andrew goes even more rigid than usual beside me, and he doesn’t say a word as he reaches out a hand and flicks open the little card with one long finger, reading my handiwork on the card.

He stares at it just a beat too long before raising his gaze to Ramon’s. “Congratulations. My best to both of you.”

“We already said that,” I say, pointing to the card. “See? Right here.”

He looks down at me, and with him being six foot two to my five foot five, it’s definitely a downward glare, even with my high heels.

For one delightful moment I think it’s finally going to happen. He’s finally going to lose his cool and show some sort of emotion.

Instead he inhales long and slow through his nose, as though trying to rein in his temper.

Unfortunately for me, he succeeds, and with a curt “Mr. Ramirez, Georgiana,” he turns and walks toward the front door.

Ramon’s phone rings, and he picks it up even as he points to the box and mouths another “Thank you.”

I give him a little wave, then help myself to another donut. I’ve earned it, after all.

This morning might be as close as I’ve come to making progress on cracking Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

Georgie

SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH

My mom doesn’t glance up from her work as I enter my parents’ dining room, but lifts a hand to wave me over. “Georgie, honey, hi. Grab a drink, then come look at this palette for the spring line. Do you think it whispers sweet pastels or does it simply scream tacky Easter egg hunt?”

I shrug out of my Burberry trench and drape it on the back of the chair before going and kissing the top of my dad’s salt-and-pepper head. He reaches up, patting my cheek fondly, as I go to the sideboard and pour myself a mimosa from the crystal carafe of orange juice and champagne nestled into the ice bucket alongside a gorgeous bouquet of lilies. I stroke a finger over a petal before taking my champagne flute over to where my mom sits bent over her work at the dining room table.

I sip and look over her shoulder as she holds up the swatches for my inspection. “Colors are good,” I say, “but there’s too much sparkle. Looks too much like what you did last year with the whole ‘modern fairy’ theme.”

As I say it, Andrew Mulroney’s derisive dismissal of my glitter makeup flits through my mind. It wasn’t worth the energy to tell him the difference between shimmer and sparkle, but damn, what I wouldn’t give to reverse his opinion of me, just a little bit.

“The fairy theme was two years ago,” Mom says distractedly. “But you’re right. You’re right. The colors want to say classy brunch, but the glitter’s saying bachelorette party.”

She scribbles something in her notebook and picks up her phone to shoot off an email. Dismissed, I take another sip of mimosa and glance across the table. Dad catches my eye over the top of the newspaper and winks before turning his attention back to the WSJ.

Welcome to Sunday brunch with my parents. It’s been a Watkins family institution for as long as I can remember. Fond memories, mostly, although if I’m going to be really honest, it got even more fun after I turned twenty-one and was allowed access to the champagne instead of being limited to the orange juice.

“How’s my darling daughter?” my dad asks, turning the page of his paper.

“I’ve been great,” I chirp, plopping down into my usual chair and giving Linda, my parents’ part-time housekeeper, a little wave as she sets a quiche and fruit salad on the table. My parents actually have a personal chef (I know), but Gavin only works on weekdays, so Sunday brunch is always catered. Sometimes it’s a quiche, sometimes a lox platter, sometimes eggs Benedict. One thing it’s not ever is homemade. New Yorkers aren’t known for their kitchen prowess.

“How are you? How’s work?” I ask.

My dad glances quickly at my mom before turning his attention to me. I know it’s silly, but it bothers me the way he seems to be seeking permission from my mom to talk about his work, when she hasn’t once looked up from hers.

Once upon a time, my family dynamics had worked like this:

Dad was the CEO of the real estate empire he inherited from my grandfather. My mom was the hottest thing in Hollywood after starring as a Bond-girl-style character in a blockbuster hit. They got married, had me, and my mom’s acting career fizzled before it ever really took off.

She didn’t seem to mind—she threw herself into the role of a Park Avenue housewife like nobody’s business.

But here’s the part that bugs me: back when my dad was the sole breadwinner, my mom was adamant that there be no work talk at the dinner table. It sounds like a decent enough plan, I guess, but my dad loves his work. Yeah, sure, he inherited a billion-dollar company, but he’s turned it into a multibillion-dollar company through ambition, smarts, and passion.

The older I got, the more it killed me to see him come home lit up with all this happy energy, only to have to tuck it away to ask my mom about her book club while he was forbidden to talk about the highlight of his day.

And now you’re thinking, But Georgie, your mom had good intentions.

Hmm, did she? Probably.

But get this: when Mom started her business, guess what? Her work talk was allowed at the dinner table. One might even say that Elite Cosmetics dominated the dinner table.

Take a look at the tableau in front of me—Sunday mornings are the one time each week my family gets together, and my mom’s end of the table is covered in folders and swatches, her gold MacBook, an iPad Pro, a phone. . . .

I’ll just say this: the hypocrisy bothers me. I love my mom. I love both my parents, fiercely. But I confess that sometimes I wish they just seemed . . . happier.

I’ll clarify. I wish they seemed happier together. I wish my dad didn’t look at my mom like a whipped dog, and I wish that my mom looked at my dad more.