As if Juliana were not there, hearing such extravagant words. Mr. Kechel took her hand in his, squeezing hard enough to make her wince. His gaze level with her own. Juliana felt a thrill of weakness, passivity. That flash of cuff links!—a muted sexual charge. Reminding her of Irving Hermann, of whom she had not thought in years.

Juliana wondered why Mrs. Kechel wasn’t accompanying her husband, for wouldn’t Mrs. Kechel want to meet her son’s fiancée also?—but Juliana would never have asked.

Gordon was both embarrassed and flattered by his father’s manner. He laughed as a child might laugh, teased, even ridiculed, yet grateful for the attention of an elder. His drink in the Mon ey Bar was a single beer that he scarcely touched. His father ordered Johnnie Walker Black, straight. “And what would you like, dear? Lime daiquiri? Strawberry?”

Juliana meant to smile and decline an alcoholic drink—No thank you. But heard herself say uncertainly, “Well—I could try that. Strawberry daiquiri?”

She’d have preferred a gin and tonic. But strawberry daiquiri sounded (and looked) more feminine.

As they drank, Mr. Kechel asked Gordon perfunctory questions about his coursework and pretended to listen to Gordon’s answers, sipping at his drink and devouring nuts. He was far more interested in interrogating Juliana, in a manner both intrusive and playful: what was Juliana’s college major, what did Juliana plan to do after graduation, where had Juliana been born and where did Juliana live, who were her parents?

None of your goddamned business, mister—she’d have liked to retort.

Instead Juliana stammered answers of a plausible nature, as a naturally shy girl might stammer. In fact she hoped to interest, intrigue the man. She hoped to forestall the glaze of boredom in his face when he listened to Gordon.

And his gaze dropping as if incidentally to her bare arms, her small but distinct breasts, slender waist. Like a child roughly tickled, Juliana blushed with pleasure. In the months she’d known Gordon intimately he had scarcely questioned her at all. He had never looked at her as Mr. Kechel was openly looking at her. However ordinary, even banal, everything Juliana told Mr. Kechel seemed to fascinate him.

He even asked what were her favorite films. Imagine Gordon asking Juliana such a question!

“Oh, I guess—mostly films by Jim Jarmusch …”

“Who?”

“Jim Jarmusch.”

“Jar-munsch?”

“Jarmusch.”

Juliana laughed, as if she were being tickled.

“What’s his nationality, this Jar-musch?”

“American.”

“Yes, but what kind of American? Semitic?”

During this exchange Gordon was quiet. Excluded from the conversation, from time to time checking his cell phone.

Not checking for email, Juliana knew. Checking the time, the weather, the constellations. News bulletins.

Oh, why wasn’t Gordon more assertive? Juliana was feeling vexed with her fiancé. How readily he’d surrendered her to his domineering father, as if out of spite.

“My dear, I see that you are not—yet—wearing an engagement ring. Is that deliberate?”

“Is it deliberate? I think—I don’t think—we’ve been thinking about it …”