He checked his phone. His Uber was eight minutes out. “Speak up. Who the hell are you?” he yelled.

Through the crackle and distortion, he made out the faint words “Con Fitzmaurice.”

Jill’s grandfather. His Honor Cornelius Fitzmaurice.

Ted buzzed him in and opened the door.

At the rehearsal dinner twelve years earlier, Ted and the Judge had found themselves alone together for a moment. Maybe it had been planned that way.

The dinner was winding down. It had been of necessity a small affair—ushers, bridesmaids, family, and assorted plus-ones. Ted had manfully picked up the tab, despite the pain to his bank account. Jill’s mother had ungraciously agreed to limit the count to fifty, and with only minor emotional bruising, they had made it. Ted was the sole representative of the Molloy clan. His mother had been gone before he’d finished law school. Ted was the last survivor of a line distinguished by the absence of their mark on history.

The ushers were a mixed lot of Jill’s brothers and Ted’s friends, the best man, Carter Harken, a gentle soul who had rejected an offer from Whyte & Pace to join a tech start-up in London as lead counsel. Despite knowing next to nothing about the Internet, international law, or stock offerings, he was already worth mid eight figures—but had never learned to hold his liquor. He’d been shit-faced before the salads were cleared. No matter. Judging by the frowns from the Fitzmaurices, they had been anticipating something like this. They were in mufti; the formal wear would not be brought out until the next day. The Judge, in a rare show of good cheer, was sporting a paisley bow tie with his blue suit and spit-shined wing tips.

“You surprised me, Teddy. I never saw you for the kind of sycophant who married solely to advance your career.” It was a joke. The Judge signaled this by smiling for a split second after delivering the line.

Ted had learned not to fear the Judge’s humor. The wounds could sting but rarely required stitches. They were each holding flagons of cognac, aged for half a century in French caves. The Judge treated it like the house wine. Ted would have preferred a beer. He generally avoided spirits and was all too aware that a bottle of this stuff cost as much as a month’s rent. Most of Jill’s family lived as if they were blind to cost. They did not despise money—they worked hard at acquiring it—but they spent it freely.

“I love your granddaughter, sir. She loves me. It’s that simple.”

The old man chuckled, honestly amused at the sincerity. “Simple? Teddy, I have failed you. Nothing is simple.”

“No. I know that. The Jesuits beat that into me my freshman year of high school.”

“And you believe that the two of you will be happy together?”