Paul hurried to the guest room and saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open farther and saw Jonathan standing in the middle of the room, crying and looking up at his parents, who were engaged in a verbal fighting match.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you look at her!” Olivia sniped.

Quentin puffed out his chest like a peacock. “You’re delusional! I’m not looking at Tara!”

“Do you think I’m blind? It was the same thing with that floozy from your office! Whenever she called, you were practically drooling! And me you treat like I don’t exist!”

“You’re exaggerating! I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you’re here, but only because the guest list reads like a Who’s Who and you think you can make some business deals! Or find another tart to cheat on me with!”

“What do you want? I’m working my butt off so you can have all the things you want! Do you think I like it that you’re always telling me what your parents are giving you? Do you think I like it that my wife constantly compares how much money I make with what her father has? Do you?”

“Enough!” Paul yelled and entered, crossing to where Jonathan still stood crying, practically unnoticed by his parents. “I don’t care if you guys want to go at each other’s throats, but by God, do you have to do it in front of Jonathan?”

Paul bent down to the boy and lifted him into his arms, rocking him against his chest. “Shhhh, buddy, we’re getting out of here.”

“Stay out of this!” Quentin yelled.

“I’m planning to,” Paul answered, and turned to the door. “But I’m taking my nephew with me until you two have calmed down.” He pressed a kiss to the boy’s head and stroked his back gently. “Come on, Jonathan. How about Uncle Paul finds you some ice cream?”

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him, still rocking his crying nephew in his arms. Big tears rolled down the boy’s cheeks and Paul wiped them away with his thumb. “You like ice cream, don’t you? I think Consuela has a secret stash somewhere. Shall we go find it? What do you say?”

Slowly Jonathan’s cries simmered down.

“What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? I’ve always liked strawberry,” he said to distract his nephew.

“Chocolate!” Jonathan suddenly answered.

“Chocolate ice cream? I’m pretty sure that Consuela has a big chocolate ice cream cone hidden somewhere. And you know who’s going to get that one?”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up and the tears seemed forgotten. “Jonathan.”

Paul hugged him tightly and laughed. “That’s my boy.” He really did love his nephew. It wasn’t the boy’s fault that he cried so much and was unruly. If his parents weren’t constantly fighting in front of him, he would be a much calmer and happier child.

Paul promised himself that he would never subject his own child to anger like that. Children were too sensitive and easily affected by what was happening between their parents. They should never see their parents fight.

His own parents had never fought in front of him or Olivia. For all her faults, Paul had to admit that his mother had never said a bad word to his father.

As he carried Jonathan down the stairs, Paul smiled at the child. “That’s a very nice suit you’re wearing. You and I, we look the same now.” The boy was wearing black pants and a T-shirt that was cut like a tuxedo.

“Grammy gave it to me.” The boy beamed.

“That’s very nice of Grammy.”

The first floor of the house was buzzing like a beehive. Catering personnel rushed along the hallway and guests had started arriving. Paul made his way through the people without stopping to greet anybody and headed for the kitchen.

It was a zoo. The kitchen staff his mother had hired for the event had taken over and were arranging food on platters, heating things, putting finishing touches on arrangements, opening bottles, and clearly driving Consuela crazy.

She appeared panicked when the young men and women whirled around her as if pirouetting on ice as they handed finished platters to the wait staff. Dressed in matching tuxedos, the waiters pivoted and left the kitchen with trays of champagne and canapés to appease the hungry guests.

Paul tried to get Consuela’s attention, waving at her.

“Mr. Paul,” she said and walked over to him, nearly tripping over a young woman who was bending down to the oven and lifting a tray out of it.

“Careful, Consuela,” Paul advised.