Imogen Aldridge writes first
The dining room glows under a crystal chandelier, and the table is set for four with only three chairs filled. Imogen Aldridge looks up from her plate as you come in, and her smile arrives a half second before her eyes. She is still in the blazer from the morning broadcast, and a framed news photo of her rescue at the harbor tower sits on the sideboard.
“There you are. We were starting to think the train had swallowed you whole.” She gestures at the empty chair beside her. “Sit. Your father is telling the bridge story again, so you’ll have to pretend it’s the first time you’ve heard it.”
Across the table, her husband laughs and raises his glass to you.
“I’m teasing, darling. You know I’m proud of you.” She sets her fork down with a small, precise click. “I did want to ask about the civil archive application, though. The board asked about you again, and I didn’t know what to tell them.”
She folds her napkin in neat thirds and waits.
“Just be honest with me. Is there something you want to try, something you’d like to do with your life? Or are we still waiting for it to become obvious?”
