“The Schmidt boys,” Hart said. “Brandt the traitor, Hart the underachiever and Wes…well, Wes.”
Brous smiled at that. “Don’t you forget your sister,” he said.
“No one forgets Catherine, Brous,” Hart said. “Catherine the Unforgettable.”
“They’re all already there, you know,” Brous said. “At the house. They all got in last night. All of them, all their spouses and children. I’m not going to lie to you, Hart. One of the reasons I came to get you was so I could have a few minutes of quiet.”
Hart grinned at this.
Presently the Schmidt family compound came into view, all 120 acres of it, with the main house set on a hill, rising above the orchards, fields and lawns. Home.
“I remember when I was six and Mom came to work here,” Brous said. “I remember driving up to this place and thinking there was no way one family could live in that much space.”
“Well, after you arrived, it wasn’t just one family,” Hart said.
“True enough,” Brous said. “I’ll tell you another story you’ll find amusing. When I was in college, I brought my girlfriend to the carriage house and she was amazed we had so much living space there. I was afraid to take her up to the main house after that. I figured she’d stop being impressed with me.”
“Was she?” Hart asked.
“No,” Brous said. “She became unimpressed with me for other reasons entirely.” He switched the car to manual, led it up the rest of the driveway and stopped at the front door. “Here you are, Hart. The entire family is inside, waiting for you.”
“What would it cost for you to drive me back?” Hart joked.
“In a couple of days I’ll do it for free,” Brous said. “Until then, my friend, you’re stuck.”
“Ah, the prodigal spaceman returns,” Brandt Schmidt said. He, like the rest of the Schmidt siblings, lounged on the back patio of the main house, watching the various children and spouses on the front surface of the back lawn. Brandt came up to Hart to give him a hug, followed by Catherine and Wes. Brandt pressed the cocktail he had in his hand into Hart’s. “I haven’t started on this one yet,” he said. “I’ll make another.”
“Where’s Mom and Dad?” Hart asked, sipping the drink. He frowned. It was a gin and tonic, more than a little heavy on the gin.
“Mom’s in with Magda, fussing over dinner,” Brandt said, going over to the patio bar to mix himself another highball. “She’ll be back presently. Dad’s in his office, yelling at some functionary of the Phoenix Home Party. That will take a while.”
“Ah,” Hart said. Best to miss out on that.
“You heard about the latest elections,” Brandt said.
“A bit,” Hart said.
“Then you’ll understand why he’s in a bit of a mood,” Brandt said.
“It doesn’t help that you continue to needle him about it,” Catherine said, to Brandt.
“I’m not needling him about it,” Brandt said. “I’m just not letting him get away with revising recent electoral history.”
“That’s pretty much the definition of ‘needling,’” Wes said, laconically, from his lounge, which was close to fully reclined. His eyes were closed, a tumbler of something brown on the patio itself, by his outstretched hand.
“I recognize I’m telling him things he doesn’t want to hear right now,” Brandt said.
“Needling,” Catherine and Wes said, simultaneously. They were twins and could do that from time to time. Hart smiled.
“Fine, I’m needling him,” Brandt said, took a sip of his gin and tonic, frowned and went back to the bar to add a splash more tonic. “But after so many years of listening to him talk about the historical import of each election and the PHP’s role in it, I think it’s perfectly fine to have a bit of turnabout.”
“That’s exactly what this Harvest Day needs,” Catherine said. “Another perfectly good dinner from Magda growing cold because you and Dad are going at it again at the table.”
“Speak for yourself,” Wes said. “They never stopped me from eating.”
“Well, Wes, you’ve always had a special talent for tuning out,” Catherine said. “It puts the rest of us off our appetite.”
“I don’t apologize for being the only one of us who has any interest at all in politics,” Brandt said.
“No one wants you to apologize,” Catherine said. “And you know we all have an interest in politics.”
“I don’t,” Wes said.
“We all have an interest in politics except for Wes,” Catherine amended, “who is just happy to coast on the benefits of the family having a good political name. So, by all means, Brandt, discuss politics all you like with Dad. Just wait until we get to the pie before you start going after each other.”
“Politics and pie,” Wes said. “Mmmmmm.” He started fumbling about for his drink, connected with it and brought it to his lips, eyes still closed.
Brandt turned to Hart. “Help me out here,” he said.
Hart shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind getting through an entire Harvest Day without you and Dad tossing verbal knives at each other,” he said. “I’m not here to talk politics. I’m here to spend time with my family.”
Brandt rolled his eyes at his younger brother. “Have you met our family, Hart?”
“Oh, don’t pester Hart about planetside politics,” Catherine said. “This is the first time he’s spent any time at home in Lord knows how long.”
“Last Harvest Day,” Hart volunteered.
“You can’t genuinely expect him to keep up with the relatively trivial politics of Phoenix when he’s grappling with Colonial Union-wide crises,” Catherine said to Brandt, and then swiveled her head to Hart. “What was your most recent interstellar diplomatic triumph, Hart?”
“I helped electrocute a dog in order to save a peace negotiation,” Hart said.
“What?” Catherine asked, momentarily flummoxed.
Wes cracked open an eye to look at Hart. “Is this like sacrificing a chicken to the gods?” he asked.
“It’s more complicated than it sounds,” Hart said. “And I would note that the dog survived.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” Brandt said, and turned to his sister. “I stand corrected, fair Catherine. Hart’s clearly got more important things on his mind than mere politics.”
Before Catherine could retort, Isabel Schmidt descended and embraced her youngest son. “Oh, Hart,” she said. She gave him a peck on the cheek. “So good to see you, son. I can’t believe it’s been another whole year.” She stepped back. “You look almost exactly the same.”
“He is almost exactly the same,” Brandt said. “He’s not old enough yet to age poorly.”
“Oh, Brandt, do shut up,” Isabel said, not unkindly. “He’s thirty. That’s plenty old to start aging badly. You started at twenty-seven.”
“Ouch, Mother,” Brandt said.
“You brought it up, honey,” Isabel said, and then turned her attention back to Hart. “You still enjoying the Colonial Union diplomatic service?” she asked. “Not getting bored with it?”
“It’s not boring,” Hart admitted.
“You still working with, oh, what’s her name,” Isabel said. “Ottumwa?”
“Abumwe,” Hart said.
“That’s the one,” Isabel said. “Sorry. You know I’m terrible with names.”
“It’s all right,” Hart said. “And yes, I’m still working with her.”
“Is she still an asshole?” Catherine asked. “The last time you were home, the stories you told about her made her sound like a real piece of work.”
“What stories do your assistants tell about you?” Brandt asked his sister.
“If they tell stories, they don’t stay my assistants,” Catherine said.
“She’s gotten better,” Hart said. “Or at the very least, I think I understand her better.”
“That’s good to hear,” Isabel said.
“Ask him about the dog,” Wes drawled from his lounge.
“The dog?” Isabel said, looking over to Wes and then back to Hart. “What about a dog?”