Custody (43 page)

Inside the town building, on the second floor, the mood changed. The long narrow hall was crowded with lawyers and clients in suits clustering together, whispering. The air was a sense-storm of aftershave, perfume, deodorant, and nerves. The hall wasn’t air-conditioned, but the offices, the judge’s lobby, and the courtroom were.

Kelly had met the Nantucket County probate judge, Felix Mann, before, because when he was not on Nantucket, he sat at whatever court in the commonwealth needed him. In his forties, blond, with the lean body of a serious runner, he was an ambitious, driven man, impatient with his staff, a demanding husband and father—he had five children—and a formidable legal intellect, determined to make the law more responsive to the needs of the people.

Kelly introduced Felicity to Judge Mann, then sent her out to sit in the courtroom. She had only enough time to meet the register and her clerks, when Judge Mann said, “Let’s get going.”

First they dealt with a number of motions and contempts that needed clearing up. That took most of the morning. Judge Mann sent the assistant register and the court officer off to buy sandwiches, gave them less than fifteen minutes to gobble them down and then returned to the courtroom where they settled in for the long haul, a complicated and gruelingly emotional divorce, involving young children, their wealthy parents, their stepsiblings and stepparents, grandparents, baby-sitters, therapists, guardians
ad litem
, and ministers. The mother wept. The father groaned and buried his head in his hands. The lawyers nearly spat at each other. From opposing sides of the courtroom, grandmothers glared hatefully at each other.

By the end of each afternoon, Kelly couldn’t wait to rush back to the hotel, grab her bathing suit, and dash to the Jetties Beach for a long, bracing swim. She was not a natural swimmer, and so the full attention the waves called from her was therapeutic. Her mind rested while her body worked. Felicity wasn’t interested in swimming, so she spent the time wading at the water’s edge, dreamily drawing designs in the sand with her toes.

In the evenings, after showering and pulling on sundresses, the sisters strolled around town, listening to the street musicians, enjoying the fresh warm air. They ate leisurely meals at restaurants with outdoor patios, happy to be outside watching the sky turn periwinkle, listening to the music of other people’s laughter.

It was good to hear people laugh.

The only time Kelly could think of Randall was when she finally said good night to
Felicity, switched off her light, and snuggled down into the bliss of her cool, crisp sheets. The air conditioner hummed. In the bed next to hers, Felicity’s breathing deepened, embellished with a tiny wheeze.
Randall
, Kelly would think, and then fall helplessly, exhaustedly, asleep.

Sometimes, Randall thought, the world seemed populated with fools.

Last night he’d driven out to visit his father.

“Hey, Dad!” he’d yelled, entering the kitchen.

No one answered.

“Dad?” he’d called again.

No answer. Heart pounding, Randall tore through the downstairs. He found Mont teetering at the top of a ladder in the library.

Fear had made him burst out: “Jesus Christ, Dad! What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting a book.”

“Didn’t you hear me call you?”

“Obviously not. No reason to get in such a lather.”

Randall held his tongue while his father made his slow, faltering descent, both hands on the rungs, the thick book tucked under his arm.

Once Mont was safely on the floor, Randall said, with gritted teeth, “I suggest that you wait until I’m out here to get you anything you want from the top shelves.”

“Oh, and why do you suggest that?” Mont demanded. “Because I’m a doddering incompetent old nincompoop who can’t be trusted to do anything himself?”

With flushed face and trembling hands, Mont crossed the room to his chair and carefully, still sore from his fall, lowered himself into it. He clamped his mouth tight, staring straight ahead, fighting for dignity. Randall felt sick with guilt.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re incompetent. I just worry about you, that’s all.” When his father still looked unappeased, he added, “Would I bring Tessa out here to live if I thought you weren’t in apple pie order?”

That had soothed his father and smoothed things between them for the evening, but this morning Randall woke with his head full of doubts.
Should
he bring Tessa out to live with his father? Would she feel—would she
have to be
, at times—responsible for her grandfather? If
Mont’s hearing was going—would it be the blind leading the blind? How could Randall take care of them both and still work?

Now, the Tuesday before Labor Day weekend, his schedule was crowded with patients as old, stubborn, and foolhardy as his father, coming in with sunburns, sprains, and fractures from trying to do too many things with their grandchildren in the last hot days of summer. One of them, an elderly gentleman with a history of heart problems, was in the hospital now, recovering from a mild coronary infarction and a broken leg from
skateboarding
, for God’s sake, with his visiting grandson.

Randall looked at his schedule for the day. No time for lunch unless he sent Pat out for a deli sandwich. His stomach sent up a warning flare of acid at the thought. Was he getting an ulcer? Probably. God knew he deserved one.

The private line on his phone lit up; he answered.

“Randall?” It was Lacey’s voice, breathy and sweet. “I wondered if you’d like to come over for a Labor Day picnic this weekend.”

“Sorry. I’m taking Tessa to visit her grandparents on Nantucket.”

And I’m dreading it, he thought. Oh, he appreciated the eccentric charm of his in-laws, but they were not restful company, and right now, only a few days before his divorce hearing, with everything around him in chaos, he found himself craving tranquillity.

“Well, then, how about coming over for dinner tonight?” Lacey asked.

Randall closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Everything was too hard right now. Every decision he made, every word he spoke, seemed to carry the weight of injuring someone.

He would like to be with Kelly, but that wasn’t possible. She wasn’t in town.

The least he could do, he thought, was buy Lacey a nice meal to repay her for the one she’d prepared for him.

He said, “Let me take you out. We’ll go to the Ritz.”

Her voice buoyed with delight. “Oh, how lovely. What time?”

So he was making someone happy. “Eight? I’ll phone you back if I can’t get reservations.”

“Perfect. Do you want to pick me up?”

The question seemed so innocent, so natural. Randall paused. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.” Which meant, he knew, that he’d be driving her back to her apartment.

As Randall followed Lacey across the dining room of the Ritz to their table by the window, he knew every man who watched her walk past would find himself fantasizing about being alone with this woman whose full figure and sweet face somehow combined Madonna and whore in one knockout combination.

They settled at the table, ordered drinks. The hushed elegance of the room, the discreet, ceremonious presence of the waiters who appeared at his shoulder exactly when he wished and retreated like smoke, soothed his psyche. Here, he was off duty, free of the fears, pain, and foolishness of his patients—and free of responsibility (for a while, at least) for his father and his daughter, as well.

He was very tired.

“You look tired,” Lacey said at that moment.

He focused on her. “I am.”

Lacey wore an amazing garment seemingly made of black Cling Wrap, cut very low in front. Last year, when they were lovers, her long girly-girl curls had made her look even younger than she was and rather insipid. Now her severe new hair style gave her a sense of mystery, even worldliness, and she had shadows beneath her eyes that were oddly alluring. She looked like a woman who could understand a complicated man.

They ordered. Oysters, salmon, crème brûlée. Excellent wine. They kept the conversation light and impersonal, discussing hospital matters, movies, politics. He was aware that Lacey asked him questions about topics he cared about and read up on, so that he could hold forth, appearing wise. She always had done this, and he knew why. Last year he’d discovered a book hidden beneath her bedside table, a woman’s guide, promising that this sort of romantic strategy would help a woman lure and catch a man, as if he were some kind of trout.

A man was what Lacey wanted. A man to whom she could dedicate her life. Randall was not unaware of the charms marriage to such a woman might hold. He’d been married to one professional, intelligent, career-dedicated woman. Now he considered: Why would he want to be married to another? As his senses were lulled by the delicious food and the rich red wine, he admitted to himself that he’d been thrown when Kelly announced that she was a lawyer. A lawyer—that meant she was as ambitious and driven as Anne.

Lacey’s laughter rippled around him like satin. She glowed. She was happy, here, now.
She didn’t want to save the world. She wanted simply to love a man and raise his children, to keep a happy home, as his mother had. Nutritious meals ready when he needed them, clothes tended to, house shining, friends entertained, children bathed, dressed, read to. True, his mother had had her painting, but her husband and children had always held first place in her life.

And what about Tessa? What kind of woman would be best for Tessa? The question gleamed like a vein of gold in Randall’s thoughts. Tessa already had a mother who provided a role model of a highly active, successful, professional woman. Kelly would be more of the same, wouldn’t she? All the traveling she was doing, for example, gone for a week at a time—what kind of stepmother would she make?

Lacey would be a storybook mother. Always home, cooking nutritious meals, making sure everyone’s clothes were clean and organized, eager—truly
fulfilled
—to hear about the accomplishments of her husband and children. Tessa and Randall would be the center of her world, and that, Randall knew, from being the center of his mother’s world, built up a child’s sense of self like nothing else could.

Certainly, Randall thought, Lacey’s example would encourage Tessa to eat.

The meal was over. The bill in its leather folder was presented; Randall brought out his credit card. Lacey leaned forward, her bell of hair slipping against her cheeks. Eating had worn away her lipstick, and her lips gleamed with oil and moisture, as pale and denuded as if from kissing. Her breasts swelled toward him.

“Let’s have coffee at my place,” she suggested.

He nodded, far too relaxed to disagree.

They seemed to move seamlessly from dining room to car to Lacey’s apartment, where he found himself sobering up slightly at the sight of all her dolls and stuffed animals.

But Tessa would like the dolls, the stuffed animals.

“Come stretch out on my bed,” Lacey invited. “I’ll rub your back.”

A back rub: irresistible. Nearly in a stupor he went into the bedroom and let himself be divested of his clothing slowly, tenderly, by Lacey. Her touch was gentle but firm. She unbuckled his belt and slid his trousers down. Somewhere in the distance it seemed a warning bell rang, but all he had to do was turn his head against the pillow and that sound faded, as he was lost to Lacey’s ministrations.