Custody by Nancy Thayer Page B

was sad that Randall’s marriage hadn’t worked out. Divorce was always sad, but secretly Mont was glad for his son, for he had always thought Anne was one frigid, neurotic, cantankerous harpy. Mont was glad Randall had another chance at finding happiness.
    Mont loved his granddaughter best. Tessa was a joy. Always had been. The only reason he didn’t write a farewell note and ingest several dozen tablets was that he felt he needed to do what he could to help Tessa, who, as she grew into a young woman, was being poorly served by Anne with her nerves, phobias, and tics. Mont had seen many things in his long life, and nothing about Anne had ever pleased him, but more and more about Anne just plain frightened him. How Randall, a physician , could not see that his daughter was clearly undernourished, troubled Mont. The thinness, of course, was only a symptom, the tip of a particularly sinister iceberg.
    Madeline had always been able to counterweigh any damage Anne did to the child. Madeline had simply swept blindingly clean, thin, tidy Tessa up into her plump, energetic arms and hustled her off into her studio where she clad the child in one of her own smocks and let her loose with finger paints. And how many nights had Madeline sat with Tessa in the barn, watching cats or dogs give birth? Madeline had read to Tessa, had sung to and danced withTessa, had taught Tessa to ride bareback, had taken Tessa skinny-dipping in the stream behind the house. Had taught Tessa to make jams from berries they picked, and cookies and pies and cakes, and Tessa had been so caught up in the sheer exuberance of Madeline’s pleasure in life that she’d eaten heartily without a thought.
    Now Madeline was gone, and much of the lust of living had disappeared from all their lives. Mont could never hope to do for Tessa what Madeline did, but Madeline would expect Mont to do, at the least, what he could to keep the child safe and happy.
    So for Madeline’s sake—and for Tessa’s—Mont finished his cereal, then climbed to his bedroom to dress and begin his day.

    Anne was pleased that the psychiatrist was male. Often females reacted to their first meeting with Anne with a subdued, instinctive hostility. There were many reasons. Anne understood them all. She was thin, in a culture where thinness was admired above all other qualities, the kind of thinness that few females could achieve without deprivation and grueling discipline.
    She was also wealthy, and her ancestors had been wealthy and their ancestors had been wealthy, and so much inherited wealth shone from her like an aura. She could not dim it. It was as much a part of her as the way she moved across the room. She left her jewelry at home, she wore the plainest white shirt and gray skirt, and she still looked exactly like what she was: an American aristocrat.
    Still, because he was male, he would tend to like her. Most men did, especially if she went to the trouble to smile and put them at ease. Later, when both men and women got to know her, they came to admire her. Perhaps not to enjoy her company, or to want to share secrets, or to light up when they saw her. Seldom that. But to respect her, yes. They always came to respect her.
    Anne had just seated herself on the green leather sofa when the secretary peered over her eyeglasses, produced a professional smile, and announced, “Mrs. Madison? Dr. Lawrence will see you now.”
    Anne knew how to enter a room, and she’d given a great deal of thought to the way she should approach this meeting. She must be calm and firm and sympathetic, but resolute. She’d thought of appearing nervous—letting the psychiatrist feel his power—but decided against it.She wasn’t nervous. She was angry, really. Indignant. But prepared to be polite.
    It was not, she saw at once, the office of a wealthy man. The furniture, desk and chairs, were traditional inexpensive “executive” pieces one could buy at any office-supply store. A bookcase along one wall