not really sure.”
His sense of helplessness—of personal failure—intensified as he turned into Greenwillow Estates, a luxury development full of bloated McMansions, one monstrosity more gaudy and boastful than the next. His disgust at the sheer excess of the houses—what family actually needed six thousand square feet of living space?—was aggravated by a professional grievance. Tim was a mortgage broker, but somehow he never managed to connect with the kinds of clients who bought places like this. He just handled the little guys, people he met through church, mostly—hardworking, two-income families with shaky credit and not much in the way of savings, who could only qualify for high-interest, variable-rate loans that just barely got them inside a rundown ranch or a garrison colonial on a busy street or otherwise marginal neighborhood.
Driving past the vast, oddly immaculate lawns of Country Club Way—it was mid-October, and there was barely a fallen leaf in sight—he fantasized, as he did every week, about pulling a U-turn and heading straight to the Tabernacle. What a pleasure it would be, walking into church with his little girl at his side, the person he loved best in the world, to stand beside her as she listened to God’s word, surrounded by the love that filled the humble space, all those joyful voices mingling together in song.
But it wasn’t gonna happen. Abby’s stepfather was a lawyer, and by all accounts a good one. As polite and friendly as Mitchell always was, Tim had no illusions about the consequences he’d suffer if he violated the custody agreement. Pastor Dennis would have encouraged him to go for it anyway—to stand up for what was right, and trust Jesus to take it from there—but Tim hadn’t reached that level of faith yet. There was a special bond between him and Abby—he’d felt it the first time he saw her, just seconds after she’d slipped into the world—and it had survived all sorts of turmoil, those years when he’d disappearedinto the wilderness and inflicted all sorts of suffering on the people he loved. He had a lot to make amends for, and couldn’t bear the thought of spending a minute less with his daughter than he already did, let alone risking the possibility of being cut off from her altogether.
MITCHELL AND Allison lived in something called a Greek Revival colonial on Running Brook Terrace, a monumental brick house with a portico supported by fluted pillars. Pulling his Saturn into the triple-wide driveway, next to an impossibly lustrous black Lexus SUV, Tim let the engine idle as he turned to his daughter. It was a way of prolonging their time together, as if his custodial rights didn’t officially come to an end until he shut off his ignition.
“My little girl,” he said, running his hand over her sleek dark hair, so similar to his own. “You be good, okay?”
She stared back at him, her face blank and patient. After a long moment, she nodded.
“Okay, Dad.”
He felt a fullness in his heart that was almost painful and wished he could think of something to say that would do it justice. But words like that were never there when he needed them.
“I’m gonna miss you, Ab.”
She laughed sweetly—the first happy sound that had come out of her mouth all morning—and patted him on the knee.
“Dude,” she said. “It’s only a week.”
ALLISON STOOD in the sunlit, two-story entrance foyer—it featured a glittering chandelier that could be raised and lowered by remote control—looking sweetly disheveled in a gold silk robe that Tim had never seen before, tied just loosely enough for him to get a tantalizing glimpse of the sheer black nightgown underneath. She hugged Abby, then invited him in for the ritual Sunday morning cup of coffee and parental debriefing. He could’ve begged off, of course, could’ve told herhe was in a rush, had to get ready for church or whatever, but he never did. She was the mother of his child, a woman who’d stood by
His sense of helplessness—of personal failure—intensified as he turned into Greenwillow Estates, a luxury development full of bloated McMansions, one monstrosity more gaudy and boastful than the next. His disgust at the sheer excess of the houses—what family actually needed six thousand square feet of living space?—was aggravated by a professional grievance. Tim was a mortgage broker, but somehow he never managed to connect with the kinds of clients who bought places like this. He just handled the little guys, people he met through church, mostly—hardworking, two-income families with shaky credit and not much in the way of savings, who could only qualify for high-interest, variable-rate loans that just barely got them inside a rundown ranch or a garrison colonial on a busy street or otherwise marginal neighborhood.
Driving past the vast, oddly immaculate lawns of Country Club Way—it was mid-October, and there was barely a fallen leaf in sight—he fantasized, as he did every week, about pulling a U-turn and heading straight to the Tabernacle. What a pleasure it would be, walking into church with his little girl at his side, the person he loved best in the world, to stand beside her as she listened to God’s word, surrounded by the love that filled the humble space, all those joyful voices mingling together in song.
But it wasn’t gonna happen. Abby’s stepfather was a lawyer, and by all accounts a good one. As polite and friendly as Mitchell always was, Tim had no illusions about the consequences he’d suffer if he violated the custody agreement. Pastor Dennis would have encouraged him to go for it anyway—to stand up for what was right, and trust Jesus to take it from there—but Tim hadn’t reached that level of faith yet. There was a special bond between him and Abby—he’d felt it the first time he saw her, just seconds after she’d slipped into the world—and it had survived all sorts of turmoil, those years when he’d disappearedinto the wilderness and inflicted all sorts of suffering on the people he loved. He had a lot to make amends for, and couldn’t bear the thought of spending a minute less with his daughter than he already did, let alone risking the possibility of being cut off from her altogether.
MITCHELL AND Allison lived in something called a Greek Revival colonial on Running Brook Terrace, a monumental brick house with a portico supported by fluted pillars. Pulling his Saturn into the triple-wide driveway, next to an impossibly lustrous black Lexus SUV, Tim let the engine idle as he turned to his daughter. It was a way of prolonging their time together, as if his custodial rights didn’t officially come to an end until he shut off his ignition.
“My little girl,” he said, running his hand over her sleek dark hair, so similar to his own. “You be good, okay?”
She stared back at him, her face blank and patient. After a long moment, she nodded.
“Okay, Dad.”
He felt a fullness in his heart that was almost painful and wished he could think of something to say that would do it justice. But words like that were never there when he needed them.
“I’m gonna miss you, Ab.”
She laughed sweetly—the first happy sound that had come out of her mouth all morning—and patted him on the knee.
“Dude,” she said. “It’s only a week.”
ALLISON STOOD in the sunlit, two-story entrance foyer—it featured a glittering chandelier that could be raised and lowered by remote control—looking sweetly disheveled in a gold silk robe that Tim had never seen before, tied just loosely enough for him to get a tantalizing glimpse of the sheer black nightgown underneath. She hugged Abby, then invited him in for the ritual Sunday morning cup of coffee and parental debriefing. He could’ve begged off, of course, could’ve told herhe was in a rush, had to get ready for church or whatever, but he never did. She was the mother of his child, a woman who’d stood by
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