him for way longer than he deserved before finally throwing in the towel, and the least he could do was give her fifteen minutes a week of his time.
He just wished she would put some clothes on. Allison was a beautiful woman—even at forty, with twenty pounds of post-childbirth weight that looked like it was here to stay—and Tim had to force himself to keep his eyes where they belonged as he trailed her through the dining room to the entrance of the family room, where he paused to say hi to Mitchell and his two-year-old son, Logan, who were playing a wooden ring toss game that looked like it came from a catalogue that only sold toys made of natural materials by the finest Old World craftsmen.
“Hola,” Mitchell called out. He was a baby-faced guy in his late thirties with curly hair and a doughy physique. “It’s Señor Tim.”
“Hola to you,” Tim replied. “How’s the little guy?”
Mitchell wrapped his thumb and forefinger around Logan’s pudgy bicep.
“Strong like bull,” he declared in a ridiculous Russian accent that elicited a hearty chuckle from the boy, who appeared to have been cloned from his father.
Abby peeled off to join her brother and stepfather, while Tim and Allison continued into the breakfast nook. It was possible, he thought, that there was an innocent explanation for the fact that his ex-wife was hardly ever decently dressed when he showed up on Sunday mornings—it was true that she’d never been shy about her body, and had enjoyed lounging around half-naked on weekends ever since he’d known her—but he couldn’t help suspecting that she got some satisfaction from reminding him of everything he’d thrown away, all the pleasures and privileges he’d surrendered for the simple, stupid reason that he liked getting high better than he liked being a husband and father.
If that was her strategy, it was working a little too well. Standing in the archway of the eerily spotless dream kitchen—it looked like amovie set, not a place where actual people cooked actual food—watching her pour his coffee, he couldn’t help noticing how shamelessly short her robe was, not much longer than a miniskirt, which made him wonder how much shorter than that her nightgown must have been, which led, inevitably, to more specific thoughts about her body, and the many ways she’d shared it with him over the years. Mitchell must have felt like he’d died and gone to heaven, a nerdy intellectual property lawyer living in a house like this with a wife who had a black strawberry tattooed on her ass—she’d gotten it back in the mid-eighties, when it was still a little bit daring—and, unless things had changed, an unusually strong sex drive. The whole deferred-gratification thing had really paid off for the guy, and Tim couldn’t help envying him for his discipline and foresight.
THE BREAKFAST island was long and sleek, the countertop a thick slab of polished blue granite with a weirdly deep sink at one end. Sitting across from him, Allison rearranged the lapels of her robe in a gesture of belated modesty, as if it had just occurred to her what she was wearing and who she was with.
“So how’d the game go yesterday?”
“We won. We’re tied for first place in the division.”
“Wow.” She sounded impressed, though both of them knew she couldn’t have cared less. “How’d Abby do?”
“Great.” He took a sip of coffee, a dark roast that Allison insisted was way better than Starbucks, though Tim could never taste the difference. “I did want to tell you, though—she got into a pretty bad collision near the end of the game. She and this other girl crashed into each other at full speed, and I think she was knocked out for a minute or two.”
“Oh my God, did you—”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Felder says she’s fine, no sign of concussion or anything. He says to just keep an eye on her, but he doesn’t anticipate any problems. You can give him a call if you want.”
Tim had expected
He just wished she would put some clothes on. Allison was a beautiful woman—even at forty, with twenty pounds of post-childbirth weight that looked like it was here to stay—and Tim had to force himself to keep his eyes where they belonged as he trailed her through the dining room to the entrance of the family room, where he paused to say hi to Mitchell and his two-year-old son, Logan, who were playing a wooden ring toss game that looked like it came from a catalogue that only sold toys made of natural materials by the finest Old World craftsmen.
“Hola,” Mitchell called out. He was a baby-faced guy in his late thirties with curly hair and a doughy physique. “It’s Señor Tim.”
“Hola to you,” Tim replied. “How’s the little guy?”
Mitchell wrapped his thumb and forefinger around Logan’s pudgy bicep.
“Strong like bull,” he declared in a ridiculous Russian accent that elicited a hearty chuckle from the boy, who appeared to have been cloned from his father.
Abby peeled off to join her brother and stepfather, while Tim and Allison continued into the breakfast nook. It was possible, he thought, that there was an innocent explanation for the fact that his ex-wife was hardly ever decently dressed when he showed up on Sunday mornings—it was true that she’d never been shy about her body, and had enjoyed lounging around half-naked on weekends ever since he’d known her—but he couldn’t help suspecting that she got some satisfaction from reminding him of everything he’d thrown away, all the pleasures and privileges he’d surrendered for the simple, stupid reason that he liked getting high better than he liked being a husband and father.
If that was her strategy, it was working a little too well. Standing in the archway of the eerily spotless dream kitchen—it looked like amovie set, not a place where actual people cooked actual food—watching her pour his coffee, he couldn’t help noticing how shamelessly short her robe was, not much longer than a miniskirt, which made him wonder how much shorter than that her nightgown must have been, which led, inevitably, to more specific thoughts about her body, and the many ways she’d shared it with him over the years. Mitchell must have felt like he’d died and gone to heaven, a nerdy intellectual property lawyer living in a house like this with a wife who had a black strawberry tattooed on her ass—she’d gotten it back in the mid-eighties, when it was still a little bit daring—and, unless things had changed, an unusually strong sex drive. The whole deferred-gratification thing had really paid off for the guy, and Tim couldn’t help envying him for his discipline and foresight.
THE BREAKFAST island was long and sleek, the countertop a thick slab of polished blue granite with a weirdly deep sink at one end. Sitting across from him, Allison rearranged the lapels of her robe in a gesture of belated modesty, as if it had just occurred to her what she was wearing and who she was with.
“So how’d the game go yesterday?”
“We won. We’re tied for first place in the division.”
“Wow.” She sounded impressed, though both of them knew she couldn’t have cared less. “How’d Abby do?”
“Great.” He took a sip of coffee, a dark roast that Allison insisted was way better than Starbucks, though Tim could never taste the difference. “I did want to tell you, though—she got into a pretty bad collision near the end of the game. She and this other girl crashed into each other at full speed, and I think she was knocked out for a minute or two.”
“Oh my God, did you—”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Felder says she’s fine, no sign of concussion or anything. He says to just keep an eye on her, but he doesn’t anticipate any problems. You can give him a call if you want.”
Tim had expected
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