…
In the end, Kristin decided that brunch would be best. Sarabeth’s. A few blocks from her mother’s. After that, Richard would have to return to his exile at the Millennium. They met at eleven-thirty, Kristin and Melissa rendezvousing with Richard near the restaurant’s awning on the northeast corner of Madison and Ninety-second Street. There were two tables available, one rather light and cheery near the window, and one in the back corner. The sun was out for the first time in days, and it was clear the hostess wanted to seat them at the front, where they could bask in its warmth. Richard surprised her, asking for a table in the rear of the restaurant. He allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity: this is my future. A life in the shadows. Hiding. Shamed. But it passed when he realized that he really did have his wife and his daughter with him. He rallied, especially when he glanced down and saw that Melissa was wearing the new skirt and tights he had picked out for her yesterday.
“They look great on you!” he said, hoping after he had gushed that his pathetic need for approval and forgiveness wouldn’t lessen him in her eyes. But, of course, he did need her forgiveness. And she would, he feared, forever think less of him anyway.
“Thanks. They’re pretty funky,” she said, and he tried not to read anything into how simply normal her voice sounded. He kissed her on the forehead and then Kristin on the cheek. She didn’t turn away. He tried not to read too much into that, either, but it gave him a small measure of hope amid the hopelessness that might otherwise swamp him.
“You must be hungry,” he said as they glanced at the menus. “I know I’m famished.”
“I had a croissant a few hours ago,” his wife murmured. She didn’t look up from what she was reading.
“And I had cereal,” Melissa added.
“Well, all I’ve had is coffee, so I’m starving. I will be the goop who licks fingers and knives and both of your plates.” He peeked over the top of his menu and took inordinate satisfaction from his daughter’s small smile.
“How’s the hotel?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Fine. It’s a hotel. I wasn’t all that far from the theater where you saw the puppet whales.”
“I like hotels. You should have ordered room service. I love room service.”
“I should have, right?”
“Yup.”
“How’s Cassandra?”
The girl rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest: “Weirded out.”
“Is she eating?”
“Uh-huh. But she jumps from one piece of furniture to the next. It’s like the carpets are quicksand or something.”
“Where did she sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“But not with you or Grandma?”
“Nope. Grandma thinks she might have slept on the high shelf in the coat closet.”
“The one in the front hall?”
“Yup.”
“Well, with any luck she can go home soon. We all can.” He turned toward Kristin, but her eyes were still riveted to the menu. Abruptly she looked up and for a brief second he thought she was looking at him, and he felt almost giddy with relief. But he followed her gaze and understood it was only that the waitress had returned and was standing behind him. Over his shoulder. She was about to ask if they would like coffee or tea. Her hair was as black as her dress, and her eyes were the reassuring brown of freshly tilled soil. Her voice was chipper. She was, he guessed, in her early twenties. After she had taken their order—he and Kristin both ordered cappuccinos, while Melissa was having hot chocolate—he turned back toward his wife. Now she was staring at him; he couldn’t decide if she was disgusted or merely bemused. He raised his eyebrows, waiting.
“I used to think I understood men,” she said. “I don’t. Or maybe I just overestimated all of you.”
He nodded. He parsed the code: she thought he had been checking out the waitress and was irritated. “Wasn’t thinking what you thought I was thinking,” he told her, hoping he sounded playful and not defensive since Melissa was present.
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about coffee versus cappuccino,” he said. He wanted to tell her that he was no more aware of his surroundings—including the people—than anyone else. Yes, he thought the waitress was pretty, but he took no more notice of her than he would have if the person taking their order had been male. He registered what she looked like; that was it. He swiveled his body in his seat and focused on their daughter: “Tell me more about the musical,” he said. “Tell me all about the whales.” It was probably going to be impossible to make this brunch…normal…but he was, he decided, sure as hell going to try.
…
As they walked as a family the few blocks back to her mother’s, Kristin finally broached the question that she had shied away from at brunch because Richard was trying so hard to make the meal pleasant for Melissa. She was grateful for his efforts; she wished she had had it in her to do the same. “Will you talk to that detective today?” she asked.
“Patricia?”