A Son's Tale

“Yes, right this way, Miss Lowen.” The maître d’ had been with the family since George Lowen had decided that the only way to be assured the best seat in the house of his favorite fine dining restaurant was to buy the place. Morgan had been ten at the time. Glen had just graduated high school and had been a host, seating guests.

George, dressed in a gray suit with a red silk tie, was already seated with a two-inch-thick T-bone steak and stuffed baked potato in front of him. His highball was half-empty.

The table was set with only two places. The second place had an entrée-size salad and a bottle of sparkling water waiting.

And bread. At least he’d remembered that she liked the sourdough bread, Morgan told herself as she took her seat, the petit filet she’d been envisioning fading from her mind.

“Hi, Daddy, thank you for meeting me,” she said, leaning over to kiss the air by his cheek as though they met for lunch every week instead of once every five years.

“I know you like ranch dressing but I ordered honey mustard for you,” he said as she sat down. “It’s homemade and quite good.”

She wanted ranch dressing. And she wanted this meeting to go well. “Thank you,” she said, spreading her napkin in her lap before Glen had a chance to do so.

George took another big bite of steak. In lieu of saying anything to Glen, he dismissed the man with a nod and a full mouth.

The restaurant was perched above one of Tennessee’s many lakes, and while the place was full, their table was in a private alcove that George had had erected just for him and his family. They had a perfect view of the lake and no one had a view of them.

Morgan did what she knew her father expected and ate the salad she didn’t want with the dressing she didn’t care for before speaking. George detested discussing anything of importance over his meal, saying it gave him indigestion.

Pushing his empty plate away, he motioned for a second highball—one was usually his norm—wiped his mouth on the linen napkin and turned his piercing gaze on her. “I assume you’re here to discuss Samuel’s custody agreement. Do you want to talk about the visitation schedule?”

She couldn’t let him get to her. They’d just end up fighting and nothing would be accomplished.

“I want you to drop your suit, Daddy,” she said as quietly as she could. He wouldn’t yell at her. Not here. But the sudden redness in his face was about as bad. She could hear the words without his having to actually speak them. She’d heard them often

enough.

“Surely you have not just wasted my time.”

“Sammie and I have been meeting the friend of the court that was assigned to us after you filed for custody.” She chose her words carefully so as not to sound insubordinate. “She agreed with you that Sammie needs male companionship.”

“Of course she does. It’s obvious what the boy is lacking.”

“But she also seemed to think that, at least for now, Sammie needs me, too.”

“Did she say that outright?”

She would not be distracted. She had to think of Sammie.

“The thing is, Daddy, Professor Whittier, my English professor who stayed at the house with us the night that Sammie was missing, has been spending time with Sammie. And Sammie’s responding. The change in him, in just a few days, is remarkable.”

“How many times has he seen this man?”

George’s highball appeared on the table. Morgan barely saw the waiter who delivered it.

“Cal is picking Sammie up after school every Tuesday and Thursday and watching him until I get off work so Sammie doesn’t have to hang out at the day care as much anymore.”

“It’s about time. A day care is no place for a boy to grow into a man.”

Sammie was learning responsibility at the day care. He was learning how to care for others. He was great with the little kids. But now wasn’t the time to argue with George Lowen.

“All I’m asking, Daddy, is that you give us a chance. Sammie really likes spending time with Cal.” Seeing the frown taking over her father’s face, she hurriedly added, “He likes spending time with you and Mom, as well, of course, and if you’ll drop this case we can set up a more regular schedule where Sammie sleeps over at your house several times a month.”

George emptied half of his glass in one sip and Morgan’s stomach sank.

“Did Leslie Dinsmore tell you outright that she thought Sammie needed to live with you?” he asked in that voice that always made her feel sick.

And that’s when she knew that he was getting reports from every single meeting she and Sammie had with the “friend” of the court. More like “friend of her father,” Morgan realized, hating herself for having thought for one second that Leslie Dinsmore had been an impartial party who would be fair to her.