"I wonder why it's orange," I mused aloud. To my surprise, I heard Emily answer.
"When the moon is low in the sky, the light scatters because it has to pass through more layers of the atmosphere than when it's overhead. By the time the light reaches our eyes, the blue, green, and purple parts of the spectrum have scattered, leaving only yellow, orange, and red visible to us."
"How do you know that?" I marveled, turning to her.
"My dad explained it to me every time we saw one of these," she said, nodding at the glowing orb hovering over the horizon. "I guess over time, it just stuck."
"I'm still impressed."
"Don't be. If you ask me anything else about the night sky other than the location of the Big Dipper, I wouldn't be able to help you. For instance, I know that one or two of those stars out there are probably planets, but I couldn't tell you which ones they are."
Scanning the sky, I pointed. "That one over there, right above the tree? That's Venus."
"How do you know?"
"Because it's brighter than the stars."
She squinted. "Are you sure?"
"No," I admitted and she laughed. "But my dad told me that. He used to wake me in the middle of the night so the two of us could watch meteor showers."
A nostalgic smile crossed her face. "My dad did that with me, too," she said. "And whenever we went camping, he'd stay up with Jess and me for hours, and we'd watch for falling stars."
"Jess?"
"My older sister. Do you have any siblings?"
"I have an older sister, too. Marge." I tried to picture Emily as a girl, with her family. "I'm having a hard time imagining you camping."
She knitted her brows. "Why?"
"I don't know," I said. "I guess maybe because you strike me as more of a city girl."
"What does that mean?'
"You know... coffee shops, poetry readings, art galleries, joining protests, voting socialist."
She laughed. "One thing's for sure--you don't know me at all."
"Well," I said, gathering my courage, "I'd like to know you better. What do you like to do for fun?"
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
Her gaze left me feeling a bit flustered. "If your idea of fun is skydiving or shooting apples off my head with a bow and arrow, then the only reason I'm asking is for the sake of conversation."
"But if it's dinner and a movie..." She arched an eyebrow.
"That's more my style."
She brought a hand to her chin and slowly shook her head. "No... dinner and a movie is just too... cliched," she said finally. "How about a hike?"
"A hike?" Eyeing her stiletto heels, I had trouble picturing her outdoors, communing with nature.
"Yeah," she said. "How about Crowders Mountain? We can follow the Rocktop Trail."
"I've never been there," I said. In fact, I'd never heard of it.
"Then it's a date," she said. "How about next Saturday?"
I looked at her, suddenly wondering whether I'd asked her out or if she'd asked me, or even whether it really mattered. Because I could already tell that Emily was extraordinary, and I knew without a doubt that I wanted to get to know her better.
On Sunday, when I had spare time, I worked on the third commercial and shipped it off to the editor, which took less time than I thought it would. It had to take little time, since the rest of my day was spent with London.
It may not be politically correct to say, but the fact that London was going to school made my life better, too. As much as I loved my daughter, Sunday wore me out and I was looking forward to heading to work, if only because it seemed somehow easier than entertaining a five-year-old for sixteen straight hours.
My good mood, however, ended even before I got to the office on Monday morning. I'd just dropped London off when I fielded a call from Taglieri, asking if it was possible for me to swing by his office.
Half an hour later, I was sitting across from him in his office. His jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up; on his desk were messy piles of what I assumed to be ongoing cases.
"Thanks for making time this morning," he said. "I connected with Vivian's attorney on Friday. I wanted to get a sense of her and see if there was a way to make all of this proceed as smoothly as possible."
"And?"
"Unfortunately, she was exactly as billed. After hanging up, I went to her firm's website because I had to see what she looked like. During our call I kept picturing an ice statue instead of a real person. I mean, she was subzero."
His description conjured up a number of future scenarios, none of them particularly good for me. "What does that mean?"
"It means it's probably going to be harder for you than it should be, depending on how forcefully you intend to fight."
"I don't care about the money as much as I care about London. I want joint custody."
"I hear you," he said, raising his hand. "And I know that's what you want. But I'm not even sure what that means. Vivian's living in Atlanta and because she wants residency in Georgia, she's not coming back here. My question to you is whether you're willing to move to Atlanta."
"Why do I have to move? My house is here. My family is here. My job is here."
"That's my point. Even if you received joint custody, how would that work? It's not like you'd have the chance to see London very much. Which is why, I assume, Vivian is asking for sole custody, as well as physical custody. She's willing to grant you visitation..."
"No," I said, cutting him off. "That's not going to happen. I'm her father. I have rights."
"Yes, you do. But we both know that courts tend to favor women. And Vivian's attorney is telling me that Vivian was the primary caregiver until only a few months ago."
"I worked so she could stay at home!"
Joey raised his hands, even as his voice adopted a soothing cadence. "I know that," he said, "and I don't think it's fair either. But in custody battles, fathers are at a real disadvantage. Especially in situations like these."
"She's the one who moved out. She left us!"
"According to Vivian's attorney, it was because you left her with no other choice. You were no longer able to support the family and you'd drained a big chunk from the savings account. She was forced to get a job."
"That's not true! Vivian took the job because she wanted to. I didn't make her do anything..."
Taglieri fixed me with a sympathetic look. "I believe you. I'm on your side, Russ. I'm just relaying some of the things Vivian's attorney said to me. By the way, that woman may be an ice queen and a bully, but I'm not afraid to take her on. She's never had to go toe-to-toe with the Bulldog, and I'm good at my job. I just wanted to update you in person and prepare you for what comes next. This thing is already ugly, and it's probably going to get even uglier over the next few months."
"What do you need me to do?"
"For now, nothing. It's still early. As for the settlement agreement she sent, just pretend it doesn't exist. I'll draft a response for you to look over and I already have some ideas on that. That said, my court schedule is full for the next couple of weeks so you won't see anything from me right away. I don't want you to worry if you don't hear from me. There's always a tendency in these situations to want to get everything done as quickly as possible, but it generally doesn't work that way. What I do want is to touch base with her and have a longer conversation, but even then, there's no reason to rush. Right now, London is still living with you. That's a good thing, and the longer it goes on, the better it is for you. Also keep in mind that Vivian can't file for divorce until next March at the earliest, so we still have time to work out a settlement that's agreeable to both parties. Until then, you might want to check if it's possible for you and Vivian to work something out that's acceptable to both of you. I'm not saying that she'll go for something like that--in fact I doubt that she will--but it's worth a try."
"And if she doesn't want to work something out?"
"Then just keep doing what you're doing with
London. Be a good father, spend time with your daughter, make sure London gets to school and eats and sleeps right. I can't stress how important that is. Keep in mind that we can always bring in a psychologist to talk to London and present a report to the court..."
"No," I said, interrupting. "I'm not going to put London in the middle of all this. She's not going to have to choose between her mother and father."
His eyes dropped. "You might not think it's a good idea, but Vivian may insist on it in the hope that it will benefit her case."
"She wouldn't do that," I said. "She adores London."
"It's precisely because she adores London," he said, "that you shouldn't be surprised by anything she's willing to do in order to gain custody."
After the meeting with Taglieri, I was more angry, and frightened, than I'd been since Vivian had walked out the door. In my office at work, I fumed. I called Marge and repeated what Taglieri had said; Marge was as livid as I was. When she referred to Vivian with a term synonymous with female dogs, I echoed the sentiment.
But talking to Marge did little to make me feel better, and in the end, I called Emily and asked if she could meet me for lunch.
Considering how furious I was, I wanted to avoid going to a restaurant. Instead, I asked her to meet me at a park near the house, where there was a scattering of picnic tables. Not knowing what she would want, I ordered two sandwiches from the deli, along with two different kinds of soup. I added some bags of chips to the order, along with two bottles of Snapple.
Emily was already seated at one of the tables when I pulled into the gravel lot. Parking beside her, I grabbed the food and strode to the table.
I must have looked upset as I approached, because she rose from her seat and gave me a quick hug. She was wearing shorts, a peasant blouse, and sandals, similar to what she'd worn when we'd walked the golf course together. "I'd ask how you were doing, but it's pretty clear it's a bad day, huh?"
"Definitely a rough one," I admitted, more affected by the feeling of her body against mine than I felt comfortable acknowledging. "Thanks for meeting me here."
"Of course." She sat as I laid out the food on the table and took a seat across from her. Behind us, preschoolers were clambering over a small wooden structure featuring low slides, bridges and swings. Mothers either stood nearby or sat on benches, some fiddling with their phones.
"What's going on?"
I ran through the conversation I'd had with Taglieri. She listened with a frown of concentration, inhaling sharply at the end, her eyes slitted in disbelief.
"Would she really do that? Put London in the middle of a fight between the two of you?"
"Taglieri seemed to think it wasn't just possible. He believes it's probable."
"Oh, boy," she said. "That's terrible. No wonder you're upset. I'd be furious."
"That's an understatement. Right now, I can barely stand the thought of her. Which is strange, because ever since she left, it seems like all I've wanted was to see her."
"It's really hard," she said. "And until you go through it, you can't know what it's like."
"David wasn't like this, was he? You said that he was generous when it came to money and you got custody of Bodhi."
"It was still terrible. When he walked out the door, he was seeing someone, and for the next month, I kept hearing from people I knew who'd seen him out and about with this woman, acting like he didn't have a care in the world. It was totally demoralizing, evidence that ending the marriage and losing me mattered not at all to him. And while he was generous in the end, he didn't start out that way. He talked at first about bringing Bodhi with him to Australia."
"He couldn't do that, could he?"
"Probably not. Bodhi's an American citizen, but even the threat caused me a few weeks of sleepless nights. I couldn't imagine not being able to see my son."
It was a sentiment I could fully relate to.
After lunch, I returned home instead of going back to the office. On the mantel and walls were dozens of photographs, mostly of London. What I hadn't noticed in all the years that I lived there was how many photos of London included Vivian--almost all professionally shot--while only a few candid ones of London and me graced our home.
Staring at them, I wondered how long Vivian had considered me so marginal to my daughter's existence. Perhaps I was reading too much into it--while Vivian was with London, I'd been at work, so of course there were more photos--but why hadn't she noticed and rectified the situation? Why hadn't she tried to memorialize more moments with the three of us, so that London could see for herself that I loved her as much as Vivian did?
I wasn't sure. What I did know was that I didn't want to be constantly reminded of Vivian, which meant some things had to change. With newfound resolve, I walked through the house, removing the photos that included Vivian. I had no intention of throwing them away; I put a number of them in London's room while I stacked others in a box that Vivian could take back to Atlanta with her, stowing the box in the foyer closet. Afterward, I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. Heading to the family room, I began to rearrange the furniture. Couches, chairs, lamps--I even moved a painting from the den to the living room and vice versa. By the time I was done, I couldn't claim that it looked better--Vivian did have good decorating sense--but it definitely looked different. I did the same in the den, moving the desk to an alternate wall, shifting the bookshelf and flipping the location of two paintings. In the master bedroom, I kept the bed in the same place, but moved all the other furniture I could, and then switched out the duvet on the bed for another that I found in the linen closet, one that hadn't been used in years.
In another closet, I found assorted household goods, and I spent a few minutes switching out vases and lamps, along with some decorative bowls. One good thing about Vivian's shopping over the years, I suppose, was that my overstuffed closets held the equivalent of a department store.
As soon as London got home from school, she took in her surroundings with wide eyes.
"It looks like a new house, Daddy."
"A little bit," I admitted. "Do you like it?"
"I like it a lot!" she exclaimed. Though her endorsement made me feel good, I suspected that it never occurred to London not to like it. With the exception of dance class, London seemed to like everything.
"I'm glad," I said. "I didn't move anything in your room."
"You could have moved the hamster cage if you wanted to."
"Do you want me to?"
"They're still kind of noisy at night. They run on that wheel as soon as it gets dark."
"That's because they're nocturnal."
She looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course they're not turtles. They're hamsters."
"Nocturnal," I said, slowly enunciating the word. "That means they like to sleep during the day."
"You mean so that they don't miss me while I'm at school?"
I smiled. "Exactly."
She was quiet for a few seconds. "Hey Daddy?"
I loved the way she said those words when she was about to ask me for something, and I wondered how old she would be when it finally stopped. Or if, by then, I'd even notice.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
"Can we go for a bike ride?'
Between my workout that morning and redecorating efforts, I was already exhausted, but Hey Daddy won out, as it usually did.
For the first time, I remembered to slather sunscreen on my daughter.
It was, however, the end of September and relatively late in the afternoon, so it probably fell into the category of too little, too late.
London donned her helmet and as soon as I helped her get going--she still couldn't do that part on her own--I hopped onto my bike and pedaled quickly to catch up to her.
While the roads near our house offered wonderfully flat, long stretches, the streets on the far side of the neighborhood had hills. Not big hills, mind you; in my youth, I probably would have considered them boring. I preferred racing down the steepest hills, the kind th
at made me squeeze the handlebars so tight I'd lose feelings in my fingers, but London and I were different in that regard. The thought of going faster and faster, without pedaling, made London nervous, and so far we'd avoided the hilly roads.
It was the right thing to do, especially early on, but I felt that she'd reached the point where she could handle a shallow downslope, and we rode in that direction.
Unfortunately, the mosquitoes were out in force, and I watched as London slapped at her arm. Her bike wobbled slightly as she temporarily released her grip on the handlebars, but she didn't seem to be in danger of falling. My little girl had come a long way since that first bike ride, and I sped up, pulling beside her.
"You're such a good rider now!" I called out.
"Thank you," she said.
"Maybe we could bring Bodhi for a bike ride sometime."
"He doesn't know how yet. He's still using the training wheels."
As soon as she said it, I remembered Emily telling me the same thing.
"Do you think you're ready to try some hills?"
"I don't know," she said, giving me a sidelong look. "They're kind of scary."
"They're not too bad," I said. "And it's kind of fun to go even faster."
Letting go of the handlebar again, she reached over and scratched at her opposite arm. Again the bike wobbled.
"I think I got stung by a mosquito."
"Probably," I said. "But mosquitoes bite, they don't sting."
"It's itchy."
"I know. When we get back home, I'll put some hydrocortisone cream on your arm, okay?"
We eventually made our way to the hillier section of the neighborhood, pedaling up a gradual incline. The opposite side was shorter and slightly steeper, and when we reached the top, London slowed her bike to a stop and put her feet down.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"It's kind of big," she said, an anxious tremor in her voice.
"I think you can do it," I said encouragingly. "How about we give it a try?"
As a kid, I barely would have considered the slope a hill. Of course, I was remembering something from a quarter century earlier, and in my mind, I had always known how to ride a bike. Perhaps I'd forgotten the uncertainties of being a beginner.