thing as a zip up.
He shrugged. “Sarah has her son for the weekend, so . . .” He shrugged again. Sarah Grant was a wealthy socialite who had started as a patient and become his best advertisement. Sometime before, during, or after the round of procedures that had perfected her facial features and enhanced many of her body parts, Zachary had started sleeping with her. Now Sarah was, as Zachary had told Brooke more than once, everything Brooke refused to be.
“So if you’re going to have one child cramping your style, you might as well have three?” Brooke asked.
The flush spreading across his face told her she’d hit the mark. Brooke didn’t know Sarah well, and she hoped to keep it that way. She didn’t feel at all good about the fact that the only reason her children were going to see their father was because his girlfriend was parenting.
“I hope you’re not planning to complain,” Zachary said. “You’re always wanting me to take them.”
Her mouth dropped open at the unfairness of the accusation; after all they’d been through, he only ever saw her in the worst possible light. “I want you to take them when you’re supposed to because you’re their father and they miss you,” she said. “Not because your girlfriend has her son so you might as well have your kids there, too.”
She stared up into the hard planes and angles of his face and into the emerald-colored eyes that had once glowed with enthusiasm for their life together. All they held now was the cold sharpness of his disdain for her; she who had stood and delivered in adversity and crumpled like a wadded-up piece of paper in the face of success.
“Can you hurry them along? Sarah and Trent are waiting in the car downstairs.” He took her by the shoulders, spun her around in much the same way you might move a sack of potatoes out of the way, and zipped up the back of her dress. “We’re taking them to Piedmont Park, so no dresses or Sunday-school shoes. I want them dressed appropriately.”
Brooke’s head jerked up at his tone. She couldn’t remember when he’d begun to talk to her in that hurtful condescending way. But years of writing off his shortcomings to the stress of medical school and the demands of his residency and then to avoid confrontations in front of the kids had allowed him to treat her like a doormat. She heard the girls calling her. With difficulty she swallowed back the retort that had sprung to her lips and hurried toward their bedrooms to help them pack.
* * *
AFTER A LEISURELY MORNING DAWDLING OVER coffee and the
New York Times
, Claire spent Sunday afternoon rambling around the fifty-plus-acre Piedmont Park. She and Hailey had driven in from the suburbs for different festivals and events at the park over the years, but she’d never had the time or opportunity to explore it in earnest until now. It was an easy walk from the Alexander and throughout the week, she’d varied her route each time she went, entering the grounds from a different access point and covering a different quadrant. Today the breeze was warm, still tinged with summer and laden with humidity. The grass was green and lush from summer rain and the leaves had not yet begun to turn. As Claire walked and watched the families cavort, she pushed her brain toward the book she would start on in earnest tomorrow, but it resisted, preferring to skitter and float like the summer scents of jasmine and sunscreen that floated on the breeze.
Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer it. “Hey, stranger,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Where have you been?” Hailey had sent the occasional text between classes or late at night, but it had been days since she’d heard her daughter’s voice—or any voice at all.
“I’ve been swamped,” Hailey said. “I’m not sure what made me think that taking an intensive writing class in my first semester was a good idea. And I got the part-time job in the library and had
He shrugged. “Sarah has her son for the weekend, so . . .” He shrugged again. Sarah Grant was a wealthy socialite who had started as a patient and become his best advertisement. Sometime before, during, or after the round of procedures that had perfected her facial features and enhanced many of her body parts, Zachary had started sleeping with her. Now Sarah was, as Zachary had told Brooke more than once, everything Brooke refused to be.
“So if you’re going to have one child cramping your style, you might as well have three?” Brooke asked.
The flush spreading across his face told her she’d hit the mark. Brooke didn’t know Sarah well, and she hoped to keep it that way. She didn’t feel at all good about the fact that the only reason her children were going to see their father was because his girlfriend was parenting.
“I hope you’re not planning to complain,” Zachary said. “You’re always wanting me to take them.”
Her mouth dropped open at the unfairness of the accusation; after all they’d been through, he only ever saw her in the worst possible light. “I want you to take them when you’re supposed to because you’re their father and they miss you,” she said. “Not because your girlfriend has her son so you might as well have your kids there, too.”
She stared up into the hard planes and angles of his face and into the emerald-colored eyes that had once glowed with enthusiasm for their life together. All they held now was the cold sharpness of his disdain for her; she who had stood and delivered in adversity and crumpled like a wadded-up piece of paper in the face of success.
“Can you hurry them along? Sarah and Trent are waiting in the car downstairs.” He took her by the shoulders, spun her around in much the same way you might move a sack of potatoes out of the way, and zipped up the back of her dress. “We’re taking them to Piedmont Park, so no dresses or Sunday-school shoes. I want them dressed appropriately.”
Brooke’s head jerked up at his tone. She couldn’t remember when he’d begun to talk to her in that hurtful condescending way. But years of writing off his shortcomings to the stress of medical school and the demands of his residency and then to avoid confrontations in front of the kids had allowed him to treat her like a doormat. She heard the girls calling her. With difficulty she swallowed back the retort that had sprung to her lips and hurried toward their bedrooms to help them pack.
* * *
AFTER A LEISURELY MORNING DAWDLING OVER coffee and the
New York Times
, Claire spent Sunday afternoon rambling around the fifty-plus-acre Piedmont Park. She and Hailey had driven in from the suburbs for different festivals and events at the park over the years, but she’d never had the time or opportunity to explore it in earnest until now. It was an easy walk from the Alexander and throughout the week, she’d varied her route each time she went, entering the grounds from a different access point and covering a different quadrant. Today the breeze was warm, still tinged with summer and laden with humidity. The grass was green and lush from summer rain and the leaves had not yet begun to turn. As Claire walked and watched the families cavort, she pushed her brain toward the book she would start on in earnest tomorrow, but it resisted, preferring to skitter and float like the summer scents of jasmine and sunscreen that floated on the breeze.
Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out of her pocket to answer it. “Hey, stranger,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Where have you been?” Hailey had sent the occasional text between classes or late at night, but it had been days since she’d heard her daughter’s voice—or any voice at all.
“I’ve been swamped,” Hailey said. “I’m not sure what made me think that taking an intensive writing class in my first semester was a good idea. And I got the part-time job in the library and had
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