Part 8
“I know.”
“My attorney says I would be irresponsible not to act.”
“Your attorney works in Thomas Mercer’s building.”
“That doesn’t make him wrong.”
“You asked for primary custody.”
“Temporarily.”
“Children experience temporary homes as real homes.”
His face tightened. “You don’t get to lecture me about stability after Saturday.”
Clara lowered her voice. “Did you want to file?”
He looked toward the kitchen, where Sophie was opening and closing cabinets.
“Did you?” Clara asked again.
“I want her safe.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
He left before Sophie came back with the cereal box.
The following week, the Harrow Foundation suspended its payment to the Wentworth restoration. Samuel called an emergency staff meeting. He did not identify the reason, but everyone knew.
Clara offered again to resign from the project.
“No,” Samuel said afterward. “If you resign, they will learn that withholding money controls personnel.”
“It may cost people their jobs.”
“It may.”
“You say that as if principle pays salaries.”
“It doesn’t. Neither does panic.”
They sat in the unfinished nave of the Wentworth building, a former church being converted into a public arts space. Sunlight came through temporary plastic where stained glass had been removed. Dust covered Clara’s shoes.
Samuel handed her a thermos lid filled with coffee.
“When I was thirty-nine,” he said, “I punched a contractor in Savannah.”
Clara turned to him.
“He deserved it less than Eleanor did.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“He had insulted my drawings. I broke a finger.”
“His?”
“Mine. Bad technique.”
Clara drank the coffee. It was too sweet.
“I lost the contract,” Samuel continued. “Spent a year introducing myself as the architect who hit people. Eventually, I became the architect who had once hit someone. Later, only a few remembered.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Yes.”
“Did he forgive you?”
“No. He sent me a Christmas card for fifteen years addressed to Samuel ‘Left Hook’ Greene.”
Clara smiled despite herself.
“The point,” Samuel said, “is not that public memory disappears. It changes shape if you give it better material.”
“What counts as better material?”
“Work. Time. Not punching anyone else.”
“I slapped her.”
“Do you want me to amend the anecdote?”
“No.”
Across the city, Eleanor was giving interviews through a public relations consultant.
She did not appear on camera. A statement described her as “deeply saddened by a violent episode during a cherished family celebration” and said she remained focused on “the safety and emotional well-being of her granddaughter.”
The phrase emotional well-being appeared in Daniel’s custody filing.
Mara circled it in red.
“They’re coordinating,” Clara said.
“Families coordinate. It’s not illegal.”
“Can we make them stop using Sophie publicly?”
“We can ask for a temporary order limiting statements. The judge may grant it if both sides are restricted.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“That will not prevent a neutral order.”
Mara sat across from Clara in a conference room that overlooked a parking garage. She wore a charcoal suit and bright green reading glasses.
“Eleanor’s attorney has offered a resolution,” she said.
“What resolution?”
“Eleanor will decline further involvement in the criminal complaint and ask the foundation to resume funding. Daniel will withdraw the temporary custody request.”
“In exchange for?”
“A written public apology from you, six sessions of anger-management counseling, and an agreement that Eleanor receives two unsupervised visits with Sophie each month.”
Clara stared at her.
Mara removed the green glasses. “The counseling is not the problem.”
“No.”
“The apology is manageable if carefully written.”
“No.”
“You can apologize without agreeing to their version.”
“She wants access to Sophie.”
“Yes.”
“She created the custody threat.”
“We do not yet have independent proof of the exact statement.”
“Sophie said it.”
“Sophie’s account matters. A court will also consider whether the adults are using her in a conflict.”
“I’m not using her.”
“I know that. The court has not known you for twelve years.”
Clara walked to the window. On the top level of the garage, a man in medical scrubs was trying to fit a cardboard box into the back seat of a small car.
“If I agree,” Clara said, “Eleanor learns that frightening Sophie works.”
“If you refuse, you face a custody hearing with video of you striking her.”
“She’s counting on that.”
“She is counting on you valuing certainty.”
Clara turned. “Would you take the deal?”
Mara’s expression did not change. “It is not my daughter.”
“That’s why I asked.”
“No. That is why my answer would be useless.”
Clara left with forty-eight hours to decide.
She did not tell Sophie about the offer. She made dinner, checked math homework, and sat through twenty minutes of piano practice in which Sophie played the same measure incorrectly and blamed the bench.
“The bench is too slippery,” Sophie said.
“You said it was too sticky yesterday.”
“It changes.”
“Apparently.”
Sophie tried again, struck a wrong note, and folded her arms.
Clara lowered the music book. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.”
“Do you want help?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to sit here silently?”
“Yes.”
Clara sat silently.
After three minutes, Sophie said, “Nana says you hate her.”
“I don’t like how she treats people.”
“That means yes.”
“It means I have complicated feelings.”
“That’s grown-up for yes.”
Clara looked at the piano keys. “Sometimes I hate what she does. Sometimes I remember that she made soup every day when you had pneumonia. Sometimes I’m angry with her and grateful to her in the same minute.”
Sophie considered that. “I hate mushrooms, but I like mushroom soup.”
“It’s similar, but not enough that you should tell Dr. Rowan.”
Sophie smiled.
Later, while Clara tucked her in, Sophie asked, “Can Nana still come to my school?”
“Not without permission.”
“What if the office lets her?”
“I’ll make sure they know.”
“What if a judge says I have to live there?”
“No judge has said that.”
May you like
“But could one?”
Clara pulled the blanket to Sophie’s shoulder. The easy answer would have been no. The honest answer was unbearable.
