“And I said, Like
Something pelted Kowalski’s shoulder. A dark pink cup made of hard plastic, hospital-issue.
When he turned around, he saw it right away.
Jack and the gym bag were gone.
Four people, down to two now.
He looked at Kelly: her eyes open, her mouth agape, her finger pointing to the door, her face with that expression that said, I tried to tell you.
“Let me call you back,” Kowalski said.
THE
APPOINTMENT
7:58 a.m.
It was a short cab ride across town to the hotel. Donovan Piatt had selected a swank place, probably because of the intimidation factor. Doormen with neatly pressed uniforms. A front entrance tucked away from the main bustle of downtown Philadelphia. And know what? It worked. Jack felt cheap walking through the front doors. He’d done some reading about this hotel back at home. A favorite of visiting athletes and musicians. Billy Joel had spent some time here recently, according to one gossip column. Imagine that.
By the time Jack entered the restaurant in the back of the lobby, he even had two minutes to spare.
Piatt was sitting at a table covered with ivory linen.
Along with Jack’s wife, Theresa.
They were holding hands.
Jack felt a cold weight in the middle of his chest, one that slid down his lungs and into his stomach.
His worst fears confirmed.
He’d been faithful after the separation.
She hadn’t.
Jack sat down. Put the Adidas bag next to him so that it touched the side of his foot at all times. Someone tried to move it, he’d feel it.
“Who’s watching Callie?”
“My sister,” Theresa said. She wasn’t looking at him.
“For how long?”
“A few days.”
“We should get down to it,” Piatt said.
“Down to what, Donovan?”
“This is not going to be easy for you to hear, Jack. But I want you to think for a moment about what’s best for your daughter.”
“Fuck you,
Theresa still wouldn’t look at him.
“Jack, just hear us out.”
In that moment—and in the glance they exchanged—it clicked into place. Jack had been too buried in his work, indeed. Too buried to see that Theresa’s weekend trips to her mother in Toledo were actually trips to Philadelphia. Sure, she’d taken Callie along. And left her at her mother’s place. And his mother-in-law had known, condoned it, probably encouraged it.
“How long have you been fucking my wife, Donovan?”
“Jack,” Theresa said.
“You have a choice to make, Jack. You can listen to us and still retain some visiting rights with your daughter, or you can choose
The chill had reached Jack’s stomach and it exploded. This was the moment he’d dreaded, hadn’t dared think about: losing Callie.
He didn’t think he needed to worry, tried to tell himself that Theresa wasn’t that kind of woman, no matter how rotten their relationship had become—she wouldn’t deny her daughter the right to see her father. Theresa’s own parents were divorced. Swore her daughter wouldn’t have to go through the same thing.
“My advice to you,” Donovan was saying, “is that you listen to my proposal. Otherwise, you’re going to find it awfully tough to see your daughter, once she’s out here with us.”
“In Philadelphia,” Jack said.
“That’s right. Bryn Mawr, to be specific. The schools are phenomenal.”
Jack looked at his wife. “Philadelphia.”
She finally locked eyes with him. “Even when you were home, Jack, you were never home. Don’t pretend now.”
“It’s the best thing for Callie,” Donovan said. “Get past your pride, your anger, and you’ll see that. You’ll know it. And I know you’re too good a father to let your own feelings stand in the way of your daughter’s future.”
Philadelphia.
A waiter approached, but Piatt shooed him away with an upraised palm. He reached down and to his left, removed a navy blue folder that was embossed with the name of his firm in gold leaf: PLATT GLACKIN & CLARK. He handed it to Jack, who took it, then placed it on top of his napkin. He opened it. Saw various forms and agreements, with his name and Callie’s name. There were dollar figures, too, and he saw the words
Jack realized that Donovan was right. There was only one thing standing in the way of his daughter’s future.
“It’s a generous deal, Jack. If you look at the first page on the left—”
“First,” Jack said, “I have a request.”
“Shoot, Jack.”
“I want to kiss my wife good-bye.”
“I hardly think that’s—”
“Shut up,
“Don’t do this,” she said, staring forward.
Jack leaned down and pressed her lips against his anyway. She put her cold hands up to Jack’s face to push him away, but he held on, probed his tongue into her mouth. She tasted like bitter coffee. He pushed her back into her chair and held her head in his hands and kissed her more.
“For Christ’s sake …”
Jack broke their embrace.
“Good-bye, Theresa.”
And then he picked up the Adidas bag and started to walk away.
