We linger along the final block to kill the last few minutes before the Rices are due to arrive, pausing to gaze in the windows of a glass gallery before meandering back to wait on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Our eyes impatiently roam between the ends of the block and the streets beyond—we’re both anxious to get out of the cold. At least I thought both of us were. Brittany ducks into the shelter of a doorway and unzips her coat. Is she nuts? No, just a teenager, a species seemingly impervious to the cold to judge by their willingness to challenge winter in running shoes and T-shirts. I glance up to see that we’re standing outside a Banana Republic store and smile at the irony of this store taking root directly across the river from Washington, DC, beside the watering hole of the Founding Fathers. Look at what’s become of us, guys!
A block-long Mercedes sedan with Connecticut plates finally eases to a stop in front of Gadsby’s. The rear door swings open and a perfectly turned ankle appears, cradled within a burgundy leather shoe. A full head of immaculately coifed raven hair rising above the door announces that Michelle has arrived, doing so in all her impeccably arranged splendor. She glances up, spots me, and tosses a quick smile my way before ducking her head back into the car, presumably to speak with her father, Prescott M.F. Rice III. She re-emerges onto the sidewalk a second later, this time with a chic tan coat draped over the sleeve of a form-fitting, cream knee-length dress. Michelle possesses what I’ve always considered a uniquely extraordinary beauty. To this day, I don’t quite know how to describe it—it’s some ineffable combination of sultry sexiness overlaid with sophistication and elegance.
It won’t do to fall under Michelle’s sway, so I force my thoughts back to the matter at hand. We’re here for one of two reasons. The Rices are convinced that their legal position with regard to custody is unassailable, in which case they plan to impress the hopelessness of my position upon me to prompt a bloodless surrender (thereby avoiding any public unpleasantness). The alternative is that they’re not at all confident of prevailing over me in court, in which case they’ll go on the offensive, blustering and threatening in an effort to intimidate me into a premature surrender (thereby also avoiding any public unpleasantness). In short, lunch today is a Rice power play. The story that we’re all here to facilitate an equitable resolution between friends is a smoke screen that doesn’t fool me for a second. Prescott Rice and his daughter play to win and won’t quit until they do. I have no intention of yielding.
Brittany emerges from the recessed doorway and hurries toward her mother. Michelle’s ironclad control falters for a microsecond when she sees her, but the moment passes quickly, probably without Brittany noticing a thing. They share a chaste embrace. Brittany has combed the spikes out of her hair, so the new color and short cut attract no more than a raised brow when her mother eyes the new hairdo. Then Michelle holds Brittany out at arm’s length to conduct a fashion inspection. Our daughter is dressed for the occasion of a Rice family gathering, looking positively cultured this morning in a pair of platinum slacks and a pumpkin cardigan over a pale-tangerine silk blouse. She even sports a pair of burnished gold hoop earrings. A faint sheen of coral adds a touch of color to her lips. She’s very much her mother’s daughter today, not an encouraging omen given the reason we’re gathering here—especially not on Friday the thirteenth.
Michelle meets my eyes after the inspection and smiles. Her shoulders rise in the vaguest suggestion of approval, the gesture performed with exquisite grace. “Mother and Father will be joining us after they park the car. They thought we might wish to have a few minutes together.”
So you can use your charms to soften me up? I shrug.
Michelle pastes a distant smile on her face and glides toward Gadsby’s door, leaving us to follow in her wake.
I vigorously rub my hands together to restore circulation while we wait to be seated. “How are your parents?” I ask Michelle.
She accepts the peace offering with equanimity. “You know Mother and Father, always complaining about being harried, but otherwise they’re well, thank you.”
The tension between us is palpable, at least to me. Brittany seems oblivious to it as she tells her mother the latest school and Bobby Harland news. Our daughter looks embarrassed when she says, “Too much coffee this morning. Where’s the bathroom?”
I direct her to the hostess for directions.
“What is she doing here?” Michelle hisses as soon as Brittany leaves.
“This is her life that you’re fucking with, Michelle. She should have a say in her future. Given all the bullshit you’ve been filling her head with, I thought it might be instructive for her to be a party to what you and your father are up to.”
“You better not have told her about the custody lawsuit.”
Brittany knows the current terms of custody, which were set by family court in Chicago. I have temporary custody while Michelle lives overseas. Michelle pays $2,500 in monthly child support. She’s also on the hook for tuition and school-related expenses for as long as Brittany is in school, including four years of undergrad and three years of postgraduate studies if she goes to university. Michelle is contesting the private high school tuition from the settlement, arguing that the provisions of the original ruling only apply to postsecondary education. She makes it sound as if she can’t afford to help on her Coca-Cola executive vice-president salary, prodigious bonuses, or her multimillion-dollar Rice family trust fund.
