We wait in uncomfortable silence until Brittany returns. She appears a little pissed for some reason when she looks at Michelle, so we wait in awkward silence until our table is ready.
“This way,” says a young lady wearing a bright smile and a period costume consisting of a full paisley skirt and a frilly white blouse. A sleeveless blue vest tops the ensemble, laced tightly enough to thrust her ample bosom dramatically upward.
We fall in behind her with Michelle in the lead, followed by Brittany, and finally me bringing up the rear. We settle around a table for six beside an impressive fireplace framed to the ceiling in mahogany or some similarly dark and exotic wood carved by a long-forgotten craftsman of surpassing skill. The wooden table and chairs are colonial, of course, and the table is set with period pieces. The walls of the room are sky blue. It’s almost too warm in the heavy air near the fireplace, but that’s okay with me. I’m still trying to thaw out.
Michelle has seated Brittany at her side, directly across the table from me on what I assume is meant to be the Rice side of the table.
“This place is how I expected Europe to look,” Brittany says with a laugh.
A waiter also dressed in period garb appears like magic and slides a breadboard onto our table. A loaf of the Sally Lunn bread I remember fondly from past visits rests atop the wood, as if welcoming me back.
“May I get you folks something to drink?” he asks.
I opt for a mug of Irish coffee that I can warm my hands on. After giving the waiter a thorough grilling about the contents of Gadsby’s wine cellar, Michelle orders a glass of a French white wine and alerts our waiter to the imminent arrival of two more guests. Brittany loyally requests Coca-Cola, earning a smile from her mother. The server leaves behind a trio of menus and three glasses of ice water. I pull the bread platter close, then cut and distribute slices onto our bread plates.
Our daughter’s eyes go wide when a strolling violinist enters the room and merrily bursts into a sprightly rendition of “Greensleeves.” I’ve never heard the piece played quite this up tempo.
Brittany, who has a few years of piano instruction under her belt, laughs after several bars. “‘What Child Is This’ done in four-four time? Cool!”
Michelle is quick to correct her. “Actually, the tune is called ‘Greensleeves,’ honey. It’s one of those things you often see identified in song credits or sheet music as a traditional arrangement. They used to slap lyrics to whatever piece of music they felt fit the words. Someone obviously thought this tune was a good fit for the ‘What Child Is This?’ lyric.”
“No way!” Brittany exclaims.
“Tell me more about school,” Michelle says imperiously as she takes control of our get-together.
I savor my heavily buttered bread and study my daughter and ex-wife while they discuss Hyde Park Prep School. The years have added a studied grace and maturity to the natural blessings bestowed upon Michelle. With the judicious use of makeup, she’s learned to tease her high, finely chiseled cheekbones into even more refined prominence. Her eyes are a pair of blue orbs in a hue just this side of the Hope diamond, framed by gracefully curling ebony lashes. Many a time I’ve looked at her and never seen beyond those eyes. Brittany shares most of Michelle’s facial features but lacks the exotic flourishes that set Michelle off from other women. The more subdued effect is better suited to Brittany’s unadorned character.
Michelle finds my eyes on her and smiles a smile I haven’t seen in a long, long time. Despite myself, I feel the blood coursing through my veins a trifle faster than it was a moment ago. Damn her.
“Tell me about the new job, Tony,” she orders.
“Nothing much to tell,” I reply while setting down my bread. “We’re just a couple of lowly lawyers trying to see that everyday folks get a fair shake.”
“I don’t suppose that pays very well,” she muses with a half smile. It’s always about the money with Michelle.
“After expenses, I probably make about as much as a public defender.”
Her jaw actually drops. The daughter of Prescott Rice locks eyes with me to determine if I’m being serious. After all, we’re talking chump change in the Rice paddy. Then she leans a few inches toward me, the subtle movement just enough to suggest an increasing level of intimacy. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be fair for you to pay child support.”
Spoken as if she’s already won custody. Not surprising, coming from someone who is accustomed to having her way. I bite back the prideful retort that I don’t need or want her charity. The truth is that I do. Rather than say something I’ll regret, I pop another bite of bread into my mouth.
“What are you doing the rest of today?” Michelle asks after the server delivers our drinks. I’ve noticed her consulting her watch and the mental day timer that resides in her head to regulate the minutes and hours of her existence, no doubt wondering where Mommy and Daddy Rice are.
“No plans,” I reply while wrapping my hands around my big blue mug and slurping a little Baileys off the top.
“When do you fly back to Chicago?”
“Nine o’clock,” I reply as circulation finally returns to my fingers. Amputation due to frostbite might yet be avoided.
“Mother and Father were thinking we’d spend the afternoon and evening at the house.”
“The house” is one of the coveted Georgetown brownstones within walking distance of Saint Matthew’s Cathedral,
