OUTSIDE OUR HOME, a blue late-model Cadillac SUV slowed to a crawl on the street and swung into our driveway. I could see two people inside.
Garrett Moreland, son of the judge and supposed birth father of Angelina, got out first and looked at our house with an expression I can only describe as amused disdain.
GARRETT MORELAND WAS DARK, tall, chiseled, with raven-dark hair and striking eyes like brown glass marbles balanced on a whalebone shelf. Seeing Angelina’s eyes mounted in this man-boy’s face made my heart clench, and I could taste a spurt of something rotten in my mouth. Garrett had an abnormally long neck and prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down as his jaw muscles worked like taut cords while he surveyed the front of our home. His skin was pale white, his mouth a thin-lipped red cut that looked like a razor slash a second before it oozed blood. He was dressed like an eighteen-year-old forced to go to church-chinos, loafers, an open-collar button-down shirt and a slightly too-big blazer that was probably his father’s. As he stood there he bent slightly forward, rocking on the balls of his feet, with his hands held at his sides and the crown of his head bent so he was looking at the house from under his eyebrows and I thought, He looks demonic.
John Moreland was tall as well, and movie-star handsome. In his mid-to-late forties, he had a pleasant boyish face and longish brown hair combed in a long comma over his forehead. He looked like a hip Presbyterian minister, a man who was used to being noticed, a man supremely comfortable in his own skin; he was the deacon, the Rotary president, the former Peace Corps volunteer still remembered and worshipped back in the third-world village. His tan suit draped nicely, and he wore a cream-colored dress shirt. He was lightly tanned and had a mole on his cheek where a model would pencil a beauty mark. There was confidence in his attitude and walk, and a significant exchange of… something… as Moreland and Garrett Moreland glanced at each other before knocking on our door.
I heard Melissa come down the stairs.
“It’s them,” she said. “I saw them from upstairs.”
I nodded.
“They’re good-looking men,” she said. “I can see why she went out with Garrett.”
I looked at her, tried to remember the last time she’d made a comment like that.
“My heart sank when I saw them get out,” she muttered under her breath. “I so wanted to hate them on sight.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head quickly while she patted down her clothes and put on her game face. “I hate why they’re here,” she said. She took my face in her hands. “Remember what we talked about. Stay cool-control your temper. The last thing we want to do right now is to anger them-especially Garrett. We need him to sign the papers. Don’t give him a reason to withhold his signature one second longer than necessary.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
John Moreland smiled broadly when we opened the door. He had a disarming, sloppy smile, but he seemed nervous behind it. He carried a bulging white paper sack in one hand that he seemed to have forgotten he had. It hadn’t occurred to me they would be nervous, too. The fact made me feel better.
We stepped aside and asked them to come in. Boy, we were gracious. Melissa asked if they wanted coffee. Moreland said he would like a cup. Garrett shook his head sullenly. I couldn’t read him at first. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, and his movements and attitude seemed designed to put distance between him and everyone else in the room.
“Please sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the couch with the coffee table in front of it. I had moved two of our big chairs to the other side for Melissa and me. The chairs were slightly taller than the couch, and I wanted a scenario where Moreland and Garrett would need to sit closely together and look up at us. I’d learned this from business meetings. It gave us a psychological advantage.
Unfortunately, Moreland didn’t bite on my seating arrangement, and acted as if he hadn’t seen me point to the couch. He sat in one of the chairs. Garrett shambled over to the couch and sat down heavily with undisguised contempt for his father. Or me. Or something.
Melissa saw the situation the minute she came back from the kitchen. She could either sit in the chair in the dominant position or settle in next to Garrett. Her hesitation was obvious, and I filled it by taking the couch. She had cups on a tray I’d never seen before, which slightly annoyed me. Moreland took his coffee.
“I brought this for you, a little gift,” he said, handing the bag to me. I looked inside and saw sticky pastries of some kind. I handed the bag to Melissa, and she looked inside, said “Thank you” to Moreland, and went back into the kitchen to put them on a plate, which she brought back out.
I broke the awkward silence by turning to Garrett, saying, “It’s nice to meet you. You’re a senior this year, right?” Showing I knew a little about him.
Garrett said, “Yeah, a senior,” with a slight curl of his lip.
In social situations, Melissa always led the way. I turned to her and saw that despite the smile, her face had drained of blood. She was terrified to speak, to get to the matter at hand. I did my best to carry on, to maintain the slight edge I thought I’d gained by addressing Garrett.
There was some small talk about the weather (cooling), the traffic on the way to our subdivision (light since it was the weekend). Moreland had a deep sonorous voice with a homey Southern accent. I tried to place it and guessed either Tennessee or North Carolina. He had a way of looking directly at us when he talked that had the effect of putting me at ease. Garrett said nothing. Melissa either.
“The roads should be fine until the game to night,” I said. “Then it’ll be bumper-to-bumper on I-25 for a while.”
Moreland smiled knowingly and nodded. “We’ve got season tickets. I haven’t missed the Broncos playing the Raiders in fifteen years. As far as I’m concerned, the Broncos can’t beat them by enough.” He looked at me empathetically, “Tell me you’re not a Raiders fan and I’ve just insulted you.”
“I’m not a Raiders fan,” I said, wishing for a moment I was.
“Well,” Moreland said, smiling, “we’ve certainly got that in common. I’ve learned since I came out here to go to school at CU in Boulder how special the Broncos are to those of us who live here. The Broncos are our touchstone, our way of establishing a common bond and interest. Even people who don’t like football follow the Broncos, since a win means everyone will be in a fine mood to start the week and a loss means snarling drivers and grumpy ser vice in the stores.”
With that, control of the situation ebbed away from me and flowed to John Moreland.
I tried to take my cues from Melissa, but she wasn’t helping me. Instead, she observed both Moreland and Garrett closely. Mostly Garrett. No doubt she was seeing similarities in his features to Angelina, or perhaps she was trying to imagine him as father material. I noticed Garrett stealing looks at her as well when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. Long, predatory looks that took her in from her feet in sandals, up her bare legs, quickly over her hands in her lap to her breasts under the sleeveless white top and sweater. I tried hard not to let it bother me.
“I think we should get to it,” I said, probably too abruptly. Enough with the small talk. Enough with the staring at my wife.
“Yes,” Moreland said, almost sadly.
Even though no one really moved, it felt as if everyone’s gears shifted, and the room suddenly became sterile. Melissa sat up straighter, as did Moreland. Only Garrett, who continued to lounge on the couch with his arm thrown over the backrest, continued observing something on the ceiling when he wasn’t examining Melissa.