Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN AT DANTE'S TABLE
“Marian Keene.”
Sophie whispered the name so softly that I almost didn't hear her.
Then she pointed toward a silver-haired woman sitting three chairs away from Dante Moretti.
The woman stopped moving.
Her champagne glass remained halfway to her lips.
Dante followed my daughter's finger.
“Marian?”
The woman carefully lowered her glass.
“Dante, I can explain.”
“Then start.”
My husband, Michael, took a step toward her.
“Marian, don't.”
Dante turned his head.
“Michael, you don't get to tell anyone at my table when they can speak.”
The room went silent.
I was still sitting with Sophie pressed against my side. Her pink overnight bag rested beneath her chair.
I hadn't even known this woman's name ten minutes earlier.
Now my daughter was trembling because of her.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Marian looked at me.
“I'm the director of Harbor House.”
I frowned.
“What's Harbor House?”
“A private family housing program. We provide temporary accommodations for families going through difficult situations.”
Dante leaned back.
“Harbor House receives funding from my foundation.”
Marian nodded.
“Yes.”
“That's why you're here tonight.”
“Yes.”
He looked at Sophie.
“Then explain why a nine-year-old knows your name.”
Marian's eyes moved toward Michael.
He was standing beside the blonde woman, his face unnaturally still.
“Michael approached our program several weeks ago,” Marian said. “He was concerned about his daughter's living situation.”
I felt cold.
“Several weeks ago?”
She nodded.
“He said there were problems at home.”
“What problems?”
Marian hesitated.
“Concerns about supervision. Emotional instability. An increasingly difficult separation.”
I stared at my husband.
Eight months.
Eight months of Michael writing down every mistake I made.
Eight months of being told I wasn't good enough.
And now I was hearing the words he'd used to describe me to strangers.
“Did he tell you I was dangerous?” I asked.
Marian looked uncomfortable.
“He said he was worried.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Dante raised his eyes toward her.
“Answer Lauren.”
“Yes,” Marian admitted. “He said Sophie might not be safe staying with her mother.”
I felt Sophie stiffen beside me.
“Mommy's not dangerous.”
I pulled her closer.
“I know, baby.”
Michael stepped forward.
“Lauren, this is exactly why I didn't want you involved tonight.”
I looked at him.
“You didn't want me involved in deciding where our daughter lives?”
“We're trying to make a difficult situation easier.”
“For whom?”
He didn't answer.
The blonde woman touched his arm.
“Michael, maybe we should leave.”
Dante looked at her.
“And you are?”
“Claire Ward.”
Her voice was controlled, but her hands were shaking.
“Michael and I are together.”
I stared at her.
I knew about the separation.
I hadn't known he'd already found someone he wanted Sophie to call Mommy.
Claire avoided my eyes.
“We've been planning to provide Sophie with a stable home.”
I nearly stood.
But Sophie squeezed my hand.
“Mommy, please don't fight.”
I sat back down immediately.
“You're right, sweetheart.”
Dante noticed.
He looked toward Marco.
“Could someone bring Sophie another cookie?”
Marco nodded.
Then Dante turned to Marian.
“What arrangement were you approving tonight?”
Marian opened a leather portfolio.
“A temporary residence in one of our furnished family apartments.”
“For whom?”
“Michael, Claire, and Sophie.”
I stopped breathing.
Dante looked at the papers.
“Does Lauren appear anywhere in this arrangement?”
Marian turned a page.
“She was listed as the nonresident parent.”
I stared at her.
“Nonresident?”
Marian swallowed.
“That's how Michael described the situation.”
I looked toward my husband.
“We still live in the same house.”
Michael's jaw tightened.
“Lauren—”
“Our daughter's bed is still across the hall from mine.”
He looked away.
Dante closed the portfolio.
“Marian, did you ever speak to Lauren?”
“No.”
“Did you ask whether she agreed to this?”
“I understood there was an active custody proceeding.”
“That's not an answer.”
Marian lowered her eyes.
“No. I didn't ask her.”
Sophie suddenly reached toward the portfolio.
“That's my paper.”
Everyone looked at her.
Marian frowned.
“What paper, sweetheart?”
Sophie pointed.
“The one Daddy made me practice.”
My stomach tightened.
Marian slowly lifted a sheet.
Across the top were the words Family Transition Interview.
Underneath were several questions.
Where do you feel safest?
Who takes care of you at night?
Which adult do you want to live with?
My throat closed.
Michael had given my nine-year-old daughter a script for questions about her own life.
Marian looked at him.
“You told me those answers were Sophie's.”
“They are.”
Sophie shook her head.
“No, Daddy.”
His face darkened.
“Sophie.”
She moved closer to me.
“You told me what to say.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Marian, was this interview intended for the court?”
“Not directly. It was our preliminary intake form.”
“Then why was Michael preparing her to repeat it for a judge?”
Marian had no answer.
I looked down at Sophie's purple notebook.
She'd written the same sentences there.
Over and over.
Mommy leaves me alone.
Daddy takes better care of me.
I want to live with Daddy.
Then, beneath those sentences, in smaller handwriting:
I don't want Mommy to be sad.
I covered my mouth.
Dante quietly pushed the portfolio toward me.
“Lauren, look at the last page.”
I turned it over.
There was an apartment number.
A proposed move-in date.
And three names under Approved Residents.
Michael Bennett.
Claire Ward.
And my daughter.
Except someone had crossed out Sophie's last name.
In its place, written carefully in blue ink, were two words.
Sophie Ward.
I stared at them.
Then I looked at Claire.
“Why is my daughter listed under your last name?”
Claire's face went white.
Before she could answer, Sophie reached beneath her dress and removed a small plastic wristband.
“Daddy said I have to wear this tomorrow.”
I took it from her.
Printed across the band were the same words.
SOPHIE WARD.
May you like
And beneath them was a number I didn't recognize.
ROOM 214.
