Free Custody by Nancy Thayer Page B

thoughts of the week ahead. There was so much good needing done in the world, and right when she should be focusing on that, she had the meeting with the psychiatrist to consider. All because of Randall, damn him, and his stupid, selfish insistence on ruining Anne’s life.
    By the time she brought her BMW to a stop in the circle drive of her house she was shaking. Thank God, she thought as she stepped from the heat into the cool front hall, for this pale palace that rose around her like a medieval cloister. Shutting the front door firmly behind her, taking solace in the determined click of the lock, she leaned against it, taking deep breaths.
    The entrance hall always calmed her, its floor a cool streaked rose-and-green Italian marble, the newel post of the winding staircase a marble basket of flowers, perfect immutable flowers greeting her every time. Her grandparents looked down on her imperiously from the heavily framed age-darkened oil portraits hanging above the refectory table. She liked having these portraits here, where anyone entering the house knew at once from what kind of stock she descended.
    Thank you, Grandmother , she prayed. Thank you, Grandfather . They had had the foresight to leave her a trust her own parents could not break to squander on their beloved immigrants. True, Randall had paid for half the house, as well he should have, but quite probably he wouldn’t have agreed to buy such a place—he found it ostentatious, undoubtedly because it wasn’t shabby and smelling like wet dog like his parents’ home—if he hadn’t known that Anne could pay cash for the property herself, and would have done so, if necessary. Now Randall was gone, and she was even more glad to have a beautiful, serene , home for a haven. It made such a difference in her life.
    On the long refectory table against the wall rested two antique silver and marble epergnes, and between them a chased silver bowl. Over the years the family had gotten into the habit of dropping the mail here, and all messages. There was a note torn from his prescription pad, written in Randall’s distinct, direct, block writing—unusual for a doctor, but Randall was anunusual man—for Anne.
    Randall had taken Tessa off with him for the afternoon.
    Legally, it was within his rights to do so. It was understood when Randall left that Tessa would remain in this, Anne’s, house. She and Randall would discuss, day by day, in a cooperative manner, Tessa’s care, even though they were battling fiercely, each one of them, for sole legal custody.
    Anne had been so sure Randall’s departure was temporary. But the divorce, like an inexorable shredding machine, was grinding on, and Randall was driving it. She could not believe he was fighting her for custody of Tessa.
    A kind of trembling moved over her. This day was too much. First Rebecca making that stupid scheduling conflict so that she had to miss her own fund-raiser. Then Tessa making such a violent scene about having to wear a truly beautiful dress! Now Randall taking Tessa off to his filthy farm without her consent.
    Anne hurried up the stairs and into the safety of her own bedroom. Tearing off her clothes, she dropped them in the hamper in her pristine white bathroom and stepped into the shower. Using pHisoHex, the soap they used in hospitals, she scrubbed her limbs and torso, ten times, and shampooed her hair. Afterward, her skin was bright red, nearly raw.
    And still she did not feel clean enough. She did not feel purged.
    Randall had taken Tessa to visit her grandfather. On the farm. That filthy farm. Horseshit lay everywhere, and the cat was allowed to wander in and out of the house, catching rats, then with the same mouth and paws padding through the kitchen, licking Tessa’s hands. Anne hated the farm, hated it when Tessa went there. Hated it when Tessa came home, carrying into the house God only knew what sorts of germs and foul matter. When Tessa returned home, Anne would personally bathe Tessa