Center of Gravity (11 page)

“Good morning. Thank you all for coming. First, kudos on the website upgrades.” I nod in the direction of the marketing folks. “Nice job. The parent and family weekend—”

My cell phone, deliberately set to ring at 8:45 am, starts blaring. A few department heads stand up, move away from their chairs. It's protocol to leave the room. Today I hold up a finger for them to wait. I create a concerned look, then agree with the nonexistent person I pretend is on the line. For effect, I rub my forehead and heave a deep sigh. I make certain to almost whisper my wife's name.

“Ava. Of course. Certainly. Thank you.”

My phone snaps shut with the flick of my wrist. I set it on the table as if it weighs three hundred pounds.

“Everything all right, Dr. Carson?”

Evidently my acting isn't too shabby. I hesitate and force the corners of my lips up just an iota. “Oh, thank you.” I press my fingers together. “Could we adjourn until next week? I have some personal matters to take care of.”

A swarm of bodies rushes for the door. My core team hangs back.
Blake Michaels, head of the business school, speaks up. “What can I do?” Michaels is, by far, the least able to keep a secret on my entire staff, thus making him the perfect person to disseminate my story. I estimate warp-speed delivery.

“That's very kind.” I pat his shoulder, lower my voice. “It's my wife . . . she's a bit unstable these days. Ava's been stopped a few times by the police. Drinking and driving with the children.”

Horrified looks all around.

“I've all but confirmed that she's having a liaison—” I let my voice trail off and project a look of anguish.

No one moves.

I swallow. “Worst of all, she's completely unstable. Her moods are up and down. One minute crying, the next laughing. I don't even know her anymore.” I drop my head into my hands, let my shoulders droop.

Genuine pity surrounds me like thick fog on an English countryside.

“I've said too much. You're all too kind.” More sympathetic noises and shoulder patting. “We'll be fine. I'll get Ava some help. The children are my number one priority.”

Vigorous head nodding.

“Thank you again.” A sober group shuffles out of the room at the very moment Ava appears at the end of the hallway.

Despite my surprise, I arrange my face into a concerned expression. “Ava,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Mitchell,” she calls out, raising a hand in the air in greeting.

My wife walks up, shoulders straight, hair tied back at the nape of her neck. She looks elegant and lovely, makeup attempting to mask the dark circles under her eyes.

I reach for her elbow, drawing her close to me. The scent of her skin wafts around me, hints of cinnamon and vanilla. Any other day it would intoxicate me, draw me in. Today it is repugnant.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss into her ear, tightening my grip.

She ignores me, which only serves to fan my growing annoyance. “Hello, everyone. Hi, Blake.” She smiles brightly and offers a hand to Michaels, who shoots her a menacing glare and stalks off. The other staff members murmur hellos, then turn and walk away.

Ava blinks, incredulous, then gives me a sidelong glance. “Did you deliver some bad news to your staff?”

“You could say that,” I reply.

She stares after them, brow furrowed. “Can we talk? In private?”

My hand finds the small of her back, and I guide her into my office. “Certainly.”

Door closed, Ava glances around the room, taking in my neatly arranged bookshelves, the rich, dark carpeting, the elegantly framed photographs of Springport College buildings on the wall. The room, just cleaned, smells of freshly-squeezed lemon and citrus.

“It's lovely, Mitchell.” Her eyes meet mine. “Your office looks wonderful.” She gazes out onto the campus, taking in my view of the lush, manicured lawns, wrought iron benches, and tree-lined paths filled with students on their way to class.

I nod, forgetting she hasn't seen it since the complete renovation a few months back. “Thank you.”

Ava slides into the chair across from my desk, leaning forward to make sure she has my attention. When I don't say anything further, she draws a breath and begins speaking.

“Mitchell, I'm confused.” She tilts her chin. “I love you. I love our boys. This . . . misunderstanding . . . what I said. It doesn't have to go this far.”

The words hang in the air between us, stilted and awkward. I won't allow myself to digest them or be softened by pretty phrases. For just a moment, I consider whether she practiced her little speech.

It doesn't matter. I stare back and drop all polite pretense. “My dear, it's what you wanted.”

Ava bites her lip and drops her eyes. Her voice lowers and slows. She's choosing her words carefully, as if picking her way around landmines. “I know what I said. I know how it sounded. I'm sorry.”

“Really?” I tighten my jaw.

She nods, eyes widening. Ava presses her fingertips together into a prayer, touching them to her lips. “I am. You didn't have to move out or take the children to make your point. We all need to be together. I miss the boys horribly.”

Her stab at raw sincerity almost fools me. I lean back in my chair, clasp my hands behind my head. “They're fine.”

She hesitates, and I can see the pain and confusion on her face. “They haven't asked for me?” She begins to choke up.

“Not at all. Not a word.” I shrug and flick a speck of dust from the polished surface of my massive desk.

“Who is taking care of them?” Ava blinks back tears.

I rock in my chair and glance away. “You don't have to worry about that.”

“Mitchell—”

From the corner of my eye, I see her wrestle to stay in control. It's admirable. I stand up and put my fists on the desk.

“Raise your voice to me again and I'll call security.” I reach for the phone.

Ava's eyes dart from me to my hand and back again. She swallows and presses both hands into her skirt. “Mitchell, be reasonable. Let's go to counseling. Come home. Let's talk about this. Figure it out.”

I chuckle. “Right. Are you figuring it out with Mike Kennedy?”

Ava jumps out of the chair, her green eyes pinned to my face. She begins to pace in front of the window, then stops, centering the brilliant blue sky behind her. “Mitchell. Please. Listen to me. You know full well Mike's just a childhood friend. That's all he'll ever be.”

“I've already had one wife betray me, Ava.” I point a finger across
my desk. “Karen told me the exact same thing about her agent. Just a friend. Don't you think I know the signs?”

I pick up the phone, watching her as I grab the receiver. Ava presses her lips together and tightens her fists. Her chest flushes pink as a sunset.

“Get me security,” I bark.

“Don't bother,” Ava says, eyes flashing. My wife lifts her chin, determined. She stands up and turns on her heel. “I know my way out.”

CHAPTER 19

GRAHAM

FRIDAY, APRIL 2

“I take it this wasn't something you expected?” I lean forward and grab a notepad and pen.

In my past life, secretary summoned, I'd have gazed out of my corner office, overlooking a killer view of Birmingham, sipping a latte. But Ava has barely noticed the stacks of dusty books in the corner, the fake paneled walls, the less-than-ideal office with more than a few stains on the ceiling tiles. The rent's cheap, the office sits in front of my tiny rental house, and for now, it's enough for someone starting over.

She shifts her weight, and the wide planks of the wooden floor creak beneath her chair.

“No. Never. He moved out a few days ago. I thought we'd work something out. But then he drops this bomb. He's taken the kids and won't bring them back. He's filed for divorce.” Her voice breaks. “And I found out this morning, he's called everyone. Every single attorney in a fifty-mile radius.”

“Everyone?”

Ava offers a rueful smile. “Except you.”

If he's gone to those efforts, that trouble, the husband is resourceful. Calculating. Definitely revengeful. But I don't say the words out loud. Not yet.

She stares at the wall. At nothing.

I tap my fingers on the top of my worn oak desk. “Listen, it's an old trick. Leave you no options. He's trying to scare you.”

Ava attempts a smile, but her face fights any sign of mirth. “It's working.”

I don't need her fearful. I need her focused. I train my eyes on her face. “Tell me about your husband.”

Ava draws a breath. “He's smart, well-educated. A widower. His wife died in a car accident, so he's especially dedicated to his son, Jack, who's eight.” She hesitates. “Mitchell talks about the times they used to go camping. They were involved in scouting, sports.” She pauses. “He doesn't have a lot of time for that now. He's the new vice president of advancement at Springport. Lots of responsibility and pressure.” She ticks off with her fingers. “Fund-raising campaigns, donor meetings, events . . .”

“Sounds busy.” I take a sip of cold coffee and refrain from rolling my eyes. “Tell me more about the pressure from his job.”

Ava grimaces. “Well, it puts him on edge, partly because he wants everything to be perfect. He's always been a high achiever. Heading up fund-raising and marketing for a college like Springport is what he's been working toward since he got his PhD.”

I nod. “And how does everyone, including you, handle that?”

She tears up and can't speak. Not so well, I suspect.

“Take your time.” I give her a moment.

Ava swallows. “Everything seemed great. We had a wonderful honeymoon. Been married a year and a half. We have a lovely home. We-we're even having a brand-new staircase built.” She stops and clasps her hands, shaking her head. “We have Sam, who's one. And I just adopted Jack as my own.”

“I see.” I make a few notes, and Ava watches me. “Go on.”

“Shortly after Sam was born, things changed. Mitchell became a bit distant. Right around that time, his position got a lot more
intense.” Ava presses her fingertips to her bottom lip. “The board decided the college needed a state-of-the-art sports complex, which would cost upwards of one hundred million dollars. Mitchell thought he had all of the donors lined up. However, someone just backed out.”

She frowns.

“What else?” I say.

“He's jealous. Of a childhood friend.”

“Any truth to it?” I ask. “It's important.”

She shakes her head and her green eyes fill with tears. “I've always been faithful. Always.”

“Good. Any weapons in the home?”

Ava shudders. “He has a .45. He took it to work. There's nothing else.”

“Okay.” I jot down some notes. “Let's talk options. Get a plan together.” I rattle off ideas. “First of all, he filed first, so he has the upper hand. Right or wrong, judges here tend to favor this.”

Ava frowns, her face pained. “You'd mentioned that on the phone.”

“So, as unpalatable as it might sound, and you may want to slug me, have you thought about trying to get him to come home and make the marriage work? Go to marital counseling?” I let this sink in. “If everything goes back to life as normal, he'll have to withdraw the divorce petition and the temporary custody order.”

She raises an eyebrow, looking hopeful.

“It's a signal to the court that he forgives you. Then, later, if you want, or need to, you can always go back and file first.”

She pauses and interlaces her fingers on her lap. “He won't. I tried.”

“Then we're back to fighting for everything.”

Ava blinks furiously, white-faced. “And Mitchell's got temporary custody.” She struggles to breathe, inhaling the news like cyanide gas. “I don't understand. Why does it matter who's first?”

I pause, gather my thoughts. “From what I hear at the courthouse,
Judge Crane signs off on anything they put in front of him. It's
all
about who gets to him first.”

“That's completely ridiculous.” Ava's knuckles turn white. “Judge Crane doesn't know me. I wasn't even born when he graduated from law school.”

“That's why they have a pendente lite hearing. The judge hears from both sides and makes a decision on custody, which will likely hold until you have your trial.”

“And that's tomorrow?”

I nod. “Tomorrow.”

She blinks, fiercely gazing out the window, her fury tempered with bewilderment. “Why is it so complicated? How could something like this happen? A baby needs to be with his
mother
.” Jaw set, she turns and glares at the diplomas hanging in cheap black frames behind my head, the massive law books haphazardly shelved, and then her reddened eyes find my face. “Isn't there a law? Protecting women—mothers?”

I wince and deliver another blow. “There was, but they've changed it, Ava. The tender years doctrine, the one that said babies needed to be with their mothers, well, it's no more. Unfair to the fathers, lots of people said. It was taken off the books in 1997.”

“Off the books?” she repeats.

“I'm sorry.” The words offered up mean nothing. They don't even make me feel better.

Ava's cheeks glisten with tears. “I'm not a bad mother. I don't do drugs, never been arrested. I've never even gotten a speeding ticket. None of that matters, I guess.”

“Some of it will.”

Her face crumples, and I force myself to finish explaining. “Best case, if you both agree and work out a parenting plan, you'll get half the time with the boys. If things get contentious, then it gets tricky. The judge will order mediation and an investigation by a social
worker or psychologist. Someone here in town. Plus, you'll have to go to a parenting class.”