Tessa was waiting for me when I pulled up to the steps of the Library of Congress.
“How was your day?” I asked as she climbed into the car.
“I didn’t find what I was looking for. You?”
“No. Not yet.”
“How about that? We actually have something in common.”
Changing the subject, she told me she was starved, and since we still had a few minutes before we needed to be at Missy Schuel’s office, I drove toward food.
Up until then I hadn’t told Tessa about the meeting at 3:30, but now I explained that after we grabbed something to eat we were going to meet with the lawyer and then head over to a custody meeting with Paul Lansing’s lawyers.
She listened with uncharacteristic silence. When I was done and she finally spoke, her voice was edged with anger. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
I’d anticipated her question. “I knew that if I told you, you’d worry about it all morning. I couldn’t come up with any good reason to ruin your day, so I waited. Trust me, I wasn’t playing games with you, I was just trying to keep you from being upset.”
She was quiet. “But you actually want me to come along?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You deserve to be present. It’s your future we’re talking about.”
A pause. “It’s yours too.”
I wasn’t sure how to reply to that. “Yes. It is.”
It was a long time before she responded. “Thanks.” After a The Bishop moment she sighed. “This whole thing with Paul, I gotta say, I’m kind of annoyed at you.”
“Because I didn’t tell you?”
“No, because you took me to see him in Wyoming in the first place.”
“Hang on, you’re the one who wanted to meet him. I just agreed that you had a right to know who-”
“I know. I changed my mind. That’s why it’s your fault.”
“You changed your mind and that’s why it’s my fault.”
“Yes. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind and then blame someone else if things don’t work out.” She’d lent a lightness to her tone that told me she wasn’t really angry after all.
“I don’t think that’s exactly how the saying goes.”
“It’s the twenty-first-century version.”
“You just made that up.”
“Maybe.”
A moment passed, and her tone turned serious again. “You’re a good dad, Patrick. Seriously. I mean that.”
“Don’t worry. Things will work out.”
“No, I mean, whatever happens-” she began, but I didn’t want to hear her say anything more.
“Don’t worry,” I repeated.
She didn’t reply.
We grabbed a quick, very late lunch, and headed to Missy Schuel’s office.