Randall smiled gently. “It’s a camp, Anne. They’re supposed to get grubby. That’s the point of camp—tennis, swimming, baseball, hiking. Seeing the great outdoors.”

  “I’ve always considered camp more of a boys’ thing.”

  “Yes, I know you have. And I’m grateful that you allowed Tessa to go to camp this summer.”

  “I thought our agreement was that I would allow Tessa to attend camp if you kept her off your father’s horses.”

  “That’s what you said, Anne. I never promised that.”

  She went silent, turning her head away, as the waiter brought their drinks, a Scotch for him, a martini for her.

  As Anne took a delicate sip, she saw a spot on her skirt and rubbed at it with her thumb. “We need to talk about Tessa.”

  “All right.”

  She took another sip of the icy liquor and aimed a level gaze at Randall. “I don’t want you to fight me for custody.”

  “Of course you don’t, Anne. I know that.”

  She leaned forward. “You don’t understand. I’m serious.”

  “And so am I. I believe Tessa would be better off living with me, and I’m going to fight for that.”

  “You’re trying to destroy my political career.”

  “This has nothing to do with your political career, except that I believe it will take up more of your time, as it should, and that will affect Tessa.”

  “Think, Randall. Just think, will you? How will people regard me when they find out I’m divorced and don’t even have custody of my daughter? You know what will happen.” Angry tears glittered in her eyes. “I can’t believe you would be so vindictive.”

  Randall waited while Anne finished her martini. He ordered another for her and sat in silence while she composed herself. She looked down, away from him, at her skirt, where the spot still tugged at her thumb.

  “I’m not sure we should get into all this here,” he said at last.

  She glared at him. “Are you suggesting I have something to hide?”

  “No, Anne. No, I’m not.” He tried to keep his voice civil. “Anne, please understand. I want you to win this election. I think you would be an excellent representative, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you spent the rest of your life in public government. You’re good at it. You’re genuinely concerned, hardworking, judicious—I only wish there were more people like you.”

  “Thank you.” Her hand trembled as she lifted her martini to her mouth.

  “But the personal qualities that make for a fine government official aren’t necessarily the same qualities that make for a good mother.”

  “How dare you imply—!”

  “Stop it, Anne.” He kept his voice low but firm. “I’m not implying anything. I have no wish to insult you in any way, but I’m worried about Tessa. Very worried, if you want to know.”

  “Tessa is just fine.”

  “No, she is not. She’s terribly thin, and she’s becoming more and more withdrawn and secretive.”

  Anne snorted. “She’s a teenager.”

  “She’s twelve years old—”

  Anne leaned forward, indignant. “How dare you correct me! Don’t you think I know to the minute the child’s age?”

  “Anne—”

  “The point is that she’s emotionally a teenager. Of course she’s going to withdraw and be secretive. It would be odd if she didn’t.”

  “Very well, then. With whom is she not withdrawn? In whom is she confiding? Not you, not me. Certainly not Carmen, who is your confidante. Does she talk with other kids on the phone? Go to other kids’ houses? To movies with them? Shopping at malls?”

  “Yes, of course she does.”

  “Really? How often? Once a week? Twice?”

  “She sees plenty of peers at camp.”

  “What about her friends from school?”

  “She knows she can invite them to our house.”

  “Does she go to their houses?”

  Anne shrugged and finished her drink. The spot on her skirt was making her wild; she rubbed and rubbed at it.

  “When was the last time Tessa went to a friend’s house?”

  Anne straightened. Leveling a vexed gaze at Randall, she said, “I refuse to be interrogated like this.”

  “I’m asking you a simple question about our daughter.”

  Anne looked at her glass. It was empty. She rubbed the spot on her dress. “You know how I feel about Tessa going to other people’s houses. They let her eat rubbish there, all kinds of disgusting junk food, and they watch the very worst television shows. Have you ever seen The Simpsons? Or some of the videos on MTV?” Her voice took on the quality of righteousness that served her well as a politician. “That’s not even taking into account the kinds of movies her friends are allowed to watch, or the magazines they’re allowed to bring into their homes. Some of them have older brothers, so older boys hang around, with God only knows what in mind for innocent girls like Tessa. Saying who knows what to her. Touching her. There’s so much filth in homes these days, Randall, you know that. When I think of Tessa having to use the toilet in a home where teenage boys are allowed—” With enormous self-control, she brought herself to a halt.

  “My dear Anne,” Randall said sadly. “You promised me you would see someone.”

  Coldly, she retorted: “I changed my mind. I don’t need a therapist, and it would be the kiss of death if my constituents knew I was seeing one. Besides, I don’t agree with you. I don’t need any kind of psychological help. Perhaps I’m more strict a mother than others, but that’s hardly a sign of mental instability.”

  “Anne,” Randall said very quietly. “Look at your hand.”

  Her eyes flashed to her lap where she was rubbing, rubbing at the invisible spot. She clutched her right hand with her left, halting its frenetic action.

  “If I am exhibiting symptoms of anxiety, Randall,” Anne stated very decisively, “it is completely understandable. You are leaving me, divorcing me, and now you want to take my child away as well. Of course I’m anxious.”

  “Anne—”

  “And you know how to help me. You can stop telling me how to mother Tessa. And you could come home. I’ve told you I’m willing to try to work things out.”

  Randall studied the beautiful woman sitting across from him. “Are you willing to try making love?”

  She shuddered. She could not help it or hide it, she shuddered with revulsion. “All this isn’t about Tessa. It’s just about sex. About you and your sexual needs.”

  Randall leaned forward. “Anne. Please, for God’s sake, see a psychiatrist.”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Anne announced. She rose.

  “Anne, please don’t walk out.”

  “I have nothing more to say to you.”

  Randall rose as well. “Then we’ll have to leave it all to our lawyers.”

  Her gaze whipped his face. “Don’t threaten me.”

  “I’m not threatening. I’m merely stating a fact. If we can’t come to some kind of—”

  “Anne, darling! And Randall!”

  A grand dame dripping with pearls swayed across the room, her portly husband in her wake. She embraced both the Madisons, who put appropriate social expressions on their faces and made the necessary small talk until the couple sailed away toward the dining room.

  “Stay for dinner,” Randall urged Anne as the couple walked away. “We have a reservation.”

  “I have nothing more to say to you, Randall,” Anne said, and walked away, back straight, head high.

  Kelly’s second week of training took place in Berkshire County, in the western Massachusetts town of Pittsfield. Sunday night she made the three-hour drive across the state to set up quarters for the week in a Holiday Inn. Monday morning she arrived early at the courthouse in the middle of the town’s business district.

  The probate judge here was a man, as different from Judge Spriggs as night from day: Judge Samuel Flynn, a colorful American flag of a character with blue eyes, a red nose, and a white beard.

  “Good morning, Judge MacLeod!” he boomed when she entered his chambers.

  “Good morning, Judge.”

  Jovial and energetic, Judge Flynn introduced her to the clerks, the secretaries, and as he held her robe for her to slip her arms into, told her, “Don’t worry yourself about what you’re going to have to do today. You’ll be a bit like a body at an Irish wake. We need you to have the party, but we don’t expect you to say much.”

  Laughing himself into a coughing fit, he wiped his whiskers with a starched handkerchief and, without further ado, clapped his hands together loudly.

  “All right! Let’s go, darlin’. Out to the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”

  Opening the door, he led her into his courtroom. They settled in their chairs. His clerk handed him some papers. Like many judges with a backlog, he managed to sign the papers his clerk put in front of him and at the same time converse about something completely different.

  Finally he put down his pen, blew into his whiskers, and looked out at the courtroom. “Okay, counselors. I see we’ve got a complaint for contempt. Mary Berrie and Douglas Berrie. Come on up.”

  The Berries approached, each with a lawyer, the lawyers standing in the middle forming a barricade between the two people. All four gathered up near the witness stand.

  “What’s going on?” Flynn asked.

  “Good morning, Judge. I’m Marshall Merrill, representing Mrs. Berrie. She and Mr. Berrie were granted a divorce six months ago. Since then we’ve had to come back to court twice, first to have the court issue a restraining order, and next to ask the court to remind Mr. Berrie that he must obey this order.”

  The judge glared at the ex-husband, a mild little man with illusions of a mustache. “Okay, Mr. Berrie, tell me about it.”

  “It was a birthday card, Your Honor! That’s all! I only sent her a birthday card!”

  “Yeah, well, look at it, Judge!” Mrs. Berrie, short, fat, pale, and not particularly clean, trembled with indignation. She thrust something toward the judge. The clerk took it from her, looked at it, and handed it to Flynn. Flynn looked at it and passed it to Kelly.

  “She got no sense of humor,” Mr. Berrie said.

  On the front of the card was the grim reaper, wringing his hands in anticipation. Inside, the greeting read, “Another year closer. Happy Birthday.” It was signed, “With my enduring thoughts, Dougie.” Kelly shivered. The subtext was definitely threatening.

  Judge Flynn blew through his snowy white whiskers. “Mrs. Berrie, if you get any more mail from your ex-husband, don’t read it, just tear up it and toss it in the trash, okay? And Mr. Berrie, don’t send any more mail to your ex-wife. No birthday cards, no Christmas cards, no get-well wishes, nothing—do I make myself clear?”

  Mrs. Berrie’s lawyer spoke up. “Judge, this is the second time Mr. Berrie has violated the restraining order. We were hoping for a more forceful action, perhaps some jail time or a fine—”

  “Forget it. You’re not going to get it. Okay, what’s next?”

  The couple walked off. Judge Flynn devoted his attention to another stack of papers. Kelly had no idea how he did it, but while his eyes were on a file, he saw, at the back of the courtroom, Mr. Berrie approach Mrs. Berrie with an object in his hand.

  “Hey!” Judge Flynn yelled. “Mr. Berrie! What are you doing?”

  The little man jumped a foot. “I, uh, I’m just giving her a present.”

  “Get back up here,” Judge Flynn ordered.

  The two Berries and their lawyers once more approached the bench.

  “Do you want to go to jail?” Judge Flynn asked Mr. Berrie.

  “Your Honor, it’s a piece of jewelry. It’s a charm. You see, every time we come to court, I give her a charm for her bracelet.”

  “I don’t want his charms!” Mrs. Berrie said. “I want to start my life over without him!”

  Judge Flynn blew through his whiskers. “Mr. Berrie. I don’t want to put you in jail. So would you please listen to me? I want you to keep away from Mrs. Berrie. I don’t want you to send her something, or give her anything, or phone her or mail anything to her. I want you to wait in the courtroom today until Mrs. Berrie leaves. If you’re shopping in the grocery store and you see her coming down the aisle, I want you to go in the other direction. Are you getting the picture?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Berrie said eagerly, like a good schoolboy.

  “Counselor,” Judge Flynn said to Mr. Berrie’s lawyer. “Will you please spend some time explaining all the ramifications of a restraining order?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, for God’s sake.” Judge Flynn waved them away.

  “Can I give her the charm now?” the little man asked.

  Camp Moxie, where Tessa spent five days a week, took place on the grounds and outbuildings of the Hawthorne School, a small nine-month private school for the select few gifted young adolescents whose parents could afford the tuition. During the summer months, the main buildings were closed, except for the administration building, where the Hawthorne secretaries and headmaster worked; the cafeteria, where the camp participants had lunch; and the gymnasium, where indoor activities were held if the weather made it impossible for them to swim, play tennis, or hike through the two hundred wooded acres of Hawthorne property.

  Wednesday it rained all day, forcing the entire camp to stay in the barn where the counselors broke them up into groups of six or eight, working on various crafts. Tessa wanted to join the beadwork table—she’d promised her father she’d make him a bracelet. She’d begun it, choosing beads in earth colors so it would be masculine, and she enjoyed doing it so much—it was a private, soothing sort of job—that she thought she’d make her mother a bracelet, too. That would be a good idea anyway, so her mother wouldn’t be jealous.

  Beryl and Cynthia had chosen needlepoint, Shiobian was with the group learning to sketch and paint, and in the far corner of the barn, some of the guys, on mats, were working on elementary martial arts while others engaged in frenzied Ping-Pong games.

  Tracy, clad in a batik blouse that came only to her midriff and tight bell-bottom jeans that hung from her hip bones, sauntered over to Tessa and, looping her arm through Tessa’s, whispered, “Come join the photography group.”

  Tessa shook her head. “Photography bores me.”

  “Chad’s in the group,” Tracy teased in a singsong voice.

  A good reason, Tessa thought, to stay away from photography. If she were around Chad, she’d become a nervous geeky wreck, she’d drop the cameras, ruin the film, and make a general fool of herself. “I don’t like photography.”

  “You are so retarded,” Tracy sighed. “Who cares if you like it or not? We’re the only group that gets to leave the barn.”

  “Why would we want to leave the barn! It’s pouring out.”

  “We’ll be taking nature shots. Raindrops on leaves, that sort of thing. It’ll be fun.” She yanked Tessa’s arm. “Besides, Youssif’s cute.”

  “Youssif’s old,” Tessa said, but she allowed Tracy to pull her over to the photography group.

  Four kids stood around a table, a girl named Ellen and three guys. One of the guys was Chad.

  “Hey,” he said to Tessa. He smiled at her with a glittering mouth.

  Since the last camp session he’d gotten braces. He looked really goofy now, and way younger than he was—vulnerable—and all at once Tessa’s heart expanded, as if a fresh new chamber had just opened up.

  “Hey,” she replied.

  Their counselor was a terrifyingly handsome eighteen-year-old named Youssif. His mother was Egyptian; his father, the CEO of some major corporation. Tracy had a major crush on him, as if she had a chance with someone in college.

  “Okay, group, grab a camera,” Youssif said. “And a roll of film.”

  “I’ve got a better camera than this,” Benjamin, a fourteen-year-old with a bad case of acne, sneered.

  “The technology doesn’t matter if you don’t have a good eye,” Youssif told him. “This summer we’re going to work on your eye. What do you see that others don’t? Can you make us look at something ordinary and see something mysterious? Play with your camera. Play with your mind. At the end of each week you’ll have photos to take home, and at the end of the summer we’ll have an exhibition your parents can attend. We’ll give out some awards.”

  The campers crowded around the table where ten sleek black Nikons waited next to a pile of film. Youssif led them through the process of loading the film into the cameras and locating the zoom button, the lens cap, and the light meter.

  “We know this already,” Ellen protested, but Youssif said, “Have a little patience, my friend. You need patience if you’re going to be a photographer. Patience for details.”

  Mrs. Allison, the co-director of the camp, rushed over with a list. One of the counselors had left early with a stomach flu she prayed was not contagious. Another counselor had simply not shown up. Much of her gray hair had escaped from its bun and frizzled humidly around her anxious face.

  “I just need to check off your names,” she told them breathlessly. “Must be sure everyone’s somewhere.”

  “We’re going out for a nature walk,” Youssif told her.

  “In the rain?” Behind her glasses, her eyes bugged out of her head.

  “The light’s too monotonous inside,” Youssif told her. “The conditions will provide the students a chance to experiment with a variety of light and shadow.”

  “Well, then, how nice.” Mrs. Allison pottered off, clearly overwhelmed.

  Outside the rain drummed down steadily, monotonously, like static on a TV set, but the air smelled sweet. At first Tessa shivered, ducking her head, but Tracy held her arms up and twirled, catching the rain with her tongue. The rain was warm against her skin. Her heart opened in the expanse of fresh air.

  Youssif led them past the tennis courts, past the storage sheds and the woods where the canopy of leaves provided cover. Near a small shallow stream a clearing opened like a bright private room. Youssif climbed up on a boulder and looked around.

  “Okay,” he said. “You’ve each got twenty-four shots. You’ve got light, shadow, movement”—he nodded toward the flowing water—“stillness, and all kinds of texture. I want you to choose an area, do a study. Close-ups. Unusual angles. Play with the light. Get some shots that will confuse us. Surprise us. See things in a new way.”