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Show Motherlunge a novel 53 unwrapped gifts for his clients-flashlight pens or lentil-filled neck pillows-tags still attached. Adeste fidelis Laeti triumphantes Pavia stood up and worked her arms into her long coat. "Well, by law Jack has to pay child support. But I don't know." "Don't know what?" "Jack does all right," she said, pushing open the glass door and heading into the crowded sidewalk. "But he's not rich." "Neither are you." "I know," Pavia conceded. "Anyway, his parents are rich. Maybe they should pay it." I had met Jack's parents, Ed and Nanette Reed, only once, at Pavia's wedding. They had white hair that evoked nature-snow, wind, clouds, granite-and they were active types, people who likely took multivitamins and enjoyed long walks they called hikes. They probably counted their financial advisor as a family friend. Of course, I had never had a real conversation with them. Pavia, I thought, loved them. "If they hadn't read A River Runs Through It," Pavia was saying now, "They never would have sent Jack to college in Montana in the first place. We never would have met." "So it's their fault?" Once again I found I was twisting idiotically as I walked, hustling to keep up with my long-legged sister. "And what are we even talking about, the baby or the divorce?" |