guilty glance at his wife before he added, âItâs just a sixteen-footer. Got it secondhand.â
âWow!â Davy shouted. âDad! Could I come and live with you?â
Dr. Thompson cleared his throat. âDavy, notââ
Abbie slapped her menu down on the table. She could feel the heat in her face and knew she was blushing. âBe quiet, Davy,â she commanded. âYouâre yelling.â
Davy did lower his voice, but he leaned toward his father, clutching his arm. âCould I, Dad? Could I come and live with you? Now? It wouldnât take me long to pack.â
Dr. Thompsonâs forehead puckered, and helooked at Davy sadly. âWe canât talk about that now, son,â he said. âMaybe after Iâm settled â¦Â Your mother â¦â
In the silence Abbie watched the expression on her little brotherâs face twist from joy and excitement to misery. She instinctively stretched out a hand to touch his arm. âItâs okay, Davy,â she said.
But Davy shrugged her hand away. âMom wonât let me, will she?â he cried, tears running down his cheeks. âWhy wonât you let me live with Dad, Mom?â
Mrs. Thompson glared at her husband. âThat was cute, putting it on me,â she said. âTell him the truth. Tell Davy that the decision to leave us was all yours. Tell him you donât want him around to interfere with your romance.â
âBe reasonable, Sandra,â Dr. Thompson said.
âTell him,â Mrs. Thompson insisted.
Dr. Thompson pushed back his chair and stood. His back was straight, his expression stern. Abbie could picture him in his intimidating classroom. âSandra, I stopped by only to give my family a friendly greeting,â he said. âI didnât expect you to turn it into an unhappy issue.â
Mrs. Thompson spoke slowly. âYou coward! Get â¦Â out â¦Â of here.â
Davy twisted in his chair, trying to grab his fatherâs arm. âDad, can I go with you? Please?â
Dr. Thompson bent to touch Davyâs cheek with his own. âYou canât, Davy,â he said sadly. âYou heard your mother.â
As his father strode out of the restaurant, Davy wadded his napkin, shoving it up against his eyes. âI hate you, Mom,â he muttered. âI hate you.â
Abbie met the gazes of the people who were staring, forcing them to look away. âMom,â she said. âLetâs go home. Weâve got pancake mix in the cupboard. Iâll make some pancakes.â
Mrs. Thompson gripped the arms of her chair, her face as blotchy as though sheâd been slapped. âYes, Abbie,â she whispered. âLetâs go home.â
Davy refused to eat Abbieâs pancakes, and Mrs. Thompson took only two bites before she pushed her plate away. âIâm sorry,â she said to Abbie. âLately I seem to have very little appetite.â
As Davy threw open the pantry door and began to cram the pockets of his jacket with packages of peanut butter crackers, Mrs. Thompson asked, âDavy, what are you doing?â
âGetting something to eat,â he answered.
âAbbie made you these perfectly good pancakes. Sheââ
âI hate pancakes. You canât make me eat them. Iâm never going to eat pancakes again.â He ran to the kitchen door.
âWhere are you going?â
âOutside.â
âWhere outside?â
Davy turned and glared at his mother. âP.J.âs coming over. Thatâs okay, isnât it? I mean, youare going to let me see my best friend, arenât you?â
Mrs. Thompson sighed. âHoney, I wish youâd try to understand. If youâd like, we could find a quiet place to talk.â
Davy didnât answer. He raced out the kitchen door, slamming it behind him.
In misery Abbie watched a tear roll down her motherâs cheek. Another followed and