My Name is Nell. Laura Abbot

      “Why do you make me go?” Abby’s voice was laced with belligerence.

      “Honey, we’ve been over all this. It’s not a choice either of us has.”

      “I hate going. I don’t have any friends there.”

      “What about your dad? He’d be disappointed not to see you.”

      “Maybe.” Looking up finally, Abby tucked a strand of hair behind one bestudded ear. “But he doesn’t have a clue what to do with me when I get there. I mean, how many times do I want to go to Six Flags? Besides, I’m missing Tonya’s birthday party.”

      Abby’s remarks evoked guilt Nell knew was irrational. As if she could have done any more to influence the custody decision. Or changed the fact Rick was entitled to spend time with their child. Did Abby ever tell her father how she felt about the visits? No. Whenever she was with him, she did a good imitation of the dutiful daughter. Inevitably when she came home, Nell faced the task of picking up the pieces, putting them back together as best she could and then sending Abby on her way the next time. Like now. Abby needed a punching bag, and Nell was handy. Somehow that insight didn’t alleviate the hurt her daughter’s petulance generated.

      The mechanical drone of a commuter plane drawing up to the gate was accompanied by the disassociated voice of the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of the aircraft Abby would be taking to Dallas. “You need to go through security now,” Nell said, rising to her feet.

      “I guess.” Abby stood, shouldered her bag and trailed Nell all the way to the short line of passengers waiting at the checkpoint.

      Nell watched Abby’s expression settle into affected pseudo-sophistication, the bored look of the veteran traveler. Yet when she turned and gave Nell a perfunctory hug, her clear gray eyes held not resentment, but misgiving. “Bye, Mom. See ya Sunday night.”

      “I’ll be here,” Nell said. She watched Abby pass through the metal detector and pluck her bag from the conveyer belt, then waited to catch a final glimpse of her daughter’s rail-thin body as she descended the escalator and vanished from sight.

      The empty feeling was always the same. It was enough to drive a person to drink.

      But that was out of the question.

      STELLA JANES SETTLED in the porch chair next to her daughter, then turned her gaze toward Abby, who stood at the edge of the lawn verging on an elaborate flower bed. “Do you really think that skirt length is appropriate for a middle school child?”

      Nell stifled a groan. With too much idle time, her mother overly concerned herself with family. “It’s what all the girls are wearing.”

      Stella continued staring at her granddaughter, who was herding her toddler cousin around the backyard. “I suppose, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

      “Like what?” Nell’s statuesque older sister Lily, whose name fit her as well as the chic beige linen slacks and blouse she wore, approached with a tray of lemonade.

      “Abby’s hem length,” Stella said.

      Lily paused, then followed her mother’s gaze. “I see what you mean.”

      Nell should be used to it by now, but their united front rankled. Lily and Stella tended to share a similar outlook, usually quite different from hers. They enjoyed what Nell thought of as “girly things” like quilting, home decoration and scrapbooking, while she had always preferred gardening, furniture refinishing and sports. No wonder she had gravitated to her father, finding refuge—and acceptance—in her role as “daddy’s girl.” There were moments, like this, when she felt like an outsider. As teenagers, her relationship with Lily had been strained, but they had grown closer as adults. Sometimes, in recent years, Lily had even dared to swim against the tide of their mother’s wishes. But not often. And not today.

      Lily distributed the icy glasses. “When does school start?”

      Grateful for the change of subject, Nell let out a breath. “A week from Monday.”

      “In my day, school never started in August,” Stella reminded them. “Always the day after Labor Day.”

      “It can’t come any too soon for me,” Nell said. “Abby needs a regular schedule. Time hangs pretty heavy on her hands.” When she was at work, Nell worried about her daughter. Aside from helping Lily with little Chase, Abby was at the mercy of friends’ mothers thoughtful enough to invite her to their houses. Otherwise she slept late and watched God-knows-what on TV.

      Lily sank into the chaise and crossed her feet at the ankles. “At least next week she’ll be on vacation with Rick.”

      “That’s supposed to comfort me?”

      “Why not? You’ll have seven glorious days all to yourself.”

      “Right. Seven interminable days to worry whether Rick will pay her any attention or, heaven forbid, let Clarice take her shopping like she did last summer.” Nell nodded in her daughter’s direction. “You think that skirt’s short? You didn’t see the outrageous outfit her charming stepmother selected to complement the salon job she set up for Abby’s hair and nails. When she came home, she looked like a prepubescent Britney Spears.”

      Lily giggled, restoring Nell’s good humor. “Clarice always was a piece of work. Poor Abby.”

      Stella rolled her eyes. “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand it.”

      “It” was the topic her mother avoided. The disgrace of Rick’s affair with the “younger woman,” the ensuing small-town scandal and the unthinkable divorce, one more way Nell had disappointed her mother’s expectations.

      “Water under the bridge,” Nell mumbled.

      “You’ll get through the next week all right?” Her mother’s anxious eyes signaled her unspoken concern.

      Nell clutched her lemonade. Would she forever be under scrutiny? “Yes, Mother. I’ll be fine.”

      She couldn’t fault her mother. Not really. She had only herself to blame, but it had taken her a long time—and cost her a great deal of pain—to reach that conclusion.

      WHO WAS HE KIDDING ANYWAY? Nothing was better. If anything, it was worse. Brady stared into the murky depths of the thick ceramic mug he cradled between his hands, oblivious to the early morning chatter around him. These Main Street cafés were running together in his mind—each whirling, grease-layered ceiling fan, red leatherette counter stool and kitchen pass-through indistinguishable from the next. Though the spur-and-antler décor in Wyoming differed from this Arkansas country calico, the smell of bacon frying and the cloying cheerfulness of the morning-shift waitress were unsettlingly predictable.

      “Decided?” The middle-aged redhead swiped a damp rag across the counter, then extracted a pad and pencil from her apron and eyed him speculatively.

      “The special and a large o.j., please.”

      “Got it,” she said and, with economy of motion, refilled his coffee.

      Fortunately the adjacent stool was empty. He couldn’t have tolerated another desultory conversation highlighted by comments on the weather and the market—cattle, wheat or stock, depending on where he was. Two months. He mentally ticked off the states he’d passed through—Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, Nebraska, Missouri and now Arkansas—always avoiding the cities. He needed no reminders of the pressures of suburban affluence, rampant consumerism or commercial success. His frequent phone calls from Carl Sutton took care of that. Regardless of the artifice his business partner employed, underneath, his basic question was always the same: when would Brady get hold of himself and resume his work at L&S TechWare?

      Brady didn’t have the heart to tell Carl that he rarely thought of the business and gave little consideration even to the next day, much less the interminable future yawning before him. On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t continue in his current mode, aimlessly wandering