Obviously heâd surrendered too soonâwhich actually surprised him. Given the state of his marriage, he wouldnât have thought heâd have this much trouble getting over Lydia.
But the attempt to reenter the dating world had gone so staggeringly wrong from the get-go that heâd almost been glad to see his daughterâs cell phone number pop up on his caller ID.
Until he realized she was calling from the security guardâs station at the outlet mall.
Ellen and her friends, who had supposedly been safe at a friendâs sleepover, had been caught shoplifting. The store would release her with only a warning, but he had to talk to them in person.
Shoplifting? He almost couldnât believe his ears. But he arranged a cab for his date, with apologies, then hightailed it to the mall, listened to the guardâs lecture, and now was driving his stony-faced eleven-year-old daughter home in total silence.
A lipstick. Good God. The surprisingly understanding guard had said it allâhow wrong it was morally, how stupid it was intellectually, how much damage it could do to her life, long-term. But Max could tell Ellen wasnât listening.
And he had no idea how he would get through to her, either.
Ellen had turned eleven a couple of weeks ago. She wasnât allowed to wear lipstick. But even if she was going to defy him about that, why steal it? She always had enough money to buy whatever she wanted, and he didnât make her account for every penny.
In fact, he almost never said no to herânever had. At first, heâd been overindulgent because he felt guilty for traveling so much, and for even thinking the D word. Then, after Lydiaâs death, heâd indulged his daughter because sheâd seemed so broken and lost.
Great. He hadnât just flunked Marriage 101, heâd flunked Parenting, too.
âEllen, I need to understand what happened tonight. First of all, what were you and Stephanie doing at the mall without Stephanieâs parents?â
Ellen gave him a look that stopped just shy of being rude. She knew he didnât allow overt disrespect, but sheâd found a hundred and one ways to get the same message across, covertly.
âThey let her go to the mall with friends all the time. I guess her parents trust her.â
He made a sound that might have been a chuckle if he hadnât been so angry. âGuess thatâs a mistake.â
Ellen folded her arms across her chest and faced the window.
The traffic was terribleâFriday night in downtown Chicago. It would be forty minutes before they got home. Forty very long minutes. He realized, with a sudden chagrin, that heâd really rather let it go, and make the drive in angry silence. Though heâd adored Ellen as a baby and a toddler, something had changed through the years. He didnât speak her language anymore.
He didnât know how to couch things so that sheâd listen, so that sheâd care. He didnât know what metaphors she thought in, or what incentives she valued.
The awkward, one-sided sessions of family therapy, which theyâd endured together for six months to help her deal with her grief, hadnât exactly prepared him for real-life conversations.
Even before that, everything had come together in a perfect storm of bad parenting. His job had started sending him on longer and longer trips. Mexico had happened. When he returned from that, he was differentâand not in a good way. His wife didnât like the new, less-patient Max, and he didnât like her much, either. She seemed, after his ordeal, to be shockingly superficial, oblivious to anything that really mattered in life.
And she had taken their daughter with her to that world of jewelry, supermodels, clothes, diets. When they chattered together, Max tuned out. If he hadnât, he would have walked out.
He hadnât blamed Lydia. He knew she clung to her daughter because she needed an ally, and because she needed an unconditional admiration he couldnât give her. But as the gulf widened between Max and Lydia, it had widened between Max and Ellen, too.
He might not travel that much anymore, but heâd been absent nonetheless.
âEllen.â He resisted the urge to give up. âYouâre going to have to talk to me. Stealing is serious. I have no idea why youâd even consider doing something you know is wrong. You have enough money for whatever you need, donât you?â
She made a tsking sound through her teeth. âYou donât understand. Itâs not always about money.â
âWell, then, help me to understand. What is it about?â
âWhy do you even care? Iâm sorry I caused you trouble. Iâm sorry I interrupted you on your date.â
He frowned. Could his dating already be what had prompted this? Heâd talked to her about the dinner ahead of time, and sheâd professed herself completely indifferent to when, or whom, he chose to date.
But he should have known. Ellen rarely admitted she cared about anything. Especially anything to do with Max.
âI donât care about the date,â he said. âIt wasnât going well, anyhow. Right now, all I want is to be here. I want to sort this out with you.â
She laughed, a short bark that wasnât openly rude, but again, barely. âRight.â
âIf you want me to understand, you have to explain. If itâs not about money, what is it about? Are you angry that I went on a date?â
âNo. Why should I be? Itâs not like Mom will mind.â
He flinched. âOkay, then, what is it?â He took a breath. âEllen, Iâm not letting this go, so you might as well tell me. Why would you do such a thing?â
She unwound her arms so that she could fiddle with her seat belt, as if it were too tight. âYou wonât understand.â
âI already donât understand.â
âItâs like an initiation.â
He had to make a conscious effort not to do a double take. But what the hell? What kind of initiation did eleven-year-olds have to go through?
âInitiation into what?â
âThe group. Stephanieâs group.â
âWhy on earth would you want to be part of any group that would ask you to commit a crime?â
âAre you kidding?â Finally, Ellen turned, and her face was slack with shock. âStephanieâs the prettiest girl in school, and the coolest. If youâre not part of her group, you might as well wear a sign around your neck that says Loser.â
A flare of anger went through him like something shot from a rocket. How could this be his daughter? Heâd been brought up on a North Carolina farm, by grandparents who taught him that nothing seen by the naked eye mattered. The worth of land wasnât in its beauty, but in what lay beneath, in the soil. The sweetest-looking land sometimes was so starved for nutrients that it wouldnât grow a single stick of celery, or was so riddled with stones that it would break your hoe on the first pass.
People, they told him, were the same as the land. Only what they had inside mattered, and finding that out took time and care. Money just confused things, allowing an empty shell to deck out like a king.
For a moment, he wanted to blame Lydia. But wasnât that the kind of lie that his grandfather