Better Off Without Him (10 page)

He leaned back in his chair and nodded his head. “Absolutely. You don’t expect someone of her, ah, background and appearance to be so savvy.”

“Yes, that throws people off.” I smiled at the poor man. “Then there’s the whole more-money-than-God thing.”

He made a small face. “Yes, there’s that too. The point is, because of who she is, and the type of person she is, on the basis of her referral I’m not going to bother with the usual screening I do with potential divorce clients. I’m going to assume you are here in good faith and have every intention to go through with this. My hope is that you’re not just trying to scare the shit out of him.”

“Nope. I want out.”

“Good. Now, just so you know, I don’t do revenge. I don’t do public humiliation. I’ll get the best settlement possible for you and your daughters. That is my only job. I’m very good at it.”

“I know. That’s what Patricia said. And other people. I’m very grateful that you could see me on such short notice. I don’t know how I would have found a good lawyer otherwise. In fact, my original plan was to hang out in front of Family Court until some guy came out crying, oh God, I’m ruined, then grabbed his wife’s lawyer.”

He decided to get the joke and smile. “Well, that might have worked. But this way is much better. I’ll need a fifteen-thousand-dollar retainer.”

I smiled back. “Done. Have the agreement sent over and I’ll have a check ready.”

He stood up and reached out to shake my hand again. “A pleasure, Mrs. Berman.”

“Mona. Call me Mona. Mrs. Berman is soon to be a thing of the past.”

When I got back to my office, Anthony was busy on the computer. He flashed me a gorgeous smile and stood up, dumping Lana onto the floor where she stretched, yawned and gave me a very dirty look.

“I had lunch with Lily again,” Anthony reported. “She’s an absolute fruitcake. Are you sure you want her staying with you?”

“Where else is she going to go?” I grumbled.

“She’s loaded. How about a nice assisted living place in, say, Duluth?” He handed me a steaming mug of coffee. “How’s the lawyer?”

“Kirk Douglas in A Town Without Pity.”

“Perfect. Can I go next time?”

I sank into the couch. “Maybe. Anything I should know about?”

He arranged himself on the other end of the couch and handed me the cordless phone.“Glinda called.”

Glinda, my favorite sister-in-law. I reached over, took the phone and dialed her number.

“Mona, I just heard. I was in the Ozarks doing a spring cleansing, and I just got back last night. I am so sorry about this,” she gushed as soon as she picked up the phone. Rebecca has the same attitude about caller ID as I have – if you know who’s calling, why waste time pretending to be surprised? “My brother is a real stinker. I’m on your side, honey. What can I do?”

I loved Rebecca. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Does the house feel empty?”

“Well, it would, but Aunt Lily is here.”

“Oh, how nice. I think she’s just great. How long is she staying with you?”

I sighed. “Apparently forever. She sold her co-op because of the aliens that are scheduled to land in Prospect Park.”

Rebecca made a sound. “That old chestnut has been driving people out of Park Slope for years. Does she really believe it?”

“I guess. She’s here with a gazillion suitcases and no permanent address.”

“Well, she’s got good timing. At least she’ll be able to help out with the girls. How are they taking this whole thing? Or are they over it already?”

Rebecca does not have any children of her own, but as a strict observer of the human condition, she knows exactly how the teenage mind works. “I think they’re trying to figure out what double birthday parties are going to be worth.”

“Figures. That reminds me. What about my surprise party? You’re still not having it there, are you? I mean, not even Brian is that uncouth.”

“Rebecca, how did you know? It’s supposed to be, well, you know. A surprise.”

Rebecca laughed. “Oh, Mona, come on. Have you ever known Phyllis to keep anything a secret?”

True. I loved my mother-in-law, but the woman’s mouth never quit. “Anthony faxed the guest list over to Brian’s office,” I explained to her. “It’s his problem now. His and Dominique’s.”

“That’s her name?” Rebecca squealed in delight. “Really? Oh my stars, how funny. I bet she’s skinny and blonde and a real bitch.”

I laughed with her. “Rebecca, you really do have supernatural powers.” A thought suddenly struck. “Rebecca, speaking of powers…”

“Yes?” She sounded a bit tentative.

“I don’t really know much about your, well, religion.”

“I like to think of it as a complete way of life.”

I sighed. “That sounds nice. But answer me this. Do you, well, you know, perform…ah…” I bit my lip. How could I ask this delicately?

“Perform?” she coaxed.

“Spells. Do you do spells?”

She chuckled. “Do I do spells?” she repeated, apparently in disbelief.

“Yes. Potions and chants and things.”

“It’s more complicated then that, Mona. There are certain things that can be done with the help of certain items that can bring about positive changes in a person’s life. I don’t have a cabinet with jars of rat dung and eye of newt. What is this all about?”

I took another track. “What about transfiguration?”

“Mona,” Rebecca said patiently, “that’s a word from the Harry Potter books.”

“Yes. You know it?”

“I’ve heard it, yes. You do realize that those books are fiction, right? And that something like transfiguration can’t be done in the real world?”

“Well, of course I know that.”

She must have heard the disappointment in my voice. “Mona. Did you want me to turn Brian into a frog or something?”

Was that an offer? “Well, that would be good. Can you do that?”

“No,” she said shortly.

“Oh.” How disappointing. What is the point of having a witch in the family if she’s only good for tasty cider and herbal cough syrup?

“And even if I could,” she continued, “I wouldn’t, because it would break my mother’s heart.”

I sighed. “True. And I love your mother. So, maybe you could do a little something to Dominique? Or to Brian that would affect Dominique?”

She made a thinking-about-it sort of noise.

“Rebecca?”

“If you want,” she said, chuckling, “I can make him impotent.”

“Oh my God.” Now, that’s a payoff. “Can you really?”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it myself. After all, he’s my brother. But I’ll ask somebody in my Wiccan support group.”

“You have a Wiccan support group? I didn’t realize that. Since when?”

“A couple of years now, why?”

“Is that your, well, coven?”

“I belong to a coven, of course, although I like to think of it as my family. But my support group is different. It’s where I go to bitch and moan.”

“Just like regular therapy?” I was intrigued.

“Almost. We also spend a lot of time talking about the rabid misconceptions and bizarre expectations of those outside the circle.”

“Well,” I said brightly, “that sounds like fun. Do what you can, Rebecca. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Hang tough, Mona. I love you.”

“I love you too.” I hung up and gazed wistfully at the phone. I love Brian’s family. Except MarshaTheBitch, of course. How did he end up being such a shit?

“How did Brian end up being such a shit?” I asked aloud, to the world at large. Anthony shook his head. “Don’t know, babycakes, but it’s really time to call Oprah.”

He was right. I needed to talk to my agent. It was time.

Once I had decided to change the focus of the book, everything became surprisingly easy. I had spent the past few days writing in spurts of amazing speed and, more importantly, clarity. I knew exactly who was who and where the story was going. But I was nervous about talking to Sylvia. The manuscript was due on June first. My publisher had given me a very nice advance. I was worried about finishing the book on time, because in between those moments of speed and clarity, I sat around a lot, almost in tears, feeling sorry for myself. It was hard, I was discovering, to be creative and miserable at the same time. I had never needed extra time to finish a manuscript, and under normal circumstances I might have easily gotten one. But these were not normal circumstances. The book I was writing was not the book I had been paid for, and that could be sticky.

Sylvia picked up on the second ring and, having caller ID, cut right to the chase. “Mona, you’ve been avoiding me. What’s wrong with the book? Is it going to be finished on time?” she asked, putting first things first as always.

“No. Things have happened. I’ve made some changes.”

I could hear her settle in for a much longer conversation than she originally anticipated. “Okay. What changes?”

Anthony had refilled my coffee cup, knowing this would take a while, and, unlike some people, I am not a pacer when I talk on the phone. I like to sit in one comfortable spot for the duration. “Well, first is the title. It’s no longer going to be called
So Many Men, So Little Time
. The new title is
Better Off Without Him
.”

“Uh-huh. That does indicate a lot of changes,” Sylvia said slowly.

“Yes. Sydney Karloff no longer has her own graphic design company, she’s a children’s book writer and illustrator. She’s not twenty-seven either. She’s forty-five. Her husband still leaves her, but they’d been married twenty years, not just one. And she doesn’t have a walk-up in SoHo. She moves from her Upper West Side co-op to a small town in rural New York.”

Sylvia was silent. “So I guess this eliminates the sexy undercover cop working on a major heroin bust.”

“Pretty much. Jack is now a high school science teacher who paints houses in the summer. She hires him to paint her new house.”

“Uh-huh. What about the millionaire who wants a new logo for his charitable foundation to help underprivileged kids?”

“Brock? Now he’s a fifty-year-old bank president and volunteer at the local youth center.”

“And the ex-husband? Does he come back begging for forgiveness?”

“No. That never happens in real life. Even in romance novels, it’s a cliché. He’s a schmuck and he’s out of the picture by page thirteen.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, so who does she end up with?”

“No one. That is, it’s vague. Could be either guy. It ends when she realizes that her life alone is more important and meaningful than her marriage ever was, and her friends and family mean more than some man.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But she still has lots of sex and there’s a happy ending.”

Sylvia was silent. I closed my eyes and tried to hear what she was doing on the other end of the line, but there was dead silence. Finally, she said, “This is a significantly different book that the one you proposed last fall.”

“I know.”

“And it is significantly different than the one you’d received a very substantial advance for.”

“I know, Sylvia. But it’s good. Really good. Better than anything I’ve ever written.”

“When we discussed you writing something other than historical romance, this was not like anything you mentioned.”

I was feeling a little desperate. “I know, Sylvia. But this is a good book. I’ve got the first fifty pages, and they are amazing. Talk to Frannie. Please.” Frannie was Francine Welles, editor extraordinaire who had been holding my hand for over ten years.

“Okay. I’ll try calling her right now, and I’ll call you back.”

I clicked off the phone and looked over at Anthony. He’s been with me long enough to know the consequences of making major changes to a book you’d already been paid for. He smiled at me.

“Mona, this really is the best work you’ve ever done. I love the way you write, you know that, but this is really something special. Your characters are real and honest and funny. I laughed out loud at some of this stuff. And I’m in love with Sydney. If I were an old straight guy, I’d be all over her.”

“Oh, Anthony, thank you. Your opinion really matters to me, you know that. I love Sydney, too. I want her to be strong and happy. She deserves it.”

He leaned across the couch and kissed me on the cheek. “So do you, babycakes. So do you.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could convene the Mavens?”

Ah, the Mavens. Let me explain. As a romance writer, I’m a member of the Romance Writers of America, a group of people, mostly women, who support and encourage the romance-writing industry. And believe me, it’s an industry. Romance is really big bucks. We all meet once a year to congratulate each other, give awards, eat lots of good food and network like crazy. Considering we’re all technically competitors, we get along very well and are generally supportive of each other’s efforts.

Over the years I’d become friendly with a group of writers who all happen to live in the New York metropolitan area. We’re all members of our local RWA chapters.

Anthony refers to us as ‘the Mavens’ because between us, we’ve written every type of romance novel known to
Publisher’s Weekly
. We’re experts. We’re popular with fans. We’re financially successful. And we love to get together to have a long lunch, exchange ideas, and, as Anthony says, shovel deep shit.

“Good idea,” I said. Talking about the new book with those women would give me serious feedback. “Actually, it’s a great idea. Send an e-mail to all of them and see if we can get a date.”

Sylvia called back less than an hour later. “Fran is concerned. She wants a complete synopsis and whatever you’ve got written. She wasn’t happy.”

“With what?”

“Well, for one thing, there’s no happily ever after with Mr. Perfect.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sylvia. This book is about a woman who does not need a man to feel complete and valuable. She is happy with her life as a single person. How can that be a problem?”

“Listen, Mona, I think it’s great. In fact, even as we speak, therapists and feminists all over the country are giving you a standing ovation. But we’re talking about book editors here, Mona. You know how they think.”