Better Off Without Him (8 page)

He looked shocked. Not because Lauren did the hitting, because he’s always said that Lauren has a very dark side, but because he had personally gone on several mini-marshmallow and plastic-straw searches at Kings.

“Somebody broke the DNA? Good for Lauren. That girl needs to shake it loose more often. Who was in the house, by the way? Is somebody home sick, or do you have a ghost washing dishes?”

“Aunt Lily has moved in. She sold her place because she’s afraid that once the Martians land in Prospect Park, property values will go down.”

“I bet she got a bundle. How long is she staying?”

I gawked at him. Did he not hear the word ‘Martians’?

Just then, Fred began to bark again. I closed my eyes tightly against the uproar. “What is that stupid dog barking about now?” I muttered, opening my eyes slightly to look at Anthony.

He cupped his hand behind his ear and tilted his head, listening. He frowned, then said, “Timmy and the well again. Should we call the sheriff?”

Patricia came sailing up the steps, carrying a plain white shopping bag that smelled like heaven. Anthony jumped off the couch.

“Bettingers, Trish?” he asked, taking the bag.

“Antoine,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “Yes. Crumb cake. And strudel.” She looked at me sternly. “You didn’t tell him?”

Anthony looked up from inside the bag. “Tell me what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, a large piece of crumb cake in his hand.

“Brian left me,” I told him, looking hopefully at the bag.

He looked puzzled. “Brian who?”

“My husband,” I said loudly. “Brian, my husband, left me.”

“Ohmygod. When? Why?”

I reached forward and snatched the crumb cake from his slender fingers. “Yesterday. For Dominique.”

“The Frenchwoman from Boston?” Anthony asked.

Patricia and I both stared. “How did you know that?” I finally asked.

He shrugged and rooted around in the bag again. “You told me you had met her. At the Christmas party, remember? I wanted to know what everyone was wearing, and you said that a Frenchwoman from Boston named Dominique was wearing the winter white suit we had seen at Nordstrom, you know, the one that you wouldn’t buy because of your body image issues, with red alligator pumps.”

I was impressed. His memory for fashion-related conversation was phenomenal. “Well, yes. That Dominique. He packed everything and is living at her place in Hoboken.”

“I hope her place in Hoboken is big enough for all the party guests,” he said, pulling out another piece of crumb cake.

I have a hard time following Anthony sometimes. “Party?”

“Yes. The surprise party for Glinda.” He refers to my sister-in-law Rebecca as Glinda, the Good Witch. Rebecca must not mind, because she hasn’t given him warts or anything. My other sister-in-law, MarshaTheBitch, is Miss Gulch. His nicknames can get a little silly.

I still wasn’t following. “I’m not following.”

Patricia was. “Brian can’t possibly expect you to still have a surprise party for his sister. He doesn’t live here anymore. It’s not unreasonable to assume that Dominique will take over the responsibility as hostess.”

“But I love Rebecca. I don’t care who the hostess is. I planned her party to be here.”

Anthony shook his head at Patricia. “She doesn’t get it,” he said.

Patricia sighed heavily. “I know.” She smiled patiently at me. “Mona, you need to tell Brian that the seventy-five people who were going to be spread over your spacious and elegant back yard will now have to be crammed into Dominique’s condominium. And that the caterer you have engaged doesn’t travel, so she, that is, Dominique, will have to arrange for another person to take care of the food. And the drinks. And the rented tables and chairs. Not to mention that someone will have to call all the guests and inform them of the change of address. And why.”

“Oh.” I smiled. “I’m starting to feel better now. Anthony, why don’t you just fax the guest list to Brian this morning?”

He licked crumbs off his fingers. “With pleasure. I’m very sorry, Mona. This is terrible. But you don’t seem, uh, too upset. Aren’t you angry and hurt and tortured?”

“I am angry.” I was. Maybe I’d be hurt and tortured later, but that morning I was still just really pissed off.

Patricia sat down next to me and had taken the half-eaten crumb cake from my hands and put it on the trunk. “I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but I’ve made an appointment for you with David West. He’s an attorney. One week from today.”

“Already? I’m seeing a lawyer already?”

“The sooner the better,” she said calmly.

Anthony was looking at Patricia with frank admiration. “How,” he asked, “did you get her an appointment with the best divorce lawyer in the state?”

Patricia looked smug. “He’s handled three divorces for me in the past twenty-one years. I reminded him that I’m only forty-eight and could very easily manage another three.”

Patricia doesn’t mind telling people her age because she looks ten years younger than she is, and knows it, so whenever she mentions how old she is, somebody inevitably says, oh, but you look so much younger, and Patricia loves that. I, on the other hand, don’t look forty-five, but I look about forty-three and a half, so I never mention my age. To anyone. Ever.

I held out my coffee cup and Anthony dutifully reached for it to get me another. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to a lawyer.”

Patricia looked into my eyes. “Tell me.”

“It’s happening too fast. What if he lives with this woman and decides she’s a bitch and wants to come back?”

“He’s an asshole,” Patricia said indignantly. “Are you saying you’d take him back? After he cheated on you for months, left you, lied to your children about everything, and after you yourself admitted that he wasn’t much of a husband in the first place?”

“Well, God, Patricia, when you put it like that, I’d be stupid to take him back.”

“So, how would you put it?”

Anthony had sat on my other side and I reached for more caffeine. “I liked being married,” I said at last. “I won’t like being alone.”

Anthony was shaking his head. “You have three daughters, lots of good friends, a demented aunt who has apparently moved in, and me. When will you ever be alone?”

“It’s not quite the same, Anthony,” I said patiently. “I like having somebody to, you know, rely on. Pick up the slack. Help me out.”

“And when,” Patricia asked, “did Brian ever do that?”

“Okay, so maybe not that.” I was feeling a little frustrated. “What about sex? God, I might have to start dating again. One of the things I liked about being married was that I never had to worry about shaving my legs or explaining about my appendix scar. Who would want to see me naked now? I’m forty-five and I droop.”

Patricia waved a casual hand. “Darling, there will always somebody out there who’ll want to see you naked, believe me. In fact, after his performance yesterday, I’d bet that Ben would stand in line.”

“Ben?” Anthony whispered, setting down his coffee cup so quickly that it spilled a little on the table. “Ben was here yesterday?”

Anthony has a little bit of a crush on Ben. Well, okay, a huge crush. It’s kind of funny, because he gets all tongue-tied and silly when Ben is around, which is very unlike the normal Anthony. I’ve told Anthony many times that when he’s around Ben, he’s fine, but that’s not true. Ben even asked me once if Anthony had ever seen a professional about his stutter. I’d never tell Anthony. He’d be very upset.

“Yes,” I told him, “Ben was here yesterday. The morning started with the girls’ tub puking up rust.”

Anthony leaned forward. “What was he wearing?” he whispered.

No matter how badly I’m feeling, I can’t help but string Anthony along. I puckered my brow, pretending to try hard to remember. “A leather g-string and his tool belt?” I said at last.

“No,” Anthony whispered in disbelief.

“No,” Patricia said firmly, giving me a hard look. “He was wearing the usual jeans and T-shirt.”

Anthony looked crushed. “Oh. Well, did he look good?”

Patricia rolled her eyes. “Antoine, really, is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does Ben Cutler look good?”

Anthony grinned.

I grinned too. “He looked great. Lana sat on his lap during lunch.”

Lana had found a comfortable perch on the back of the couch. Anthony looked at her enviously. “How was he?” he asked her. Lana purred.

The door opened downstairs again, and MarshaMarsha came up, looking adorable and concerned.

“Mona, how are you? You look awful, like you haven’t slept at all,” she said, stooping to kiss me on the cheek. “I worried about you all last night. I still can’t believe it. Is that strudel from Bettingers?”

Patricia nodded. “Yes, have some. We’re trying to talk Mona into seeing a lawyer. She says she’s not ready.”

MarshaMarsha managed to pour herself a cup of coffee and snag a piece of pastry while she continued to look adorable and concerned. “I can understand that. This is a big shock, and is totally unexpected.” She looked and sounded sincere even as she was stuffing her face with strudel. “Mona needs time to think and weigh her options. And there’s always a chance that Brian will see the error of his ways and come crawling back on his hands and knees begging forgiveness. Not that she could ever forgive him for being such a piece of shit husband, but still.” She smiled, showing dimples. “Right, Mona?”

“Right,” I said, not sure what I was agreeing to, but then God, with his usual sense of timing, not to mention humor, stepped in. My fax machine began to hum.

Anthony jumped up and raced over to the machine where he began diligently reading whatever was coming through.

“It’s from somebody named Herschel Fielding,” he announced.

Why was that name familiar? I looked at Patricia and frowned, trying to think.

“Apparently,” Anthony said as he read the fax, “he’s Brian’s lawyer. He’s faxing over a proposed separation and visitation agreement.”

“What?” My jaw dropped as I scrambled up and stood next to Anthony, staring at the fax machine. “A separation agreement? Already? Is he crazy?”

“No,” Patricia drawled, “just very insensitive.”

It took a few minutes, and we all watched in silence as the fax machine hummed and slid out one sheet of paper after another. Patricia made another pot of coffee. MarshaMarsha perched on the edge of the trunk and chewed strudel one tiny mouthful at a time. Finally, the machine fell silent and I grabbed the stack of paper and shoved it into Anthony’s hands.

“What do they say?” I asked.

Anthony shuffled everything together neatly and squinted in concentration. “He wants to see the girls one night a week and every other weekend. He’s being very generous about child support, two thousand a month. That’s way above the average, I believe.” He read on. “He doesn’t want to pay alimony, and instead will let you keep the Westfield house, which is in both your names. And you get the shore house.” Well, of course, I thought. I bought the shore house with my own money twelve years ago, and it was in my name only, and Brian, although he spent family time there, never gave a red cent toward renovation or upkeep.

“But he wants to keep the Hoboken condo,” Anthony went on in a very confused voice. “When did you buy a condo?” He looked at me. I would have looked back, but I was too busy seeing red.

“I never bought a condo,” I said finally. The room fell into a hush, not that anybody was actually talking, but I could feel, rather than see, everyone kind of shrink back in silence.

I cleared my throat. “Is there an address?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes. I can go onto the county tax page and see when it was purchased, if you want me to.”

“Yes.” I walked back to the couch and sat down hard. I didn’t look at MarshaMarsha or Patricia. I couldn’t.

It took Anthony about three minutes to find it. “He bought it last September,” he said at last. “Her name is on the deed as well. Dominique’s condo and his condo are one and the same.”

September. He bought it with her last September. What a total son-of-a-bitch. I went over to the phone and dialed the direct number to Brian’s office. He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, it’s me.” I kept my voice very even.

“What did you say to Dominique last night?” he asked, sounding angry.

I clenched my jaw. “I didn’t say anything to her.”

“Then what did Patricia say? And Lily?”

“I haven’t a clue,” I lied. “They were speaking in French.”

“Lily speaks French?”

“Apparently. I just assumed, by the way she bolted out of there, that they were letting her in on a few of your less attractive personal habits.”

He sighed. “That’s not funny, Mona.”

“No. Neither is this fax I just received from your lawyer.”

“Well, Mona.” He switched gears suddenly, sounding very calm and relaxed. “Hirsch and I happen to think that I’m being very fair and generous. The state has guidelines for child support, and I’m way above their monthly amounts. And I am giving you both houses.”

“I noticed that. Of course, the shore house was bought and paid for by me alone, but still. You’re being very generous. And thorough. In fact, you must have spoken to this Hirsch several days ago to have him draw up something so complete.”

Brian sounded cool. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“So the divorce idea was something you remembered to talk about with other people. It was just me you had a problem telling.”

“Now, Mona, let’s not get bogged down on unimportant details.”

“Okay, I won’t. I just have one question. When you told Hirsch about the condo, didn’t you make it clear to him that I didn’t know anything about it, and that he shouldn’t have mentioned it in the proposal he just faxed over?”

There was a moment of silence. I glanced at Patricia, who winked and raised her coffee cup in salute.

“He put the condo in the agreement?” Brian asked, his voice sounding not so calm and relaxed. “The man is a fucking idiot.”

“No, Brian. You are a fucking idiot. Do you know what my lawyer is going to do with this?”