Better Off Without Him (9 page)

“I thought you didn’t have a lawyer.”

“Yeah, well I do. David West. The best divorce lawyer in the state. I’m seeing him next week, and I’m going to make sure he gets me every single thing I’m owed, and then some.” I slammed down the phone and closed my eyes, taking deep, slow breaths.

They had bought a place to live. Together. In September. Over six months ago. Which means they must have been seeing each other before that, unless they met each other, fell in love and decided to live in adultery in just a few short weeks. Why hadn’t I ever noticed anything different? What was wrong with me?

“What’s wrong with me?” I said softly. I heard a flurry of activity and opened my eyes.

MarshaMarsha grabbed the bag off the trunk, fished out another piece of strudel, and pushed it into my hand. Patricia hopped up and ran over to snag the coffee pot. Anthony waved a tissue box.

“What did he say?” he asked breathlessly.

“I need to see David West,” I growled, and sipped my coffee.

“Absolutely,” Anthony said. “What did Brian say?”

“He said that Hirsch was a fucking idiot. I need to see my lawyer.” I looked at Patricia. “Next week?”

She nodded as she refilled my cup. “Yes. One week from today. 10:30.”

I took a deep breath. “One week. God, what am I going to do for a whole week?” I moaned.

“Well,” Anthony said uncomfortably, “you might try working a little. Your first draft is due in about six weeks. Oprah sent an e-mail asking how things were going.”

Oprah didn’t really send me an e-mail. Anthony called my agent Oprah. My agent is Sylvia Snow, and Anthony calls her Oprah because Sylvia is a fifty-ish black woman with lots of smarts and brass balls the size of the QE2.

In the late sixties, Sylvia got into Radcliff through Affirmative Action, and got out with a degree Summa Cum Laude and a big attitude. After kicking around New York publishing houses for ten or so years, she decided to go it alone. I was her first client. She sold my first book. Over the past several years, we have made each other lots of money. She now has a very impressive client list, including celebrities, internationally-known psychologists, and one romance/mystery/chick lit author who has her very own section at your local Barnes & Noble. She calls me her favorite author. I am, if nothing else, her first author.

Sylvia does not get me free houses in the Hampton’s or front row seats to sold-out Broadway shows. We don’t exchange confidences or spend hours chatting away like good buddies. She tries like hell to sell my books for the most possible money, and I try to write stuff that’s good enough for all her efforts. We get along just fine. Usually. But now she wanted an update on the new book, which was supposed to be complete and on my editor’s desk by June first, and the news was not so good.

I stared at Anthony, stricken. “What can I tell her?”

Anthony shrugged. “Mona, I don’t know what to say. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this for weeks. You kept blowing me off.”

Patricia was frowning. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m having a bit of a problem with the new book,” I said

Patricia looked indignant. “That’s ridiculous,” she declared. “Mona, you write the best creamy thigh stuff out there. What kind of problems could you be having?”

“Well, I’m trying to write something different this time,” I said

MarshaMarsha tilted her head. “A Scottish one? I love those men-in-kilt things.” MarshaMarsha had been a fan before she ever met me, and she not only has read all my books, she is a long-time member of a romance-only book group that’s carefully scrutinized some of my most interesting love scenes. MarshaMarsha always scores big with her group when she brings me along so I can give a first-hand account of the hows and whys.

I shook my head.

“One of those supernatural romances?” she asked hopefully.

Patricia frowned. “Supernatural?”

“Yes,” I explained. “They’re actually called paranormal romances. Sex with ghosts. Werewolves. Vampires. It’s very in right now.”

“That’s disgusting,” Patricia murmured.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I can’t write about ghosts, because I believe in ghosts and I’d creep myself out. Forget time-traveling, because I’d never be able to keep all those centuries straight. Shape-shifters are very hot, and so are vampires, and witches, but I personally know a witch, Rebecca, and I know for a fact she hasn’t had sex in years, which is not very inspiring.”

Anthony swiveled around in the desk chair. “I wanted her to write about Lizzie and Fitz.”

Both Patricia and MarshaMarsha stared at him blankly.

“You know.” Anthony waved his hands around. “Elizabeth Bennett and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Pride and Prejudice? The bookstores are full of sequels.”

Patricia raised an eyebrow. “And you actually thought Mona should write a book using somebody else’s characters? Like those people who write about Star Trek or Jessica Fletcher?”

Anthony looked a little hurt. “Well,” he muttered, “when you put it that way…”

Patricia had sat back down beside me on the couch. She patted my hand. “Our Mona is better than that.”

I smiled gratefully. “Actually, I started writing a contemporary romance.”

“Well, that’s very exciting,” MarshaMasha said brightly.

“It is. And I was doing really well. My character is a twenty-something who has her own graphic design firm in Manhattan, and her husband of just a year leaves her, and she becomes involved with two very different men, and then hubby comes back and wants to try again.”

“That sounds full of possibilities,” Patricia said. “You should be taking those ideas and running all over the place with them.”

“I know I should, but I’m stuck. I can’t decide who she should end up with. And I’m having a hard time getting into the head of a twenty-seven-year-old metro girl. Now I’ll never be able to finish. How can I write about a woman who lives happily ever after with some man when right now I think all men suck?” I looked over to Anthony. “Except you, of course.” Anthony smiled.

“Well,” MarshaMarsha said, “why don’t you write about a happy ending where she doesn’t end up with anyone. She’s just happy by herself.”

I frowned at her. “Happy by herself?”

“Sure. Have her be one of those women whose life changes so much for the better after she’s dumped. It happens all the time.”

I shook my head. “Whose lives are so much better?”

MarshaMarsha pursed her lips. “Well, there’s my cousin, Vicki, who fell apart after Dan left, but ended up getting a scholarship to law school and she’s a junior partner now, with a great place on the Upper West Side and a hunky boyfriend. Ellen Mitchell? Down the street? When she divorced her husband, she was forced to go into business for herself, and that’s how she ended up with her catering business. You know how well she’s doing.”

“There’s also a client of mine,” Anthony put in.” I just did a gorgeous Parrish in her bathroom, a take on ‘Dinkybird,’ you know, the one with the nude on the swing? When her husband left, all she could do was babysit kids, and now she owns six private daycare centers and is absolutely rolling in it.”

I looked at Patricia. She shrugged. “Darling, all the women I know see marriage as an investment. They always ended up better off than they were before.”

I shook my head. “I still can’t get into this girl’s head.”

Anthony shrugged. “So don’t make her a girl. Make her somebody more like you. Make her forty-something instead.”

I rolled my eyes. “Nobody wants to read about a middle-aged woman who gets dumped.”

Patricia looked thoughtful. “Maybe that’s because nobody’s ever written about a middle-aged woman who gets dumped, unless she’s a ridiculously rich middle-aged woman who ends up getting lots more money, revenge and some hot boy-toy. But really, how many real women can identify with that?”

MarshaMarsha was nodding in agreement. “She’s right. All you get right now in books are young single girls who spend half their paychecks on shoes. The women who are over forty are all in quilting clubs or knitting clubs or solving mysteries with their cats. Maybe it’s time for a real person to have a real crisis and get over it. And live happily ever after all on her own.”

I stared into my coffee cup. “So, she’s in her forties and ends up alone. But a better person? Let me think. This is not a romance. It could still be a love story. This might be a very good idea. She could still have a great life, and lots of sex. I mean, divorced isn’t the end of the world. At least I hope not.”

“Of course it’s not,” MarshaMarsha said stoutly. “And you’re going to be just like your character. You’re going to have a much better life alone, with lots of sex.”

That sounded good. That sounded great. Maybe if I wrote about it, I could make it true. I raised my coffee cup.

“I can write this,” I said.

“Of course, you can,” Anthony agreed.

“And even better, I can live it.”

“Hear, hear,” Patricia murmured.

“To a better life,” I said.

We all clinked cups. MarshaMarsha smiled. “Don’t forget lots of sex,” she said.

The week after Brian left felt, strangely enough, just like the week after my mother died. There was an overwhelming sense of loss and sadness, but it felt oddly abstract. Both of my parents lived in Florida since the eighties, and I saw them only two or three times a year. After my father died, my mother spent a little more time with me, but her death left a gaping whole in my heart, rather than my actual life. On a day to day basis, I barely missed her. It was knowing that she was no longer a part of my physical universe that broke my heart.

With Brian leaving, it was the same kind of feeling. He worked long hours and took many business trips, so he wasn’t around the house much anyway. It’s not like I suddenly had to do things for myself, because I’d always done for myself and my daughters without much help from him at all. But knowing that he no longer loved me, that he had chosen another woman to spend his spare and precious time with, made me incredibly sad. So sad, I almost forgot how mad I was about the whole thing. Almost, but not quite, because he kept doing things to piss me off even more.

The Friday afternoon after he left, he called Miranda on her cell phone and invited her and her sisters to have dinner with him. And with Dominique. Miranda was in the kitchen when the call came, wolfing down the first of two peanut butter and banana sandwiches she made when she got home from school. Lauren was with her, drinking a Diet Coke. Jessica was upstairs slamming things because she was not sleeping over Billy’s house, when apparently everyone else in the world was.

When her phone rang, she looked at it, made a face, and looked at me.

“It’s Daddy,” she said in a tight voice.

I remained silent. I was slicing pepperoni for pizza. We were supposed to be having homemade pizza for dinner. I was in charge of making and baking. The girls would be doing the eating. Typical mealtime.

“Answer it,” I said calmly.

She flipped open the phone. “Yeah?”

She listened. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, almost chopping off my thumb in the process of trying to be cool.

“What?”

More listening.

“Why would I want to meet her? She broke up our home. And she’s French. They hate us.”

I was so proud.

“Okay, Dad. I’ll ask. But don’t hold your breath.” She hung up and started in on the other sandwich.

“Well?” asked Lauren. “What did he want?”

Miranda looked nonchalant. “He wanted to pick us up and take us all out to dinner so we can meet Dominique. Wanna go?”

Lauren shook her head. Miranda got up, left the kitchen and went upstairs, presumably to ask Jessica. The slamming above stopped for a few moments, then began again, followed by what can only be described as a loud but hollow laugh. I was guessing Jess said no. Miranda came back into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a Sprite. She sat next to Lauren at the breakfast bar and watched me slice.

“What did Jess say?” I asked casually.

Miranda was no fool. “Guess, Mom. Like you couldn’t hear her.” She made a rude noise.

“Are you going to call him back?” I asked, still cool.

She shrugged. “I told him not to hold his breath.”

I was torn. On one hand, the pending divorce was between Brian and I. The girls, while of course affected, were technically not involved in our issues. They still had two parents who loved them and who would continue to be a part of their lives. As their parents, we deserved their love, and more importantly, respect. Whatever animosity I may have felt toward Brian, and whatever feelings he still had for me should not spill onto our daughters. Neutrality was best all around.

On the other hand, I couldn’t help feel a bit happy. Let’s face it, I won.

I sighed. “Call your father and tell him what’s going on.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and dialed. “Dad? It’s me. No.”

She listened. “I mean, no, we don’t want to have dinner with you, and no, we don’t want to meet Dominique.”

She handed the phone to Lauren. “He wants to talk to you.”

Lauren looked pained, but took the phone. “Hi Daddy.” Pause. “But I don’t want to meet her.” Pause. “I don’t care.” Pause. “Mom, he wants to talk to you.”

This I was not ready for. I cleared my throat and took the phone. “Yes?”

“Mona, this is Brian.”

“Really? I would have never guessed.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass, Mona. What’s wrong with Miranda and Lauren?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“They’re being very bitchy about this.”

“Maybe they both have PMS.”

Brian exhaled loudly. “That’s no excuse. I want them to be ready in an hour so I can pick them up and take them to dinner. Dominique wants to meet them.”

“So this is about Dominique?”

“Yes, of course it is.”

“Gosh, Brian, maybe it should be about your three daughters. Maybe what they want should come first. What do you think?” I was still holding the knife in one hand, and I started stabbing the slices of pepperoni with the tip of the blade.

Brian sounded a bit impatient. “Mona, the sooner the girls get used to the whole idea, the better. Just have them ready.”

“Sure. Just as soon as you tell me how.”

“What?”

“We’re talking about three teenaged girls. How do I get them ready? They don’t want to go. Do I threaten them? Ground them for two weeks? Do I bribe them? Maybe I should physically drag them out the front door and sit on them until you show up, and then you could force them into the car. Of course, I could only drag one at a time, and while I’m doing that the other two could scatter, but I’m sure together we could hunt them down.” The pepperoni slices were becoming pepperoni hash.

“Mona, you’re being difficult. Just have them ready.”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m being practical. You know your own daughters, Brian, or at least you should. How hard is it to get them to do something they don’t want to do?”

He was silent. “You’re a bitch,” he snarled, and hung up.

I handed Miranda her phone. “Turn it off,” I said in a shaking voice. I overturned the box of mushrooms and began furiously chopping them.

“Way to go, Mom,” Jessica said behind me. She must have come downstairs during the conversation with Brian. She was actually smiling. “I turned off my cell, too. How about you, Lauren?”

“I’ll do it now,” Lauren said, running out of the room.

I was starting to calm down. “Jess, honey, want to take the dough out of the fridge? It needs to come to room temperature.”

Jessica went over to the refrigerator, and we all spent the next few minutes in companionable silence. Lauren came back in, and she actually set the table without being asked. My blood pressure was getting back down to normal when the house phone rang, and I recognized the number on caller ID as Brian’s cell.

“Aunt Lily,” I called. She came in from the den, where she’d been watching the Food Network. “Can you answer the phone? It’s Brian, and we don’t want to talk to him.”

Lily smiled, and reached for the phone. “Hello?” Pause “This is Lily. Who’s this?” Pause. “Brian who?” Pause. “What the hell do you want?” Pause. “You want Mona? You mean your wife? The one you just ruthlessly abandoned for some cheap French tart?” Pause. “Well, she’s not here.” Pause. “Now, really, why would I lie about a thing like that?” Pause. “Brian, I really don’t have to listen to that kind of abuse.” She hung up.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked.

“I’m making homemade pizza,” I explained happily.

The phone rang. Lily answered it and said, in a distinctly Hindu accent, “Hello?” Pause. “Sorry? No speak American?” Pause. “Sorry? Telemarketer?” She hung up again.

“Maybe,’ she said, smoothly, “we should put this away until tomorrow night, and walk into town for burgers at the pub. My treat. What do you think?”

We were out of there just as the phone began to ring again.

The next day, Saturday, a bouquet from Incredible Edibles arrived. Incredible Edibles is a company that creates what appear to be bouquets of flowers that are actually made from food. This particular bouquet consisted of chocolate chip cookies, chocolate covered strawberries, sugar cookies in the shape of oak leaves covered with green icing, and candied orange and lemon slices sprinkled with sugar. All the items were on the end of longs skewers and stuck in a festive pink vase. Quite pretty. Immediately, the girls began to fight over who got what, and after half an hour of constant sugar consumption, they were all spitting like cats. When I suggested that perhaps they should save a little something for later, Miranda hissed. Then I hinted that perhaps one of them should at least call their father and acknowledge the bribe.

Jessica shrugged. “If we ignore him, maybe next time he’ll send cash,” she said.

Later that afternoon, it occurred to me that I had a standing account at Incredible Edibles, so I called and spoke directly to the owner. Sure enough, Brian had charged the whole thing, meaning that sometime next month I would be getting the bill. Luckily, the Hoboken address had burned itself into my brain, so the correction was made quick enough.

Sunday, Miranda almost caved. She came down after lunch, tracked me into the den, sat down, and took my hand.

“Mom, if I ask you to take me to the mall so that I can meet Daddy for lunch and he can buy me a new pair of Uggs, will you take it as a sign of betrayal?”

I just looked at her. She rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, and left. Good girl.

By Sunday night, I think Brian admitted defeat. At least in round one.

David West looked the way a lawyer should look. I’m not talking Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird. Or even Jimmy Stewart in Anatomy of a Murder. If Susan Hayward had gotten him on board in I Want To Live, she would have gotten, ten, fifteen years, tops. Think Kirk Douglas, in that movie about the soldiers raping the girl in that little German town, and how Kirk turns into a barracuda. That’s how David West struck me. In fact, when he shook my hand, I thought that, when he went swimming, instead of doing laps he probably made slow, lazy circles on the bottom of the pool.

His office was also just right. It took up a whole floor over a row of retail shops in Morristown, and overlooked one of the true village greens that remained in New Jersey. Thick carpet muffled any intrusive sounds, and the smell of coffee made you feel right at home.

I sat across from him and sniffed. Sometime during the previous weekend, something somewhere bloomed – maybe a daffodil, maybe a tulip, maybe a maple leaf had unfurled, but whatever it was, it set off my allergies. My eyes had turned red-rimmed and puffy, my throat felt scratchy, causing my voice to sound froggy, and my nose filled to capacity. So sitting in his office, I looked the picture of emotional distress. What I was feeling was closer to murder.

I had spoken to his secretary and gotten a list of information to collect, and had it all in a neat manila folder that I handed to him. He looked quickly at the file.

“Tax returns? Excellent. Bank statements, credit card bills, mortgage papers. I can see you’ve done your homework. What’s this?”

“That’s what my husband’s lawyer faxed over to me last week,” I croaked.

His eyes scanned quickly. “Well, child support looks generous, and visitation is about standard. He’s giving you the family home, how nice of him. This house in Harvey Cedars? Tell me about it.”

I cleared my throat. “It’s mine. Just mine. Brian giving it to me is not a generous as it sounds. I bought it twelve years ago because I’d started to make money writing, and my accountant thought it would be a good idea. It’s right on the border of Harvey Cedars. In fact, the houses across the street are in the next town. A while back, my neighbors and I made a pact that we’d never tear down our houses and build Mac Mansions in their place. So it’s a very modest block. Cape Cod-style homes. Mine has three bedrooms and two baths.”

David West flashed me a look. “But it’s still a sizable asset?”

“Oh, sure. I mean, it’s on the beach block. On Long Beach Island, which is a prime New Jersey shore location. I could sell it for the lot alone and buy a whole island in the South Pacific.”

“Is it a rental? Do you derive income from it?”

I reached for a tissue and dabbed my nose. “No. I spend the summers there. With my daughters. We go down after school lets out and stay ‘till Labor Day. We’ve done that for years. Brian comes down – that is, came down, on weekends and for a week or two at a time.”

He was nodding. “Okay. Now, tell me about the condo.”

“I don’t know anything about the condo. Brian bought that without my knowledge.”

His eyebrows went up. “Now, that’s interesting. I don’t know this particular address, but I know the neighborhood, and he probably paid a pretty penny for it.”

I sniffed again. “According to the tax records, he paid $875,000.00 for it.”

He actually smiled. “Really? That required a substantial down payment. Did you notice any money missing from any accounts?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Very interesting. Good. Now, Mrs. Berman.” He folded his hand together and looked legal. “I’m seeing you today, on such short notice, because Patricia Carmichael called and asked a favor. Which I was more that happy to do for her. She has been a client for many years. In fact, I’ve known Ms. Carmichael a very long time. I might even venture to call her my friend.” He stopped, thought for a minute, frowned and shook his head hard. “Well, no, not really friend. But I know her. Very well. She can be, ah, determined, and ah…” He was still frowning.

“Strong-willed?” I suggested.

“Yes,” he said gratefully. ‘Very strong-willed. And, well frankly, ah…”

“Intimidating?” I offered.

He smacked his hand, palm down, against his desktop. “Exactly. Intimidating. At times.”

“Well, she’s very beautiful,” I said, by way of explanation.

“Ohhh, yes. That she is.”

“And smart. Not just intelligent, but street smart.”