Put a Ring On It (20 page)

“Well, I do.” Summer answered the phone with, “This better be good.” She cast her gaze up and listened for a moment, then said, “Tell it to Brighton, buddy. We're at the Purple Palace getting the lowdown on your sordid past . . . Yeah, I'd hurry if I were you.” She ended the call with a click and a smile. “He'll be right over.”

Brighton blinked. “He's coming over here? Now?”

“Mm-hmm. Lila told him she sent you to me, and I guess he wants a sit-down.” Summer opened the massive refrigerator and started rifling through the shelves.

Brighton sank down on a carved hardwood stool. “I can't believe this.”

“Which part?” Summer asked.

“All of it.” Brighton tried to pinpoint where, exactly, things had gone wrong. “‘Let's get married,' we said. ‘It'll be fun,' we said.” She lowered her head into her hands. “And now I'm making black diamond poison rings and asking scary old ladies for gossip and trying to wean myself off my sexual addiction to my drive-through husband and relapsing in the middle of the night.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Summer soothed. “You could still be normal.”

“L
et me ask you, Miss Smith.” Hattie arranged herself in a white wicker settee on her vast veranda as her butler (or “manservant,” as Summer insisted on calling him) served iced lemonade garnished with sprigs of fresh lavender. “Have you ever read
The Great Gatsby
?”

“Yes.” Brighton tried to remember the details. “Junior year of high school, I think.”

“Well, according to my sources, Jake Sorensen and Genevieve Van Petten are the contemporary equivalent of Gatsby and Daisy. When they met, he was poor and uneducated. But very attractive. He amused her for a summer; then she left to finish her schooling.”

“That's not
The Great Gatsby
; that's
Dirty Dancing
,” Summer said.

“When you say he amused her, you mean he married her,” Brighton clarified.

“Yes,” Hattie replied. “They lived together for a month or two,
which had the intended effect of scandalizing her mother's social circle. But then her father put his foot down, and that was that.”

Brighton cast her mind back to the older man who'd been frowning at Genevieve at the ball. “Is her father tall and lanky? Lots of white hair like he stuck his finger in a socket?”

Hattie smiled. “Yes, that sounds like Russell. At any rate, Jake is very successful now.”

“Understatement,” Summer declared. “The man bleeds green. He probably has more money than you do.”

“He might,” Hattie allowed. “But I have social cachet and connections far beyond his reach.”

Summer laughed. “I seriously doubt he cares about social cachet.”

“Oh, but he does.” Hattie sat back, very pleased with herself and her birthright. “The people I spoke to don't know that Genevieve actually married him. Her parents kept that very quiet. I've only heard there was a dalliance, and that he adored her.”

The phrase had an almost physical impact on Brighton.

“He would have done anything for her,” Hattie continued. “Everything he did, everything he became, he did to be worthy of her.”

“No way.” Summer rolled her eyes. “Jake Sorensen is nobody's puppy dog.”

“Indeed, he is. Shortly after Genevieve left him, he started his first company. He amassed what he considered to be a sizable fortune and arranged to run into her at an auction house, where he bought an antique watch to show off his money.”

Brighton froze. “What kind of watch?”

Hattie waved one wrinkled hand dismissively. “What does it matter? He approached her in front of her family and friends and declared his love.”

“What happened?” Summer asked.

“She laughed at him. She made it clear she would never marry beneath her again. Later that evening, she announced her engagement to one of her childhood friends.” Hattie inclined her head. “He made a fool of himself because he didn't understand that it's not enough to have means if one doesn't have the right breeding.”

“We're talking about people here, not horses, right?” Summer stuck out her tongue. “You and your sources are insufferable. And Genevieve sounds like a bitch.”

But Hattie sided with her fellow socialite. “What else could she do? He'd put her in a very awkward position.”

“Uh, she could be a decent human being,” Summer suggested.

“She should have shown more grace, but she did the right thing,” Hattie said firmly. “The kind thing. If she'd acquiesced to his advances, she would have succumbed to his considerable charms—”

Summer winked at Brighton. “You
love
him. Admit it. Late at night, when you're not plotting evil deeds, you're fantasizing about his abs and his pecs and his—”

“If she had acquiesced, she would have had to break his heart again eventually. She had her family to think about.”

“He was so young then,” Brighton murmured. “He must have felt—”

“Don't waste your sympathy on him. He got over it,” Hattie assured her. “He went home from that auction with two young women, spent the next few years doubling his fortune many times over, and now he can have any woman he wants.” She regarded Brighton with a slight curl to her lip.

Brighton couldn't get the image of that battered old watch out of her head. He had been wearing it on the night she met him. The night Genevieve had gotten back in touch. That couldn't be a coincidence—he'd been wearing that watch as a reminder of . . . what? How much he still loved Genevieve, or how badly he'd felt when she left him?

“How do you know all this?” Summer demanded of Hattie. “Aren't you too rich and rarefied to talk on the phone like the commoners? Don't you have to send handwritten letters on engraved stationery?”

“Go ahead and mock me,” Hattie said. “I know I'm right. I have power and connections that you will never have.”

“And you'll never get tired of lording that over me,” Summer shot back.

“No, I don't imagine I will.” Hattie reached over and rested her cool, papery hand atop Brighton's. “Miss Smith, let me give you some advice. If a man prefers another woman over you, let him have her. You don't want to endure a lifetime of trying to live up to standards set by someone else.”

“Yeah, look at the bright side and take this for what it was,” Summer urged. “A really hot summer fling. You got to live the fantasy of half the women in this town.”

“That's true. I got exactly what I wanted,” Brighton said. But somehow, it wasn't enough.

“Focus on that. Don't overreach.” Summer took a sip of lemonade. “I can't believe I'm saying this, but I agree with Hattie: There's no such thing as happily ever after with a guy like Jake. Speaking of whom . . .” She shot to her feet, grabbed Hattie's elbow, and tried to hustle the old lady off the porch.

“How dare you?” Hattie cried. “Unhand me immediately.”

And then Brighton heard the footsteps on the porch steps. She
knew before she turned around that she was about to get another hit of her drug of choice.

“What up, Sorensen?” Summer continued wrestling with Hattie. “We'll just wait in the parlor while you and Brighton catch up.”

“Jake. How lovely to see you again!” Hattie's sour expression vanished. She looked almost giddy. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Jake nodded at Brighton. “I've been looking for you.”

Hattie smiled sweetly and placed her fingertips on Jake's forearm. “Are you sure I can't tempt you? We've been having the most refreshing lemonade with fresh lavender.”

Summer mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “Get a room.”

Hattie kept her hand on Jake's arm. Jake kept his gaze focused on Brighton, and Brighton kept her gaze focused on the sunlight glinting off the ocean waves.

“Okay, then.” Summer cleared her throat. “We'll give you two crazy kids some privacy.”

Hattie sighed and acquiesced. “Yes, and if you need anything at all . . .”

“It's fine.” Brighton forced herself to face Jake. “The whole town's already talking, so you might as well say whatever you have to say in front of Hattie and Summer.” She refused to back down or back away even an inch. “Do you still want her?”

She could hear Summer suck in her breath.

Jake didn't react. “What's going on between me and Genevieve has nothing to do with you.”

“I'm well aware.” She lifted her chin. “Please answer my question. Do you still want her?”

“No.” But he couldn't meet her eyes.

“Then what is she doing here?”

“She wants things from me.” He waited a beat. “Just like you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You married me because you wanted something from me.” He gave her a moment to refute this, but she couldn't. “That's what relationships are: Each person has something the other person wants. It's a transaction.”

“I don't believe that,” Brighton said. “And I don't believe you do, either.”

“Believe what you want,” he said flatly.

“Then why me?” Brighton knew how hurt and vulnerable she sounded, but she didn't care. “You could have used any single woman at that bar as your last line of defense again Genevieve.”

“That's true,” Summer chimed in. “Jenna will never get over the fact that you didn't pick her.”

“I didn't show up at the Whinery planning to get married,” Jake said.

“Neither did I,” Brighton shot back. “So why me? What did I bring to the transaction?”

He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze softening. “Ten-year plans, a balanced portfolio, and a thorough understanding of small aircraft safety records.”

“You're mocking me.”

He shook his head. “You dress like a CEO and you're sexy as hell.”

Summer practically melted into a puddle. “Aww.”

Brighton gave her the side eye of death. “Don't fall for this. He's deflecting the real question.”

“You're different from Genevieve in every way,” Jake finished.

“So you wanted me for what I'm
not
? It had nothing to do with who I
am
?” Brighton watched him, hoping that he might deny this. Hoping that he might fight for her. “I refuse to be a pawn in
whatever game you and Genevieve are playing. I'm done. I give up. You win.”

His gaze shuttered as he stepped back, calm and impassive. “I'll set up an appointment with an attorney tomorrow.”

“T
his is a little unusual,” the attorney said after Brighton and Jake had settled into matching leather wing chairs. “Typically, my clients don't come to my office with the spouse they're going to divorce.”

“That's par for the course for us.” Brighton nodded. “We did everything backward, upside down, inside out, and out of order.”

“We're very amicable,” Jake said.

Amicable.
The word, so harmless and neutral, made Brighton suck in her breath. Of all the terms she would use to characterize the past few weeks with Jake, “amicable” wouldn't even make the top hundred. She stared down, twisted her hands in her lap, and tried not to reveal any trace of her feelings.

“That's a welcome change.” The attorney shuffled some papers and waited for Brighton to glance up again. “And it will make the dissolution process much smoother. Let me ask a few questions and we'll start the filing procedures. First, though, I have to advise you
that, legally and ethically, I cannot represent both of you. The way it usually works with a collaborative divorce is, each party retains an attorney or selects a mediator to hammer out the details.”

“We don't need a mediator,” Jake said firmly. “I'll agree to whatever terms she wants.”

“Gosh.” Brighton's voice was faint. “How very
amicable
of you.”

Jake shot her a strange look, then turned back to the lawyer. “If you can only legally represent one of us, represent her. Draft up the paperwork and I'll sign it.”

Brighton rearranged herself in her chair and touched her hammered gold link bracelet. “But what are we going to put in the paperwork?”

Jake had pulled out his phone. “Whatever you want.”

The lawyer looked alarmed. “Mr. Sorensen, I strongly advise you not to make any agreements, verbal or otherwise, before you—”

“I don't want a settlement from you,” Brighton said.

Jake remained focused on the e-mail he was reading. “You're angry.”

“I'm not angry; I just don't want anything of yours.”

The attorney threw himself into the emotional cross fire. “If I may, I need to ask a few questions before we get into any details concerning the division of assets.”

“Fine.” Brighton looked straight ahead. “Shoot.”

The attorney picked up a pen. “When and where did the marriage take place?”

Jake gave the lawyer a knowing look. “You live in this town. You've heard about this by now.”

“Rumors and gossip don't hold up in courts of law. When and where did the marriage take place?”

“About two weeks ago.” Brighton had to pull up the digital calendar on her smartphone to cite the exact date. “We flew to Vegas for the ceremony.”

“Are you both current residents of Delaware?”

“I'm a part-time resident,” Jake said.

“I'm from New Jersey,” Brighton said.

“But you currently reside here with your husband?”

“Well, yes.”
I guess.
“Technically.”

“Do you have a copy of the marriage license?”

“Yes.” Brighton crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knee. “But I should probably tell you that we were drunk at the time. Which they're normally very strict about.”

The attorney put down the pen. “You were drunk? Then how . . . ?”

“I bribed the official,” Jake said.

The lawyer put down his pen, picked it up, then put it down again. “I'll need to make some inquiries.” He spoke to them in the same tone an elementary school principal might use to shame spitball-wielding third graders.

Brighton had to suppress the sudden and inappropriate urge to laugh.

“Not to worry—we'll get everything sorted out,” the attorney continued. “And we can start the clock on your mandated separation period.”

Brighton started making notes of her own. “There's a mandated separation period?”

“Thirty days.”

“So what happens? We file for divorce, wait thirty days, and then a judge finalizes it?”

“In theory. I'll have to check about the residency issues. But the inebriation issues have the potential to complicate matters.” He thinned his lips. “As do the bribery issues.”

Brighton got the church giggles again, which the attorney pretended not to notice.

“The fact that you two are sharing a living space also complicates matters,” he said.

“I'll move out,” Jake and Brighton said at exactly the same time.

She turned to him. “Don't be ridiculous. It's your house.”

He shook his head. “I don't want to make your life any harder than I already have.”

She glimpsed a mix of pity and regret in his eyes.
Pity.
Just when she thought she couldn't feel any more inadequate.

“No.” She crossed her arms.

“I insist.” He shrugged. “It's not like I don't have anywhere else to go.”

“I've got somewhere else you can go,” she muttered under her breath.

“Brighton . . . ,” he started.

She addressed the lawyer. “When can we start the paperwork?”

He glanced from Brighton to Jake and back again. “Ms. Smith is my client, then?”

“Yes,” Jake confirmed. “But I'll pay your retainer on the way out.”

Brighton stood up and snatched the strap of her handbag. “That won't be necessary. I'm perfectly capable of paying my own retainer.”

Jake got to his feet, towering over her. “I know you're capable, but I want to do this for you.”

“Well, I don't want you to do this for me.”

They squared off, separated by the matching wing chairs.

“I'll go find some coffee.” The lawyer practically ran out to the hall and closed the door behind him.

“Do not do this,” Brighton warned before Jake could say another word.

“I am doing this.” He set his jaw. “The least I can do is be a gentleman and pay the retainer.”

“Because that's what gentlemen do? Bankroll quickie divorces to random women they met in a bar when the long-lost loves of their lives showed up?”

“Yes.” His jaw muscle twitched again. “That's what gentlemen do.”

Her whole body tensed, just like the night she first saw him. “For the last time: I do not want your money.”

“Why not?” He took a step toward her. “Be practical, Brighton.”

“I cannot be practical about this.” She could be practical about everything else in her life, but not him.

“It's just money.”

“Exactly.” Her voice quavered. “It doesn't mean anything to you, so you throw it around to make all of life's little inconveniences disappear. Like me.”

He sighed and rubbed one side of his cheek. “Yeah, about that . . .”

Brighton fell silent.

“I know it's too late. All this stuff with Genevieve . . . But I'm sorry, Brighton. I am.” Another step and he was close enough to raise his hand to touch her face.

She held her breath, waiting for . . . she didn't know what, exactly.

He dropped his hand to his side. “The least I can do is make this marriage worth your while. We never got around to drafting that post-nup you wanted.”

She held up both palms. “Please stop talking.”

“I don't want you to leave with nothing,” he said.

“Jake.” She turned away from him, studying the framed oil painting on the far wall. “I married you for spite and sent pictures of your private jet and your perfectly sculpted cheekbones to my ex on our wedding night. Nothing is
exactly
what I deserve.”

“I'm giving you a settlement. You've earned it.”

She whirled back around.
“Excuse me?”

His smartphone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket to check his message while he told her, “Name your price.”

Brighton literally couldn't breathe for a moment. She clutched the back of a chair for support.

“Hell, I'll give you the beach house if you want it.”

She waited for him to look up from the phone screen again. Seconds ticked by.

Finally, she gave up on getting his full attention. “You're willing to walk away from Don't Be Koi if it means a nice, easy divorce?”

“Sure.” He still hadn't glanced back at her. “It's just a house.”

“What about the furniture?” she pressed. “The artwork? The boat?” She hadn't actually seen a boat, but she was willing to bet he had one stashed away somewhere.

“Sure.” He inclined his head. “Whatever you want.”

“What I want is not to be treated like a prostitute.”

His head snapped up.

“Yes,” she assured him before he could protest. “I see what you're doing. You're treating me like a business decision.”

He put his phone away and crossed his arms, waiting.

“But the fact is, I'm not a business decision. I'm your wife.”
She glanced around the empty room and lowered her voice. “I did things with you that I've never done with anybody else. I
skateboarded
with you.”

His expression flickered for a split second, and then he recovered his composure. “That's why I'm trying to make this easy.”

“And that's why I'm upset. It makes me sad to think that you could write a check or sign over a deed and forget about me.” She paused as she remembered who she was talking to. “Wait—let me try to explain. ‘Sad' is a feeling people get when—”

“Don't.” His voice deepened. “It's not like that.”

“It kind of is.” She wasn't sure if he could hear her. “I was planning to stay, Jake. And now I can't.”

He finally betrayed a hint of frustration. “I have no idea what you want right now.”

She wanted him to love her—to
adore
her—too much to let her go, but she couldn't say that. So she went up on tiptoe, wrapped her arms around his neck, and brushed her lips against his. She knew she shouldn't, but she didn't care. He kissed her, she kissed him, and then they were making out in the middle of the attorney's office. Swapping spit at a billable rate of hundreds of dollars per hour.

There was a lot of muffled thumping and laughing as they moved from the bookcase to the chair to the rug. They ended up sweaty and intertwined, staring up at the underside of the massive mahogany desk.

At which point rational thought staged a comeback.

“I'm glad I married you, Brighton.” He gazed down at her, his brown eyes at once so bright and so dark.

“Me, too.” She rested her cheek against his bare arm. “I wish it didn't have to end like this, even though I knew it would.” She could hear a phone ringing in the office next door and traffic
passing by outside the window. “What's going to happen with you and Genevieve?”

He turned away from her and rolled onto his back. “I'm good at a lot of things, Brighton.”

She looked around at the office furniture they'd just defiled. “Yes, yes you are.”

“When I set out to accomplish something, I do it. I do not quit. I do not fail. But when I married Genevieve, I showed horrific judgment.” He sat up and put his shirt on. “I had a huge blind spot. I made terrible decisions. I failed.”

She sat up, too, combing her fingers through her hair. “What are you talking about? You're the ultimate success story.”

“Put it this way: If you were phenomenal at every other sport—football, baseball, hockey, lacrosse—but terrible at basketball, why would you keep trying to play basketball?”

Brighton furrowed her brow, trying to follow. “Jake. We're not talking about sports. We're talking about relationships. Everyone gets their heart broken when they're young.”

But he reached for his jeans and refused to say anything more.

“Jake, come on. Talk to me.”

He stood up and pulled on the jeans. “Let me ask you something: Would you have married me that night if I weren't rich? Would you still have decided to run off in the middle of the night to Vegas with me if I were an average-looking guy with an average bank account?”

Brighton tried to envision this. “Well . . .”

“You wouldn't,” he answered for her. “Because you say the money doesn't matter, but it does. If I didn't have what I have and look the way I look, you wouldn't have done what you did.”

“That's not true!” She located her shoes and looked around for her blouse. “I wasn't thinking about any of that. I was focused on your watch.”

“A watch that I wouldn't have if I weren't rich,” he pointed out. “A beat-up Patek Philippe is still a Patek Philippe. Or so I used to think.”

“You love that watch,” Brighton said. “Otherwise you wouldn't still have it.”

“I bought it because I liked it. I kept it to remind myself not to make the same mistake twice.”

“And that mistake would be . . . ?”