“It’s sad when a fifty-three-year-old plumber with Coke-bottle glasses and a red goatee is considered an eligible bachelor just because he owns an appliance store.”
Gina laughed. “Yeah. If I ever tell you I’m going out with Bert, please shoot me.” Slowly, her laughter turned to tears. “Aw, hell,” she said, leaning into Claire’s embrace.
“You’ll be okay, Gina,” Claire whispered, stroking her friend’s back. “I promise you will.”
“I don’t know,” Gina said quietly, and something about the way she said it, maybe the softness in a voice that was usually as hard as steel, made Claire feel empty inside. Alone.
Absurdly, she thought about the day her life had changed. When she’d learned that love had a shelf life, a use-by date that could pass suddenly and turn everything sour.
I’m leaving you, her sister had said. Until that moment, Meg had been Claire’s best friend, her whole world. More of a mother than Mama had ever been.
And then Claire was crying, too.
Gina sniffed. “No wonder no one wants to sit with me anymore. I’m the princess of darkness. Ten seconds in my company and perfectly happy people start to weep.”
Claire wiped her eyes. There was no point in crying about the past. It surprised her, actually, that she had any tears left. She thought she’d made peace with Meg’s abandonment long ago. “Remember the year Char fell off the dock because she was crying so hard she couldn’t see?”
“Bob’s midlife crisis. She thought he was having an affair with their housekeeper.”
“And it turned out he was secretly getting hair-plug treatments.”
Gina tightened her hold around Claire. “Thank Jesus for the Bluesers. I haven’t needed you all this much since I was in labor.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
The intercom buzzed. “Jill Summerville is here to see you.”
“Send her in.”
Meghann grabbed a new yellow legal pad and a pen from the overhead cabinet. By the time Jill was led into the conference room, Meg had returned to her seat and was smiling politely. She rose. “Hello, Jill. I’m Meghann Dontess.”
Jill stood near the door, looking ill at ease. She was a pretty woman, thin; maybe fifty. She wore an expensive gray suit with a cream silk shell underneath.
“Come, sit down,” Meghann said, indicating the empty chair to her left.
“I’m not certain I want a divorce.”
Meghann heard that all the time. “We could talk for a while if you’d like. You could tell me what’s going on with your marriage.”
Jill sat stiffly in the empty chair. She placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed, as if she were afraid the wood might levitate. “It’s not good,” she said softly. “I’ve been married for twenty-six years. But I can’t. Do it. Anymore. We don’t talk at all. We’ve become one of those couples who go out to dinner and sit silently across from each other. I saw my parents do that. I swore I never would. I’m going to be fifty next year. It’s time I have my life.”
The second-chance-at-life reason for divorce. It was number two, beaten only by that perennial favorite: He’s cheating on me. “Everyone deserves to be happy,” Meg said, feeling strangely remote. On autopilot, she reeled off a series of questions and statements designed to elicit solid information as well as inspire trust. Meg could tell that she was doing well on both counts. Jill had begun to relax. Occasionally, she even smiled.
“And how about assets? Do you have an idea of your net worth?”
“Beatrice DeMille told me you’d ask that.” She opened her Fendi briefcase and pulled out a packet of papers that were stapled together, then pushed them across the table. “My husband and I started the Internet company Emblazon. We sold out to AOL at the top of the market. That, combined with the lesser companies and homes, puts our net worth at somewhere around seventy-two million.”
Seventy-two million dollars.
Meghann held on to her ordinary smile by dint of will, afraid that her mouth would drop open. This was the biggest case ever to fall in her lap. She’d waited her whole career for a case like this. It was supposed to be the trade-off for all of the sleepless nights she’d spent worrying over clients who couldn’t pay their bills. Her favorite law professor used to say that the law was the same regardless of the zeroes. Meg knew better: The legal system favored women like Jill.
They should probably hire a media consultant. A case like this could generate a lot of publicity.
She should have been excited by the prospect, energized. Surprisingly, she felt detached. Even a little sad. She knew that, for all her millions, Jill was still a woman about to be broken.
Meg reached for the phone and pressed the intercom button. “Rhona, bring me the lawyer lists. Seattle. L.A. San Francisco. New York and Chicago.”
Jill frowned. “But …,” she paused when the secretary came into the room, carrying a sheet of paper.
“Thanks.” Meghann handed the paper to Jill. “These twenty lawyers are the best in the country.”