I cleaned the hamster cage and the kitchen; though I hadn’t noticed earlier, I also had to straighten up the family room. Barbies and their accessories had been strewn about, blankets needed to be folded and returned to the appropriate chest, and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn had to be emptied into the trash before being washed and dried. Remembering I still had dinners my mom had prepared, I moved a few Tupperware containers from the freezer to the refrigerator. I also unloaded the groceries I’d picked up with Liz and Marge earlier.
Later, I crawled into bed and caught the scent of perfume, one that I knew Vivian had been wearing. It was light and flowery but otherwise unknown to me, and I knew I’d never sleep. I stripped the bedding and put clean sheets on the bed. I wondered if she’d intended any message by leaving behind dirty sheets or a messy house. It might have been anger, but I didn’t think so. My gut was telling me that she no longer cared how I might feel because she no longer cared about me at all.
CHAPTER 17
Moving Forward and Backward
When I was dating Emily—before I did something stupid—we spent the first week of July in Atlantic Beach, North Carolina. With two other couples, we’d rented a house close enough to the water that we could hear the waves breaking in unrelenting rhythm. Though we’d split the rent three ways, it was still a stretch for all of us, so we’d brought coolers packed with food we’d purchased at the grocery store. We planned to cook instead of going out to restaurants, and as the sun started to go down, we’d fire up the grill and start our feast. In the evenings, we’d drink beer on the porch to the sound of the radio, and I can remember thinking that it was the first of many such vacations Emily and I would end up taking together.
The Fourth of July was particularly special. Emily and I woke before the others, walking the beach as the sun began to rise. By the time everyone got out of bed, we’d set up our spot on the beach, complete with a steamer I’d rented to cook the scallops and shrimp that had been unloaded at the docks only a few hours earlier. We supplemented the seafood with corn on the cob and potato salad, and set up an inexpensive volleyball net. When our friends finally joined us, we spent the rest of the day in the sun, kicking back, wading in the surf, and coating ourselves with sunscreen.
There was a carnival in town that week, set up in the main traffic circle near the beach, about a quarter mile from where we were staying. It was one of those traveling carnivals, with rickety rides, overpriced tickets, and games that were almost impossible to win. There was, however, a Ferris wheel, and half an hour before the fireworks were supposed to start, Emily and I ditched the group and climbed aboard the ride. I figured we’d have plenty of time to rejoin our friends afterward, but as fate would have it, the ride broke down just as Emily and I reached the apex.
While stalled at the top, I could see workers tinkering with either the engine or the generator; later, I saw someone race off, only to return carrying a large and obviously heavy toolbox. The ride operator shouted up to us that he’d have the ride working again shortly, but warned us not to rock the carts.
Though the day had been sweltering, the wind was gusting, and I slipped my arm around Emily as she leaned into me. She wasn’t frightened, nor was I; even if the engine was fried, I was sure there was some sort of manual hand crank they could use to eventually unload everyone. From our vantage point in the sky, we watched people as they moved among the carnival booths, and stared at the carpet of house and streetlights that seemed to stretch for miles. In time, I heard the familiar thwump of a firework being launched from a barge off shore just before sparkling fingers of gold and green and red expanded across the sky. Wow, Emily breathed, something she repeated throughout the hour and a half we remained stuck on the Ferris wheel. The wind was pushing the scent of gunpowder down the beach, and as I pulled Emily closer I remember thinking that I would propose to Emily before the year was up.
It was around that time that our friends finally spotted us. They were on the beach, people in miniature, and when they figured out that we were stuck, they began to whoop and point. One of the girls shouted up to us that if we planned on spending the night up there, we should probably order a pizza.
Emily giggled, before growing quiet.
“I’m going to pretend that you paid the workers down there to stall the Ferris wheel on purpose,” she finally said.
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, “for as long as I live, I don’t think another Fourth of July will ever measure up to this one.”
On Monday morning, London woke with a red nose and continuing sniffles. Though she wasn’t coughing, I debated whether to send her to school, but when I suggested as much, she began to fuss.
“The teacher is bringing in her goldfish today, and I get to feed him! Plus, it’s coloring day.”
I wasn’t sure what coloring day entailed, but it was obviously a big deal to her. I gave her some cold medicine at breakfast, and she skipped off to class. I noticed when dropping London off that the teacher had a cold too, which made me feel better about my decision.
On my way back to the car, I caught myself wondering what Vivian was doing and immediately shoved the thought away. Who cares? I reminded myself, but more important, I had a commercial to film later that week and another client I needed to impress.
At the office I was swamped with work. I confirmed everything I needed to film Taglieri’s third commercial on Friday. I touched base with the tech guy for the plastic surgeon, and even managed to meet with an animal trainer who claimed to have just the dog I needed to film the fourth commercial for Taglieri. We set a date for filming on Thursday of the following week.
Which meant, fortunately, that I didn’t have time to think about Vivian much at all.
The settlement agreement was delivered via FedEx on Tuesday afternoon. It also came via email, but I couldn’t bring myself to read either version. Instead, I called Joey Taglieri and asked if he would look it over. We agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant not far from his office the following day.
I found him at a booth in the corner, the table topped with a red and white checkered tablecloth and a manila folder lying on a pad of yellow legal paper. He was drinking a glass of mineral water and when I sat, he slid a piece of paper toward me, along with a pen. “Before we get into this, you need to sign a retainer agreement. I told you that I don’t do family law anymore, but I can make an exception for you. I can also recommend some attorneys, including the guy who handled my second divorce, but I’m not sure how much they’ll be able to help you for reasons I’ll get to in a moment. The point is, no matter who you choose, everything you tell me will be covered by attorney-client privilege, even if you ultimately decide to work with someone else.”
I signed the retainer agreement and slid it back to him. Satisfied, he leaned back. “You want to tell me what happened?”
I told the same story I had to Marge and Liz and my parents and Emily. By then, I felt as though I’d told the story a hundred times. Taglieri jotted notes along the way. When I finished, he leaned back and said, “All right, I think I got it. I also reviewed the document, and I guess the first thing that you should know is that it looks like she intends to file for divorce in Georgia, not North Carolina.”