Oh, the condescending ass. “Stop using that word. You sound like an idiot.” I swallowed as he took a sip of his malbec. “Seriously, Brad. Be normal for one minute. Don’t you care that you’re breaking my heart?”
“Of course I care,” Brad said. “But honestly, this has nothing to do with you. It’s about my journey.”
“How can you say that? This is our marriage. You never said you were unhappy! You never mentioned anything being wrong. We were happy.”
“You didn’t sense my deep discontent?”
“I did not, because you weren’t deeply discontented. And if you were, it’s normal to go through those times. Our son is leaving for college. Of course we’ve had other things on our minds. You’re taking our family and tossing it in the trash. Our whole future. Have you thought about this? All the things you’ll miss? Christmas? Family dinners?”
“I never really felt welcomed by your family, honestly.”
“Because they saw you for the superficial asshole you are, probably. I’m the only one stupid enough to have loved you.”
“So much hostility,” he chided. “These things happen. It’s no one’s fault.”
“No, Brad, it is your fault! You said nothing about the deep discontentment. You’ve been seeing another woman behind my back. You’ve cheated on me and lied to me, you’ve been gaslighting me, and I have done absolutely nothing wrong!”
“Calm down,” he said, because women love hearing that. “Your anger is one of the reasons I think I needed more j—happiness in my life.”
“I’m allowed to be angry, Brad! How long has this been going on?”
“How long,” he sang, “has this been going on?”
I laughed unexpectedly. Brad had a great memory for song lyrics. We used to play Name That Tune on long car rides. He was killer at that game. My heart did crack then. We’d never do those things again. We had such an easy rhythm, so many traditions and funny little inside jokes. Maybe, as we sat there in the ensuing silence, he was thinking about those things, too.
“Anyway,” I said eventually, “answer the question. How long have you been having an affair? Who is she? I’m going to find out, so you might as well tell me.” We were down to three weeks and two days before Dylan left for school.
He sighed. “It’s not an affair. It’s love.” He paused. “Ironically, you introduced us.”
My head jerked back. “What?”
“Melissa,” he said. “Who bought Stella Maris.”
What the hell was Stella Maris? At my blank look, he said, “Melissa Finch. She bought the house on Griffins Island Road last winter.”
“The . . . the . . . widow with the kid?”
“Yes.” He smiled.
“Oh, my God.”
“She’s so smart and talented. Wait till you get to know her better.”
“I’m not going to get to know her better, Brad!”
“I’ve already told you I prefer Bradley,” he said. “I would appreciate it if you could respect my wishes.”
Who was this guy? Where was my husband?
As for Melissa Finch, I had liked her. I’d introduced her around! I’d suggested she join the council on the arts and had introduced her to two families who had kids her daughter’s age. I had just seen her last week in the general store, and she’d been so nice. While she was sleeping with my husband!
That was one stone-cold killer. My God. She hadn’t even blushed.
“When did this start?” I asked, my voice like gravel.
He sighed. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose it was . . . late February, early March.”
She had moved here at the end of January. They sure hadn’t wasted any time. Wow. It had taken him mere weeks to set fire to his wedding vows and our life.
“Look,” he said, and his voice was tight and irritated. “It’s done, Lillie. You and I are getting a divorce whether you like it or not, and it can go smoothly, or we can go to court and you can spend a lot of money on a lawyer. I’ll let you have the house, I suppose.”
“Big of you.” We owed quite a bit on the house, after all the renovations. Quite a bit. Would I get our debt, too?
“Let’s be kind to each other,” he said. “We can get along as Dylan’s parents, because we’ll always have him to bind us. When the hurt fades, you’re really going to like Melissa. You already do, you said it yourself last winter.”
“That’s before I knew she was stealing my husband,” I said.
He sighed, sadly, patiently. “You can’t steal a person,” he said.
“What does her kid think?”
“We’re forging a solid relationship, and Ophelia is her niece, actually.”
So he’d met the child. I had, too, when I brought them flowers as a housewarming gift. She’d been a bit stone-faced, but she was twelve. It came with the territory.
“Can you please answer my very reasonable question about mediation?” Brad asked.
“Let me think about it.” I hadn’t done any real research yet, and I would have to, I supposed. “Have you told your parents?”
He looked away. “Not yet.”
“They’ll be so ashamed of you. Disgusted, really.”
His face grew red, but his expression was almost haughty. “They’ll want their son to find his joy and lead a life full of hope and self-care.”
“They’ll want their son to honor the vows he made before them and God, and they will be horrified that you’re an adulterer.”
“Maybe,” he said. “I can’t live my life based on some archaic view of society.”
I left the porch before I punched him in the face.
I only knew one attorney well . . . my mother. But free legal advice was free, and she was nothing if not blunt. So I drove up to Provincetown the next day and sat in her stunning, cold white kitchen, which she and Beatrice had redone last year. She made me coffee from what appeared to be a small jet engine, based on its complexity, and listened as I told her the news.
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said, setting her cup down on the white marble island top. “I never liked Brad. So pretentious. Then again, that probably appealed to you, Liliana.”
Two seconds in, and already she was twisting the knife. It was her special gift. “He wants to do mediation.”
“That’s the best way,” she said. She paused. “Do not let him take the house or make you sell it. Don’t move out, either.”
Funny. She couldn’t wait to flee that house when I was a kid.
“That’s the most important thing to me,” I said. “And Dylan’s education.”
“Oh, you haven’t paid for that yet?” she asked.
Death by a thousand paper cuts. “No, Mom. But we have saved. Just not the whole amount yet.”
“Really? Hannah could probably help you. She makes a wonderful living.” Mom also made a wonderful living and had inherited a hefty sum when her father died years ago, but she had never offered to help with her only grandchild’s college expenses, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“I’m fine, Mom. Financially. We don’t need help. We just . . . we’re just normal, Mom. We’ll pay it as it comes.”
She looked at her manicure, admiring the light pink polish. “If you say so. Anyway, mediation is the fastest, easiest and cheapest. Make sure you look at his pension and retirement funds. Is he hiding money?”
“No. I don’t think so. I handle the money.”
“Good.” She looked out the window at her garden. “Do you have anything of value? Jewelry, art, furniture?”
“Just the house, mostly. Some paintings I bought for his office.”
“Those count as gifts, then. Too bad, since you probably overpaid for them.” She looked at the ceiling. “I’m not a divorce attorney, but there are a few things that are just de rigueur. Get your own credit card and bank account, and make sure he’s not spending money you don’t know about,” she said. “Freeze your joint accounts and tell your financial adviser you’re divorcing, if you have one, that is. If Brad has anything that might be valuable, take a photo of it and get it appraised.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Baseball cards? That hideous old hutch in your den? I don’t know, Liliana. You’re the wife. Oh, and try to get money from him that’s not in the form of alimony. You won’t get taxed that way. Get him off your insurance plan.” She took a sip of coffee from her antique Limoges teacup—no “World’s Best Grandma” mug for her. “Good for you, Lillie! I’m proud of you.”