I got my job back at the insurance company working for Brenda, and that first week back she invited me to lunch to “catch up.” I think she was worried about me and, as my surrogate mom, felt it her duty to make sure I was okay. I wasn’t, of course. I now fully understood the man I had married—manipulative, abusive, probably manic-depressive. I knew he would continue to try to take advantage of me so long as he thought he could gain access to my trust funds. At present, he was on his best behavior, but only because he had to be. He had nowhere to go. His job search was not going well. BSBT, not surprisingly, would not provide him with a recommendation. When prospective employers called, BSBT’s human resources director “declined to comment,” which was a law firm’s way of saying the ex-employee was incompetent or dishonest, without getting sued, and every employer knew it. Graham continued to spin it, saying he didn’t want to work for someone else, that the real money “was in working for himself.” I ignored his comments. Most recently, Graham was talking to a law school roommate who had opened his own firm in a house and was looking for some attorneys to attend depositions and appear in court.
Brenda chose a restaurant called the Port House—a chic brewery that was so Portland with plank floors, a tall wood-beam ceiling, and brick walls. She had an appointment out of the office and suggested we meet at 1:15 p.m., after much of the lunch crowd had thinned. I removed my sunglasses as I entered but didn’t immediately see her. The hostess led me to a table on the sidewalk patio where I could people-watch while waiting. I pulled up my latest novel on my phone to read. A man’s voice interrupted me.
“Excuse me?”
I figured it was a panhandler about to hit me up for change. To my surprise, the man standing on the other side of the small wrought-iron fence wore a suit.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, smiling. “I don’t normally do this, but if you’re not waiting for someone, I wonder if I could buy you a beer?”
I was stunned and unsure of what to say. I’d never had anyone pick me up, and I wasn’t even sure that was the guy’s intent. I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, but he seemed so earnest, even a bit sheepish in his approach, like he really never had done this before. Some people give off a vibe, you know?
“I’m sorry,” I said. I truly was. “I’m having lunch with my friend. But, thank you for asking.”
He nodded as if he understood my situation, though I’m certain he couldn’t have. Maybe it was my vibe. Maybe my vibe was sadness and desperation.
“No worries,” he said, taking a step back from the fence. “I just saw you sitting alone and thought . . .”
The hostess appeared at the table, escorting Brenda.
“Well,” the man said, nodding to us both. “Sorry to interrupt. Have a nice lunch.”
Brenda gave me an inquisitive, arched eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
“No,” I said, watching the man walk away. A part of me wanted to chase after him, tell him I’d love to have lunch, and then we’d talk and I’d realize he was my soul mate. But I knew that was just an age-old fairy tale that had been done a billion different ways in books and movies.
“He just wanted to buy me a beer,” I said.
She smiled. “I don’t blame him. You look great. You’ve lost weight and you look really toned.”
I could again fit into what I referred to as my “skinny wardrobe.” I felt comfortable.
Brenda was casually dressed—casual for her, anyway. She wore slacks, a colorful blouse, and a brown jacket she quickly ditched over the back of her chair. For someone who’d just had her first child, she was in phenomenal shape, but then she was obsessed with working out. I knew Brenda was a member of the local YMCA and, when the weather got nice, she ran. Apparently, she and her husband participated in CrossFit competitions.
The waiter arrived. “I’ll have a Mac & Jack’s,” Brenda said.
He looked to me.
It was lunch and Brenda was my boss. “I’ll have iced tea.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “She’ll have what I’m having.”
After the waiter departed, Brenda said, “The doctor says beer helps produce milk when you’re breast-feeding. Who am I to argue? So what have you been doing to look so terrific?”
“I’ve been working out,” I said, sensing the opening. “Graham wants to climb Rainier. He thinks we need a hobby, that it will help our relationship.”
“Are things going better?”
When I asked Brenda for my job back I’d told her we had to file for bankruptcy and that the stress had impacted our marriage. “We’re working at it,” I said. “Actually, that reminds me. I need to get an insurance policy.”
“An insurance policy?”
“Life insurance,” I said. “Graham thinks it would be wise, given the climb is coming up. Could you help?”
“Sure,” she said. “So, co-policies?”
“No. Just a policy for me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just for you?”
“Well, we can’t really afford the premiums on two policies, and Graham says that if anything were to happen to him, I’d have my parents’ trust, so I’d be okay.”
“So he just wants a policy on you—with him as the beneficiary?”
“Right.”
She seemed to give that some thought. The waiter appeared with our beers. Brenda raised her glass and I met hers across the table. “Cheers,” she said. “It’s good to have you back.”
Brenda ordered a Caesar salad. The thought of anchovies, even just the smell, almost made me lean over the railing and vomit. “I’ll have a house salad with oil and vinegar on the side.”
“Well, I’m glad things are going better,” Brenda said as the waiter departed.
I diverted my gaze.
“Andrea? Things are going better, right?”
“A little,” I said. Then I just blurted out, “Actually, I think he might be cheating on me again.”
The saddest part might have been Brenda’s reaction. She did not look surprised. She set down her glass and reached out a hand to me, her multiple bracelets clattering against the tabletop.
“How long has it been going on?”
“Well, the first time was before we were married.”