I can’t do it. I can’t sit across from him and sign a document that will dissolve our marriage. I can’t see the two of them together, can’t see the look on his face when he stares into her eyes. I will physically break in half if I see them kiss, or see her smile, or if they embrace once the verdict is rendered. This should have been easy: a sterile environment with a doctor, a few easy questions, and we part. How did something so simple turn into something so terrible?
Now he knows. He knows how I feel. He knows that while he was acting, I was sincere. He knows that I am weak and vulnerable, and that he has hurt me. Everything I have fought so hard to project—my cool, confident demeanor—just crashed and burned in that cramped office. Now he knows the truth. And I look the fool.
CHAPTER 57
A year ago, I would have cringed at a call from my bank, my account most likely overdrawn, NSF fees pending. Now, the number displays and I feel only guilt. I rise from my chair and quietly move from my father’s room, answering the call once I am in the hall.
“Is this Mrs. Dumont?” The crisp voice doesn’t know how the name hits my ears, how it is both a knife and a salve to my heart.
“Yes.” I should change my name back, after the divorce, but I don’t know that I will. I’m not yet ready to separate from the one thing that made me his wife.
“We need to talk about the balance in your account.”
“Is there a problem?” There shouldn’t be, but my heart still quickens, our Nassau actions illegal, despite the solid intentions behind them.
“Not exactly…” the man pauses. “It’s just uncommon for so much money to sit in a savings account. The rate of interest is so nominal. Can you come in, and we can discuss a money market, or CD? Something more appropriate for those funds.”
I can’t put the money in a CD. I can’t tie it up, not when every bone in my body is screaming at me to give it back. Four point five million dollars, that’s what this man is going on about. Four point five million dollars of Nathan’s money, that I stole.
You see, researching Cecile wasn’t the only thing I did at the library that day. I also took my passport and the piece of paper Drew had given me, with Candace’s social security number and the account number written neatly on its front.
And there, from a courtesy phone in the library’s lobby, with a prepaid long-distance calling card and list of Bahamian banks, called each one, until I found the one with an account in my name. And then, that day before our flight, I transferred some of the funds out of CeeCee’s account.
I didn’t take much, though much is such a relative term. It wasn’t much when you looked at the balance in the account, but it was a massive infusion to my old bank account—an account that had never carried a balance of more than a thousand dollars.
Four and a half million—approximately half the interest that had accumulated in the account in the four years since Nathan’s big deposit. Despite the appearance to Nathan, the account had earned a healthy rate of return, allowing me to siphon off a large chunk without tipping him off.
Mr. Brantling was correct; the transfer was easily done by phone. I downloaded the appropriate forms, scanned in a copy of my passport, and had the item notarized by the library’s receptionist. Fuck saving fifteen percent on car insurance in fifteen minutes. I became a millionaire in half that time.
It had been an insurance policy. I had Nathan’s word that he would take care of my father. His word, and a contract that was, at best, questionably enforceable. I’d needed to protect myself, needed a parachute in case I got ripped from the Dumont luxury jet. I'd gotten a brief window of opportunity, and I’d had to decide in that split second if I would take the opportunity or let it pass. Poor planning had always been my downfall. That one, single moment, I'd wanted to make the right decision, to do something that would turn my life in the correct direction, for my father and me. I could always give the money back, if things went right and Nathan kept his word. But I would never be able to recreate that opportunity. I would never have that chance again.
So I took it. I took it, and then Nathan kept his word, and now I’m stuck with all of it, and the uncertain footing of what to do with it.
“Please move it to a money market account,” I say quietly. “It can stay there.”
The man launches into questions and address confirmations, credit card offers and emergency lines of credit. It’s funny. The more money you have, the more they want to give. I walk down the hall to the kitchen, propping the phone against my shoulder as I reach for a cup.
It’s been two weeks since our session with the counselor, and I don’t need his fancy degree or assessment to know that I might never heal from Nathan. I have buried myself in activity, in an insane hope that I might escape his memory by spending money, doing crosswords, and searching for a job.
I pour coffee into the cup, glancing at the granite countertops and thinking of my own new kitchen, in the apartment I have leased, one thirty minutes outside of Nashville, in a beautiful area closer to Dad. I left my old life in that Destin storage unit, where it will probably sit for a decade. I want to start fresh, to erase any memory of my time at Sammy’s, and—hopefully—my time with Nathan.
His money makes that hard. I can’t help but be grateful every time I swipe my debit card, walk through my well-appointed home, or open the door to my Mercedes.
Once I get a job, I’ll probably pay it all back, send him a giant check for all of it. Probably. I’m not altruistic enough to commit to that just yet. There is the matter of my broken heart, and what that is worth in severance pay.
I haven’t heard a word from him since our kiss at Dr. Bejanti’s office. No letter from Mark regarding the divorce, no call from his attorney. I’ve stopped looking at the gossip magazines, forbid myself to Google his name or scroll through the internet for pictures of them together. It is too painful to see them, too hurtful to know that they are happy and I am miserable.
I half-expect another psychiatry session to be required, given the disastrous conclusion of our group session. But no one has called, and nothing has come by mail. Something will soon. Our marriage’s death is imminent.