A Woman's Place Page 4

  I drew a blank. “Me and Brody what?”

  “Screwing.”

  Screwing? Me and Brody?

  It was a long minute before I could speak, and then it was in a level tone. I couldn’t take the charge seriously, it was so absurd. “This is madness, Dennis. What’s wrong with you?”

  “The two of you, eating at my craw for months and months. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? You touch him all the time.”

  “Touch him?”

  “A hand here, an arm there. And even aside from touching, there’s the way you look at each other, the way you talk to each other. Hell, you all but finish each other’s sentences. You spend more time with him than you do with me or the kids any day.”

  “I doubt that’s true, but if you’re into counting hours there, too, consider that Brody is my CEO.”

  “A convenient arrangement. Like the office at his house.”

  “The office is at his house,” I argued, “because you didn’t want the office here. I wanted it in the attic, could have had a perfect office in the attic, but you said no, you didn’t want phones ringing and people coming and going.”

  “I told you to rent space.”

  “That was five years ago. The business was smaller. Renting seemed extravagant. I’d have stayed here in the den if I could have, only I needed more space. So we put the office in Brody’s garage. Not his house. His garage.”

  “You’re in his house all the time. I’ve seen you. You use the kitchen. You use the bathroom. I’ll bet you know his bedroom soup to nuts.”

  I nearly screamed, he made the picture so dark and dirty. “You’re dead wrong. There is nothing going on between me and Brody that doesn’t go on all the time with people who work together.”

  “And travel together. To wit, this week. Four nights in High Point.”

  “Working.”

  “Uh-huh. I have telephone records from other trips. For every call to us, there were three to him.”

  “He’s my CEO,” I repeated. “My business partner.”

  “So why weren’t those calls made during business hours?”

  “Because I was busy with other people during business hours. Calling home had to come before or after.”

  “Brody’s calls sure were after. Nine-forty-five at night. Ten-thirty. Eleven-fifteen.”

  “That’s right. By the time I was done talking with you and the kids, by the time I had something to eat and turned on my laptop and evaluated what I’d done that day and listed what my second in command needed to know and what I needed to ask him, and taking time differences into account, it was that late.” I knew I sounded defensive, but Dennis’s charges were so unfair that I couldn’t let them stand.

  “Nice that Brody didn’t mind.”

  “He’s a night owl like me.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “The same way you do. Because Brody is our closest friend!” I pushed a hand through my hair, like that would straighten everything out. My mind was jumbled up, not the least of it from the realization that Dennis had to have been planning all this, gathering arguments for a long time. Telephone records? Brody and me? “Brody was your college roommate. You’ve known him almost twenty-five years. He was your business partner long before he was mine. He was your best man. He’s our kids’ godfather, their favorite uncle, and, yes, okay, he’s my best friend. If you’re jealous of all that, I’m sorry—”

  “Jealous? He can have you! Sex between you and me was mediocre at best!”

  I felt I’d been hit in the stomach, actually bent at the middle. “You never complained about sex with me. You couldn’t get enough.”

  “Damn right. It was like pulling teeth. Either you were exhausted, or up late working, or listening for one of the kids to be sick—”

  “Hold it! I rarely put you off, and you never had sex without coming, so what is your complaint? Don’t throw stereotypes at me, Dennis. No matter how busy I was, I made time. We had sex plenty.”

  “Quantity. Not quality.”

  I prayed to the ceiling. “Good God, what’s going on here?”

  “This,” Dennis said, slapping the paper that hung from my hand. When I took a step back, he swung in front of the phone. I was too stunned to react when he put the receiver to his ear and punched in a call, then befuddled when he gave our address and said, “Get someone here fast.” It wasn’t until he hung up the phone that I realized what he’d done.

  My husband, who had given me a hug and waved me off barely two weeks ago without a hint of his plans, had just called the police.

  “Dennis.” I fought panic. “My God, Dennis. You’re burning bridges, here.”

  “Leave.”

  “What are you doing to our lives?”

  “You’ve done it, not me.”

  “I need the children, they need me.”

  “They have me, now.”

  “Now? Now? All of a sudden? Where have you been for the last nine years? I want my children.”

  “Tell it to the judge on Monday. In the meantime, I want you out.”

  “But I’m your wife.”

  “According to the court, we’re formally separated.”

  I was having trouble breathing, felt more battered with each thing he said. And the way he said it. So uncaring? So blunt? So fixed? I didn’t understand this Dennis. But I did understand that I was about to lose what meant more to me than anything in the world. So I pleaded, “There has to be a better way. For the children’s sake. A gentler way. They knew I was coming home today. How will you explain my absence? How will I explain it? And when? I need to see them, Dennis. It can’t wait until Monday.”

  “That court order—”

  “I don’t care about that court order, I care about my kids!” I was starting to cry, but I didn’t care about that either, not even when the doorbell rang. I was on his heels all the way to the front. “They’re terrific kids. They’re well-adjusted and secure. They’re happy. What you’re doing—the way you’re doing it—is going to screw them up, it can’t help but screw them up. You’re going to ruin them, Dennis!”

  “She won’t leave,” Dennis told the police officer. It was Jack Mulroy. We knew him and he knew us, ours was that small a town.

  “I’m their mother,” I told Jack through sniffles and swipes at tears that kept coming. “I love my children. They love me. Some judge I’ve never met can’t just—just order me out of my own home, away from my own kids!”

  Jack opened a hand for the court order that was crushed in my fist. I uncurled my fingers and gave it to him. He would understand, I reasoned. He had helped me once when Kikit had had a bad attack. He had helped me another time when Dennis had been away and our burglar alarm had sounded in the dead of night. He knew I was a decent person. He knew that I loved my children and wouldn’t ever, ever do anything to hurt them. He knew that I didn’t deserve to be booted out of my own home. He was a law enforcement officer. He believed in justice.

  “I’m afraid you do have to leave,” he said. “This is official. I can’t nullify a court order.”

  “But it’s wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You’ll have to say that in court on Monday.”

  “I can’t wait until Monday. Don’t you see? If I do, the damage will be done, the kids will be hurt.” I looked at Dennis. “There has to be a better way.”

  He folded his arms on his chest.

  “Dennis,” I begged.

  “Please, Mrs. Raphael,” said Officer Mulroy. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Are these your bags? Here, I’ll carry them to your car.”

  I was half hysterical. “My car was totaled. I haven’t bought a new one yet.”

  “There’s a rental in the garage,” Dennis told Jack. “The keys are there.”

  Jack took my arm. I took it back. “I returned the rental car before I left,” I told Dennis.

  “I rented another for you yesterday.”

  Jack touched my arm again. “I don’t wa
nt to have to call for support,” he said so quietly that I knew he was embarrassed, but the reality of the situation hit me then, good and well.

  If I didn’t leave, I would be removed.

  If I had to be removed, Dennis would tell the judge.

  If that happened, the judge might believe I was out of control, and if he believed that, I might lose my kids.

  Arms, legs, insides—everything seemed to be shaking. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and pressed it to my nose, took a deep breath that was part sob, and thought of what my mother had said, incredibly, not twenty-four hours before. Well, what choice do I have? she had asked about having to deal with her body’s betrayal.

  My body wasn’t betraying me. My husband was. Well, what choice do I have? I could panic. I could scream and yell and rail against a system that was making me do something I didn’t want to do. Or I could seek a remedy.

  Ignoring Dennis, I said to Jack in a small voice, “I’m not sure what to do. I’ve never been in this situation before.”

  “You need to leave here. That’s the first thing. Car’s in the garage?”

  I nodded, pressing my lips together to keep them from trembling. I didn’t want to cry anymore. Not in front of Dennis. Not in front of Jack.

  I knelt to slip the strap of my carry-on to my shoulder. Jack took the larger bag. “Is this everything you’ll need?” he asked.

  Having lived out of these two bags for the past thirteen days, I could manage for another three. Besides, I couldn’t have picked out and packed other clothes if my life had depended on it.

  I didn’t look at Dennis, didn’t speak to Dennis, didn’t trust myself not to cry or beg or snarl. Concentrating solely on reaching the car without falling apart, I led Jack through the kitchen and the mudroom to the garage.

  The rental car was the burgundy color that I liked and Dennis hated. I found that ironic, along with the fact that he had rented another car rather than putting me in a cab. I had been planning to get a rental myself tomorrow, and buy something within the week.

  Jack stowed the bags in the trunk. I slid behind the wheel and fumbled around for things like the ignition switch, the headlights, the gear shift. Somehow I managed to back out. I pulled around until I was beside the police cruiser, rolled my window down, and waited for Jack to reach me.

  When he did, he said, “You need to see a lawyer as soon as possible.” His voice held greater sympathy now that we were out of the house. I wanted to believe he was on my side after all. “You have to put together a case by Monday to convince the judge you should be the one in the house with the children. Do you know of a good lawyer?”

  A lawyer. I hadn’t thought that far. A divorce lawyer. The thought shook me. A family law specialist. I wanted to cry.

  The only lawyer I had experience with was the one who did the WickerWise contracts, but he didn’t do this kind of work. I supposed he could recommend someone who did. But then I’d have to tell him why I needed it, and I didn’t want to do that.

  I did know of someone else, though. He was one of Boston’s more prominent divorce lawyers. I had taken notice of him not because I knew anyone who had used him, but because he was the brother-in-law of my Philadelphia franchisee. Given the connection, I was sure he would see me quickly.

  First, though, I wanted to see my kids.

  Jack nixed the idea. “I wouldn’t. You’re upset. They’ll pick up on it. Besides, what’ll you tell them?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it. I didn’t know what I would say. It seemed important, for the children’s sake, that Dennis and his parents and I coordinate our stories, but I had no idea what they had already said.

  “It might be easier if I call them on the phone.” I could fudge it, could say I was delayed in Cleveland or something. “Am I allowed to do that?”

  “The court order doesn’t forbid it, but if your husband doesn’t want it, you may have trouble getting through. Things like phone calls and visitation rights will be spelled out next Monday.”

  Visitation rights? Unreal.

  “Kikit has a birthday party on Saturday. I have to take her to buy a present. And what about Johnny’s game? Am I allowed to go?”

  “Talk that over with your lawyer. You’re allowed. But maybe you ought to speak with Dennis first. Who’s representing him?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Your lawyer can find that out pretty quick.”

  Panic was creeping in again. “I’m a responsible mother. I haven’t put my kids at risk any more than any mother who lets them out of the house to play. This is crazy. So is talk of a divorce. Dennis didn’t say one word when I left here a week ago last Friday. We were on perfectly good terms. We talked on the phone while I was away.” I looked at the house, my house, the one from which I’d been banned. “This is mind boggling.”

  “See a lawyer. You have until Monday to appear in court. There’s your chance to change things.”

  I headed north, toward New Hampshire and the children. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just where my heart directed the car. My mind was preoccupied replaying what had happened at the house. It wasn’t until I reached the highway that I came to the part where Jack Mulroy asked what I would say to the kids.

  I pulled to the side of the road and ran through the possible scenarios. Each one ended with either the children crying or me crying or me yelling at their grandparents or their grandparents calling the police. The last seemed unlikely. I had always had an amicable relationship with my in-laws. But I thought I had with Dennis, too, and look what he had done. My faith was shaken. I couldn’t be sure that the people I trusted would behave rationally.

  But the kids were my first priority. What mattered most was that they wouldn’t be traumatized before Dennis and I could work things out. I needed advice on that. Yes, I needed a lawyer.

  I pulled the cellular phone from my purse, called information for the number of Lloyd Usher’s law office, and dialed it. The office was closed for the day, of course. It was six-thirty. But I knew the kinds of hours I kept, knew the kinds of hours most successful people kept, and figured he was still there.

  I rifled my Filofax and called my Philadelphia franchisee at home. Working to sound normal, I told her that I had an urgent question and needed to reach her brother-in-law. She gave me his private number. I dialed it.

  Lloyd Usher answered with a grunt that said he was busy. Hurriedly, I gave him my name, that of his sister-in-law, and the bare bones of my situation. I should have known he wasn’t the man for me when he offered to see me the following afternoon at two, but his was the only name I had, and I was desperate.

  So I pleaded. I said it was an emergency, that I had concerns about my children that couldn’t wait until the next day. He complained that everyone had concerns that couldn’t wait, and that he had to leave the office by seven-thirty. I promised to be there before then and take only a few minutes. That was all I needed, really, a few minutes to ask a few questions. That would be a start. It would counter the awful helplessness I felt and give me a semblance of control.

  I drove as fast as the rush-hour traffic would allow. After having trouble finding parking, I didn’t reach his office until seven-fifteen. He was glaring at his watch—it was a large gold thing—when he charged into the reception area to fetch me.

  “I’ll be quick,” I assured him. I tried to sound calm and efficient, understanding of the time squeeze, and appreciative. I wanted him to think me mature and rational.

  He hurried me down a corridor of offices. An interior designer by training, I would normally have noticed what I passed, but my mind was too clogged to conclude anything but that the decor was lavish and the clientele moneyed. Lloyd Usher and his office suggested more of the same. Imported carpet, rich woods, double-breasted suit, styled hair.

  After gesturing me into a leather chair, he went behind the desk. He took off that large gold watch, held it in one palm for clear viewing, opened the other my way. “Let me see the court order.”
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  I took it from my pocket and passed it over.

  He read it and passed it back. “This is a drastic move. What brought it on?”

  “I have no idea. I walked into the house after eleven days away. My husband was waiting for me. I hadn’t been there ten minutes when the man arrived and handed me this.”

  “He served you,” Lloyd Usher corrected. “But you didn’t answer my question. An Order to Vacate is serious business. You must have done something to warrant it.”

  “I did nothing.”

  “Mrs. Raphael,” he chided.

  I was taken aback. This man was supposed to be my advocate. I didn’t understand his accusing tone, or his disdain, or his watch, at the ready, keeping time.

  But he was successful. He was in demand, the divorce lawyer’s divorce lawyer. He had to know what he was doing. And I needed help.

  So, calmly, I said, “My husband had a list of things. None was significant alone. As a group, they made me sound negligent.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. I love my children.”

  “Many an abuser loves his children.”

  Either he was testing my mettle or playing devil’s advocate for the sake of learning more about me. But staying calm was harder this time. “I am not an abuser. Not physically. Not verbally. My children and I have a good, strong, healthy relationship.”

  “How can that be, what with your business?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Juggling everything. I’ve heard my sister-in-law talk about you. She thinks you’re a role model for everything women can be. Me, I think she’s naive in her awe. I remember when my kids were younger. Thank God my wife didn’t work. I can’t imagine she could have done half of what she did for the kids if she had. So how do you do it? You can’t be there for them and there for your business, and what about your husband, what about his needs?”

  I drew myself straighter in the chair. “What about them?”

  “Who’s meeting them, if you’re working double-time mothering the kids and running the business?”