A Woman's Place Read online

  I had pleaded for a last-minute appointment and driven like a madwoman to get here on time, yes, for answers, but also to put a lid on my panic. Only Lloyd Usher wasn’t making me feel better. He wasn’t giving me any sense of relief, any sense of having an ally. He certainly wasn’t making me like him. I couldn’t imagine telling him the details of my life.

  I took a slower breath, puzzled now. “Is this the way you approach all your cases? Or is it just me?”

  There was an arrogant quirk at the edge of his mouth. “Most of the women I represent have been seriously wronged—cheated on, lied to, manipulated. Most of them have been held down—no life outside the marriage, no career. Many of them face a severe loss in lifestyle if I don’t negotiate a good settlement. You aren’t like those women. You have everything.”

  “Not everything,” I said quietly. “I don’t have my kids. I don’t have my home. I don’t have the husband I thought I did two hours ago. So maybe there were problems with my marriage that I didn’t pay attention to when I should have, but this court order is a travesty. I’ve done for my husband and I’ve done for my kids, and in the time that was left, I built a business. I make good use of my time. Is there anything wrong with that? I don’t see how anyone can remove me from my own home and my own children this way.”

  “The court can and did. It has every right. You say you’ve done it all. Your husband says you haven’t, and the court agreed.”

  “It sounds like you do, too.”

  “Let’s just say that I’m wary of professional women.”

  “Guilty until proven innocent?” I asked and saw him check his watch. “Look, Mr. Usher. The reason I had to see you tonight is that I’m worried about my children. I don’t know what they’ve been told, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to find out, whether I’m supposed to call Dennis or call Dennis’s lawyer, and I don’t even know who that is. I understand that I have to work with a lawyer of my own to put together a counter-argument to Dennis’s, and I understand that that takes time. I also understand that you’re busy, and that you can’t just put aside everything else you’re working on to work on my case, but that brings me back to the beginning. I’m worried about my children. I’m worried about doing anything to make things worse—both for them and my case. How much freedom does this court order give me?”

  He was strapping the large gold watch back on his wrist. “Not a hell of a lot. I’d make myself scarce from the family home until Monday.”

  That wasn’t the answer I wanted. “What about seeing the kids at my in-laws’ house? Or at my son’s football game?”

  He rose and began putting files into his briefcase. “Will that be in their best interest? Or will it be more upsetting for them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you don’t, who will? You’re their mother. If anyone knows them, you do. I certainly don’t. I can only talk legal strategy. A court order is a court order. If I were you, I would heed it until you talk with the judge. Monday at noon?” He flipped pages on his daily calendar. “I have a hearing in Barnstable at eleven. I won’t be back until two or three. We can get it continued for a couple of days. Or one of my associates can stand in for me. In any case, given my impression of your business and the fact that your husband seems to want to make things difficult, I’ll need a retainer of ten thousand dollars.”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” For what? Getting a continuance that would keep me away from my children even longer? Letting an associate handle my case? Barraging me with accusations at a time when I already felt skinned?

  “Well, I’m not running a charity here,” he growled in a playful way that I found distinctly condescending. “Come on. You know how things work. You’re a successful businesswoman, calm, cool as a cuke—”

  “Cool as a cuke, well, what choice do I have?” I cried in anger. “It’s either be calm and cool, or lose it and panic.”

  “I dare say you aren’t one to panic. Calm, cool, and ballsy. Your husband must have had his hands full with you.”

  I stood. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Usher, but this isn’t a good match.”

  “I’m only saying what any judge will be thinking. Times have changed, Mrs. Raphael. Women like you aren’t helpless. They aren’t vulnerable. They don’t inspire sympathy. Women like you are often the ones who’ve broken the marriage contract. So I’m saying you may face an uphill battle. If you are the major breadwinner, if your husband has more time to give to the kids, if you travel a lot—well, it may be better to let your husband keep the kids. Think about it and give me a call when you’re ready to talk.”

  I wasn’t wasting the energy. Gathering what little was left of my dignity, I put it together with my fear and my pride, and walked out the door.

  Panic hit ten minutes later. I was sitting in another traffic jam, going nowhere fast. The court order lay crumpled on the passenger seat, beside the parking ticket that had been put under my wiper while I was in Lloyd Usher’s office at an hour that didn’t require meter money. I didn’t understand either one, didn’t have a lawyer to explain either one. I didn’t have my kids, didn’t have my home, didn’t have a place to spend the night, or a clue about how to restore sanity to my life.

  I was suddenly sweating, shaking, not knowing where to turn or what to do.

  The car behind me honked. I let up on the brake and rolled forward. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Okay.”

  So I wasn’t perfect. I had kept the kids waiting, had missed a parent conference. I had been in an accident with the kids in the car. I may even have messed up with the plane times, or forgotten to tell Dennis where I kept Kikit’s spare medicine. But I tried my best.

  Was I being punished for earning more than Dennis? Well, damn it, he had once had everything going for him—great business, impressive client list, name recognition—and he blew it. Was I supposed to sabotage my own career, just because he had screwed up?

  The car behind me honked again. I released the brake and rolled ahead.

  As soon as we were at another stand-still, I snatched up the phone, dialed home, heard my own message. That meant Dennis hadn’t brought the kids home yet, because Kikit loved answering the phone. She would reach it before anyone else could and talk as long as possible with whoever would listen. Unwanted solicitors usually gave up before she did. I had often threatened to market her.

  Was that crude? Abusive? Dennis knew I was kidding. Kikit knew I was kidding. She loved it, actually, said she could have her own business, just like mine—not that mine was helping me now. Just the opposite. My husband was using it against me.

  I started to shake again. This time, when it seemed that the line of cars hadn’t moved in an age, I was the one to honk. Nothing happened. But I felt better.

  I snatched up the phone again and started to punch out the number of the Cleveland Clinic, but canceled the call before it went through. I couldn’t tell my mother about this, not with her heart so weak.

  Had Rona and I been close, I might have called her. As things stood, I couldn’t risk her delight.

  I dialed home again, but hung up after one ring. I couldn’t talk to the kids, either. Not until I knew what to say.

  What to do, what to do. I had always approached life as a challenge to be faced, but this was a biggie. It had the power to affect my entire future and that of my children.

  “Help,” I cried, but softly because suddenly, in a darkness riddled with dashboard green, taillight red, and neon on either side, I knew where I wanted to go. There was only one place where I could be sure of a haven, only one person I knew I could trust.

  three

  I remembered when Brody bought his house. He had been living in the east for four years, the last three as Dennis’s partner. The novelty of being divorced had worn off, along with the excitement of being a swinging single. He was tired of his high-rise condo, tired of first dates, hungry glances aimed his way, inane chatter. He wanted privacy. He wanted air. He wanted a cozy place for the times when
his daughter, Joy, who was six then, came to visit.

  The house was a neat three-bedroom Cape built of cedar shakes that had weathered to gray. It sat on the shore, a gentle fifty-foot climb over sand and rocks from the water’s edge at high tide. He had taken me to see it before putting in his bid. I didn’t even have to go inside. One look from the pebbled drive, one sniff of the ocean air, one crash and swoosh of water and foam, and I felt the peace he craved.

  Remarkable, given how upset I was now, but, turning in off the main road, I caught a glimpse of that peace. It was a conditioned response triggered by the first crunch of pebbles under my tires. I’d had only positive experiences here, first visiting Brody, later coming daily to work. I loved what I did and the people I did it with. This place represented comfort, challenge, and success.

  The office was closed now. The windows and skylights—I was of the never-too-much-light school of thought and had insisted on putting in as many as the physical structure would allow—reflected the moon in silver blocks. The only other outside light came from antique sconces flanking the door.

  Brody was home, though. My headlights picked out the Range Rover in the carport. The lights pouring from the house spoke for themselves.

  A little something eased up in my chest and unclenched in my stomach. Stepping from the car into the moist ocean air, I felt more grounded than I had seconds before.

  He didn’t answer the bell. I rang a second time. I didn’t recall his having plans, but he might easily have gone out with a friend and left the Range Rover here. He wasn’t expecting me. We hadn’t planned on meeting until morning. We had both assumed I would be busy with the children and Dennis until then.

  The thought of that brought pain, the rushing return of reality, disbelief. Quickly, before I started to cry right there on Brody’s side steps, I singled out his house key from the others on my ring and let myself into the kitchen. The warmth hit me first, welcome against the cooling night air. Then I caught the smell of a stew simmering on the stove. That was good news indeed. If Brody had left something cooking, with the lights on and the Range Rover in the carport, he was out running.

  He ran six miles, five times a week. At eight minutes a mile, give or take, depending on the condition of the knee he had shattered years before in a cycling accident, his run would take some forty-eight minutes.

  Praying he was nearly done, I went to the eating alcove and slipped into a chair. It was rattan and matched the pedestal base of the round, glass-topped table. The set was the only concession Brody had allowed me in this room, his preference being a scarred trestle table with benches on either side. He wanted hominess, warmth without frills, a kitchen where a man wasn’t embarrassed to work. So I had cushioned the rattan in a warm brown and gray plaid that went with the dark wood of the cabinets and the black of the iron pots hanging in a bunch over the stovetop island. He had found the accessories himself—Brody was big on nostalgia. The duck decoy was from his grandfather’s cabin in the woods, the earthen bowl was one over which he had cracked walnuts as a child, the rooster weather-vane was from the barn where he had worked mucking out stalls. I wasn’t wild about the sculpture that stood on a low stool under the phone. It was made of two plain stones, the smaller on top, and had carvings that resembled a face if you squinted a little. I saw a Neanderthal who gave me the willies. Brody saw a simpleton who reminded him that even when he was feeling low, he had a lot more than most.

  Brody was compassionate. He was humble. He was a man of his own mind, and I loved him for it.

  Yes, loved him. Of course, I loved Brody. Had we ever had sex? Absolutely not. I had been faithful to Dennis to a fault and was hurt that he would think otherwise.

  Leaving the chair, I went to the stovetop and gave the stew a hard stir. Bits and pieces of things came and went in the eddy—chicken, carrots, onions, green peppers, mushrooms, all in a red sauce that smelled decidedly of burgundy and was sure to taste good. Brody could take a pot, throw in most anything he found lying around the kitchen, and make it work. Many a meal he had made for himself became leftovers for lunch for the two of us and—yes, Dennis—for whoever else was around.

  Dinners I always ate with the children. Dennis joined us when he wasn’t off doing his own thing. Brody joined us every week or two. I had been looking forward to eating with the children tonight. Now I didn’t even know when I would see them again.

  I refused to panic. Still, my stomach started to churn.

  But fate was with me. Just when my emotions were threatening a revolt, I heard Brody thumping up the wood steps. He opened the door and entered the kitchen, a tall, slightly winded, very sweaty athlete wearing running shorts, a T-shirt, and a broad smile. “Hey—terrific—I didn’t expect you tonight,” he said in short breaths, but the last word was barely out when the smile faded.

  I didn’t have to wonder why. Hair, makeup, clothing—I hadn’t done a thing with any of them since Cleveland, and that was worlds and worlds away. I was scared. I was worried. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in two weeks. I must have looked like death warmed over.

  But I felt relieved, suddenly, acutely relieved that Brody was home. Pulling the crumpled court order from my pocket, I gave it to him, then stood close while he read. His face was flushed. His breathing remained rapid. Sweat dripped down his cheek, down his chest, I was sure, down his spine to the small of his back, all those places where his T-shirt was darker. I felt his warmth, even smelled him, but it was a healthy smell, that of heated male. In a day of incredible turns, that smell was reassuringly honest.

  Dennis, who worked at looking good, had cause to be wary of Brody. Brody wore glasses, wire-rims which he had taken from the counter and put on as soon as I handed him the court order. He had straight hair that was a mild pecan shade and receding at the part, had scars all over one knee and a pinkie that was permanently crooked. Twice a year he went into Boston’s finest men’s specialty store, bought a suit or two, a casual outfit or two, but he didn’t agonize. On his time off, he wore old jeans and older plaid shirts. He was one of the least vain, most gorgeous men I knew.

  But I hadn’t slept with him. So help me, God, I hadn’t. Nor had I ever, ever lorded Brody’s looks over Dennis. Did I touch Brody more than I touched Dennis? If so, it wasn’t intentional.

  Brody’s face was blank at first. He was mopping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve when a frown appeared. He left the arm suspended, shot me a puzzled look, read on. Then he held the paper up and, less winded now, said in the deep voice that was his alone, “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

  I had thought it at first, too. So we were alike, Brody and I, but that wasn’t a crime. It was common sense. We both knew I was responsible. We both knew I loved my kids. We both knew I had been an attentive wife.

  “He wants a divorce,” I said, calmer now that I wasn’t alone. “He wants the house, he wants alimony, he wants the kids.”

  Brody looked so stunned that I nearly hugged him. His disbelief validated mine.

  “Since when?” he charged.

  “God knows, but he’s been planning it for a while. The kids are with Howard and Elizabeth.”

  He stared blankly at the court order. “What judge in his right mind would issue this?”

  “One who has been read a list of my sins.”

  “What sins?”

  I told him the ones to do with the children. “Dennis says I’m in a state of personal crisis that is interfering with my parenting, but you haven’t heard the best. He says you and I are having an affair.”

  Brody jerked his head back. I couldn’t tell if his cheeks grew redder, what with the color already there, but I could have sworn there was something, maybe in his eyes, an intimate twinge. I felt it, myself. Embarrassed, almost.

  He didn’t say anything at first. Then he swallowed. “Dennis said that?”

  I nodded.

  Again he pushed his sleeve across his forehead.

  “I need help, Bro
dy. He’s making arguments based on circumstance and supposition, and the bottom line is that I’ve been barred from my home and ordered away from my own kids, from my own kids. When I tried to reason with him, he called the cops, and one actually came. Right to the house. Because of me,” I thumped my chest, “like I have a history of violence. He said I had to leave. He actually walked me out.”

  Brody reread the court order. “What is Dennis thinking? I thought court orders were a last resort. He hasn’t ever talked divorce.”

  “Separation, he has. He does it when he’s feeling low. I always argued against it. Our marriage may not be made in heaven, but it’s better than most.” Or was I kidding myself. “Isn’t it?”

  Brody didn’t answer. Bending over the sink, he drank straight from the faucet, then straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark. “So he says we’re having an affair. That’s priceless,” he muttered. “What kind of fuckin’ evidence does he have?”

  “Stupid stuff. Working together, traveling together.”

  “He’s crazy. Damn it.” He looked stricken. “I know about the pain of divorce. I never wanted it for you. Never wanted it for Johnny and Kikit.” He swore softly.

  “I want my kids back, Brody.”

  “You need a lawyer.”

  “Well, that’s the next problem. I just came from seeing Lloyd Usher. Talk about mistakes. He made me feel like I’m getting what I deserve. Am I? How did I do wrong by trying to do everything right?”

  Brody started to put an arm around me but stopped and looked down at himself in disgust.

  So I did it myself, slipped my arm around his waist. I didn’t care if he was sweaty. I wanted the comfort. And it was innocent. Despite what Dennis would have made of it.

  Pulling me closer, Brody said a vehement, “You didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve worn three hats at the same time and worn them well. You deserve a medal. Dennis knows that. What in the hell’s got into him?”