Bread Alone (9 page)

Five

I
t’s after dinner when I finally catch up with CM’s friend Jill Trimble and get the phone number for her attorney, Elizabeth Gooden. When I call her office Wednesday morning, her secretary puts me through to her immediately. “Jill told me to expect your call. Tell me what’s happened up to this point.” Her voice is low and there’s a clipped formality about her speech that suggests schooling in New England.

I give her the broad overview, acutely conscious of how much like soap opera this sounds. She says, “I can check and see if the house is in his name only. If it is, then he’s right, you probably can’t get back in. We can get an order for him to let you in to get your things, however. And he’s going to have to come up with some money for your maintenance.”

“I have what I want from the house.”

“Do you have any financial records with you—information on bank accounts, investments, real estate?”

“Of course not. I was only going to visit a friend.” I hate the way I come off, like a snotty rich girl, but she seems not to notice.

“It sounds like your husband wants to play hardball. If he’s the only one who has access to the records regarding the marriage property, he can make it difficult for us to find out exactly what your fair share of the estate should be.”
Estate? Sounds like someone’s died.
“… should sit down
and make a list of everything you can think of that’s jointly owned.”

“Oh, God. This is insane,” I say to myself, almost inaudibly.

“Mrs. Franklin, marriage is about love. Divorce is about money. We don’t know if your husband—it’s David?—has already begun the paperwork for a divorce, but my advice to you would be to get ready to file as soon as possible. Even if he’s already done it, you’ll have to reply within thirty days anyway, and the more time we have to prepare, the better off you’ll emerge.”

“It’s just that this is all so weird. I’m numb.”

“Of course you are. That’s how he planned it, I would guess.”

“I can’t believe he’d—I suppose you hear this all the time.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

I sigh. “Can you tell me your rates?”

“One hundred seventy-five dollars an hour. I can send you a copy of my fee agreement, which spells out my charges. I generally ask for a twelve- to fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer to start, but if you’re strapped, we can get started with five hundred. I always try to recover my fees from the other side as much as possible. And, of course, I won’t bill you for this call.”

I know I’m supposed to be grateful. I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. What if I hire this woman and then David realizes he’s being stupid? Maybe he was upset about something at work. Maybe they lost a big account. Or something political—Grady Polhurst, he’s always been jealous of David, and Andrea said he was in the meeting. David must be under incredible pressure. Maybe he’s having a nervous breakdown. Men don’t handle stress well. And then I call up and start screaming at him, no wonder he was angry—

“Mrs. Franklin?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Listen, Elizabeth, I really appreciate your time. But I just can’t—I need to think. I’m sorry.”

“I understand. I’ll check on the title to the house and get back to you tomorrow. In the meantime, please consider what I’ve said. Time is of the essence. Oh—and it’s best not to have a lot of dialogue with your husband. You need to get used to thinking of him as the enemy.”
My mother was born in San Francisco to parents of German descent. These two factors, when combined, have been known to produce a free-floating superiority complex and an innate assurance of correctness in matters of taste. Living in L.A. for thirty-odd years has only reinforced her notion that she is not overdressed; rather, everyone else is underdressed.

After my father died, she took a job as school secretary at Hubble Middle School, fifteen minutes from our house, but she went out the door every day for fifteen years dressed like a financial consultant in classic suits or dress-and-jacket ensembles. Parents, school board members, and sundry strangers who wandered into the office were always mistaking her for the principal, Elsie Howe, who usually came to work in double-knit pantsuits.

So Thursday morning when I come downstairs, it’s not a complete surprise to see her wearing her black linen suit with the faux Chanel jacket, a white jewel-neck blouse, and her pearls. She takes a plate out of the warming oven—cheese omelet, two strips of bacon, for God’s sake, which I haven’t eaten in five years, two pieces of cinnamon toast.

“Mom, this is really very nice, but I don’t eat like this. I’ll weigh two hundred pounds by next Friday. All I want is some yogurt and fruit. Maybe a little granola. Coffee.”

“Wyn, you need to keep your strength up. Stress can be very debilitating. You can’t afford to get sick on top of everything else. Now just sit down.” She points to the table where my breakfast waits, attended by a rose in a bud vase, a napkin folded like a swan, and the
L.A. Times.
“I have a job interview at ten-thirty, but I want you to have a nice, quiet morning and eat every bite of your breakfast.”

“A job interview?” It hasn’t even been a year since she retired from Hubble.

“I couldn’t stand it. How many times can you clean a house? I don’t want to end up like Doreen Whitaker.” She rolls her eyes.

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Her world ended when her last term as garden club president expired. She’s always trying to weasel her way into board meetings so she can feel important. I told her she should get a job, but she’d rather pester the new officers to death.”

I pull out my chair and sit down. “So what job are you interviewing for?”

“Office manager.”

“Which school?”

She smiles a secret smile. “Not a school. It’s a big architectural firm in Santa Monica, very busy, gorgeous offices. There’s a lot going on.”

“How do you know?”

“I went on a little reconnaissance mission yesterday. They’ve got a lot of pretty young girls floating around, arranging their hair and inspecting their nails while the phones ring off the hook and people stand around waiting for things. They need someone to take charge.”

I take a bite of the perfectly cooked omelet. “They’ll never know what hit ‘em.”

Thirty minutes later, she’s out the door looking like organization personified. Why can’t I see life the way she does—or the way I think she does—as a challenging puzzle that requires only logic and hard work to be put in order.

I spend the morning wandering aimlessly through the house, sitting down to thumb through the book on divorce she brought home from the library, getting up to wander again. I don’t know when she found time to bake mint—chocolate chip cookies, but she did, and every time I wander through the kitchen, I stuff one in my mouth. Soon, very soon, I’m going to be fat. I think about going over to the gym to work out, but I’ll see lots of women I know and don’t want to talk to.

As an antidote to the thought of fat, I tie on my jogging shoes, start for the front door. The phone rings.

“Wyn, hi. It’s Lisa.”

“Hi, Lisa. I’m sorry I didn’t call you about the publicity com—”

“Oh, that’s okay. How are you?”

“Fine. I just—”

“How’s your mom?”

“Fine.”

The silence is about a half second too long. “I thought—I called you last night to see if you guys were coming to dinner Saturday. I mean, since I hadn’t heard from you in a couple of weeks. David said your mom was sick and you were staying over there. I hope it’s not serious?”

My mind goes into overdrive. “No, she’s … doing a lot better, thanks.”

“That’s good.” Another silence. “Wyn, is everything okay?”

Tom Hathaway, Lisa’s husband, is one of David’s biggest clients, and of all the women I know in this town, she’s probably the closest to an actual friend. But I’m not ready to start confiding in her quite yet. “Of course. Why?”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but when I talked to David about Saturday …” Her voice fades. “He said that you didn’t want to leave your mom alone.”

“Well, I—”

“But he said he’d like to come. And he asked if he could bring someone from the office. Some account manager he wants Tom to meet.”

The Grand Canyon opens up in my stomach.

“Wyn?”

“Lisa, can I call you back? My mother’s calling me, and I really need to go see what she wants. Why don’t we have lunch one day next week?”

“Okay.” She’s waiting. Fishing for information. Or maybe I’m just paranoid. “Wyn, call me. If you need anything at all. Or if you want to talk.”

After she hangs up, I dial David’s number.

“Hi,” he says. His voice is warm, almost affectionate. “I’m sorry I couldn’t talk when you called the other day. I didn’t want to discuss things in front of Andrea and everyone.”

He seems oblivious to my confusion.

“David, tell me what’s going on. Why did you lock me out?”

“Wyn, I can’t talk now. I’m at work and—”

“So close your door. I want some answers.”

“Look, I … care about you. Very much.” Meticulous word choice.

“Then let me come home.”

Long sigh. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“A good idea? We’re talking about our marriage. If you still—If you care about it, about me, we need to talk—”

“Things have to be different for a while.” He cuts in smoothly. “Till I get—Till I figure out what I need to do. I can’t be living in the same house with you. You wouldn’t move, so I had to do something.” His tone suggests that locking me out was a perfectly reasonable something to do.

“I just talked to Lisa.”

He waits. “And?”

“Who are you taking to their dinner Saturday night?”

“Kelley Hamlin.” It almost sounds matter-of-fact.

“So it’s official. We’re dating now.”

“It’s not a date. I want to introduce her to Tom—”

“Can’t he find his own blonde?”

“Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. She’s going to be taking over the account. I’m trying to assign some of my own clients to other account managers. So I’ll have more time to manage the marketing side.” His tone shifts. “I’m trying to slow down a little. Like we talked about. I thought you’d be glad.”

“I’ve talked to a lawyer.” Ungrateful shrew that I am.

“Oh, Wyn.” Surprised and hurt. “Are you going to divorce me?”

That word hangs in the air. He says it so easily, and I can’t. My throat closes up every time I try.

Another dejected sigh. “I know I can’t expect you to be patient forever. It’s not fair to you. If you feel you need to make a clean break, I understand.”

How did this suddenly become something I’m doing to him?

“David, we need to talk. We need to sit down face-to-face and—”

“We could have a drink one night. If you want to.”

“What night?”

“I’ll have to see how my schedule’s shaping up. I’ll call you.”

“When?”

“Soon. In the next couple of days. I promise. Okay?”

“I don’t think—”

“Oops, I’ve got a call waiting. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Before my mother says a word, I know that the job is hers. She looks pleased, confident, but not wildly ecstatic. “Ladies don’t give it all away in a rush, Wyn. Keep a little mystery about yourself. Play things down”—her favorite admonition when I was busy letting it all hang out.

“I see congratulations are in order. Who’s the lucky company?”

“Prentiss Culver Architectural Design. I start next Wednesday.” She takes off her jacket and hangs it in the hall closet instead of draping it over a chair, like I would have. She picks up the mail sitting on the hall table, flips through it, sorting it into piles. Catalogs, bills, trash.

“Let’s get takee-outee for dinner. To celebrate your job. Maybe you’ve even got a bottle of champagne lurking in the pantry.”

She looks up from the pile of bills, brows knit together. “Oh, honey, I wish I could. I’ve got the garden club board dinner tonight. I’m sorry, it’s too late to change the meeting; otherwise I—”

“No, it’s fine. Tomorrow night, then.”

She grimaces slightly. “Tomorrow night I have a date.”

“A date?”

“Yes.” She perks up. “In
fact, you should have a
drink with us before we go to dinner. I think you’d really like Ed, and I know he’d like you.”

“Mother, I could never go on a date with you. That would be too weird.”

“Having a drink before dinner doesn’t constitute going with me on a date.”

“Who’s Ed?”

“He’s a detective.”