Good Intentions (27 page)

“But it’s not a good one, Mrs. Reinking. Your husband is a very wealthy man and what he’s offering you is almost laughable after all the years you’ve been married, and what you’ve put up with during that time. We can do much better.”

“I just want to be free of him.”

“I understand that, but you have to think of your future …”

“I have no future,” the woman told her directly. “I am dying, Mrs. Bower.” She delivered this last statement in so matter-of-fact a fashion that Renee’s mouth fell open before she had time to temper her response. “I have perhaps another year to live, and what my husband is offering will be more than enough to see me through it comfortably. My children are grown-up and well provided for. All I want from you is my divorce decree. I’m not interested in what you think is fair, or what you might think about anything, for that matter. I have taken orders throughout forty-six years of marriage and I am sick, quite literally to death, of doing what other people tell me to do. I am not about to start taking orders from you. Now, either accept the settlement offer or I’ll find myself another attorney. Am I making myself very clear?”

Renee picked up her phone and buzzed her secretary. “Marilyn, get Mitchell Weir on the phone and tell him we accept his client’s offer of settlement.”

“Thank you,” Gemma Reinking said, a touch of the aristocrat in her New England accent. “Now I know why Fred liked to give orders. It feels good.”

Renee stood up and extended her hand across the top of her desk. “I’ll call you as soon as we get the papers. You can come in and sign them at your convenience.”

“Are you happily married, Mrs. Bower?” the woman asked suddenly.

Renee’s eyes opened wide, her smile freezing on her lips as she struggled to find a suitable response. What was the matter with her? she thought, wondering why the
words refused to form. Of course she was happily married. She enjoyed a lifestyle most people could only imagine, and she was married to the man of her dreams. What was the matter with her? Why didn’t she simply open her mouth and tell this woman she was happy?

“Never mind, dear,” Gemma Reinking said softly. “Maybe one day you’ll understand why I’m doing things this way. You’ll know that sometimes it’s worth anything just to be rid of them.” She winked, and her face instantly dropped fifty of its almost seventy years. In that minute, Renee caught a glimpse of the young woman Gemma Reinking had been.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Reinking,” Renee told her, surprised by the strength of the frail woman’s vigorous handshake. “Good luck.”

“Good luck to you, dear.”

As soon as Gemma Reinking was out of her office, Renee buzzed her secretary. “Marilyn, get me Lynn Schuster on the phone, please.” She reached into her bottom drawer and pulled out a Mars bar, which she devoured quickly before realizing that she hadn’t really been hungry. Eating had become an unwitting habit, something to do to avoid doing other things. “Like what?” she asked herself, discarding the empty wrapper into the wastepaper basket. Like thinking about your happy marriage, came the immediate reply. Renee quickly reached into the drawer for a second chocolate bar.

“Lynn Schuster on line one,” her secretary announced, catching Renee in mid-chew.

“Lynn, just a second, I’ve got something caught in my throat.” Renee swallowed what remained of the candy
bar, then cleared her throat directly into the receiver. “How are you?”

“Lousy,” she said. “I really screwed up, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t make things easy. But that’s okay. Easy’s no fun.”

“Have you spoken to Gary’s lawyer?”

“We’ve set up a meeting for next Monday at two o’clock. Why don’t you come to my office at one-thirty.” It was a statement, not a request.

“Do I have to be there?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll want to miss this.” Renee heard Lynn sigh. “Don’t worry, Lynn. I’m in my element. This is a piece of cake.” Renee grimaced, wondering why all her metaphors were food-related.

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll stay well away from Marc Cameron until then?”

“Yes,” Lynn promised softly.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I’ll stay away from him.”

“One more time. I didn’t quite catch it,” Renee prodded.

“I said I’ll stay away from him,” Lynn said loudly as Renee pushed the phone away from her ear.

“Good girl. I used to be a cheerleader in high school, you know.”

“I bet you were terrific.”

“I was,” Renee said out loud after Lynn had hung up. “I was terrific.” The image of herself in the uniform of her cheerleading days came into her mind. She recalled with a mixture of fondness and dismay the fluffy white sweater and red-and-white pleated short skirt which flew up over
her ample bottom when she did cartwheels and jumps. What she had lacked in skill, she had made up for in sheer enthusiasm and her I’m-so-thrilled-to-be-here smile. While she was far from the prettiest girl on the cheerleading team, and had far from the best figure, she was unquestionably the loudest and most persistent. She never missed a practice, never missed a game. She might not have had the greatest legs, but she had the most powerful lungs. And she knew how to use them. Some things never change, she thought.

The intercom on her desk buzzed and Marilyn’s voice cut into her reveries. “Mr. DeFlores on line two.”

Renee glanced at the phone. Mr. DeFlores had returned home one evening to discover that his wife of five years had left him, taking with her virtually every stick of furniture, including the plastic dishes that had been left over from his bachelor days. Would Mr. DeFlores believe that she had been a cheerleader in high school? “Mr. DeFlores,” she said into the receiver, trying not to sound pessimistic as she explained that his estranged wife had again refused to sign the agreement she had already approved, even with the changes she had insisted on. “There’s really nothing we can do at this point unless you want to go to court, which, as I’ve explained, will be a very expensive proposition. Why don’t we give her a few more weeks. You’re not in any hurry for this divorce, are you?”

Mr. DeFlores agreed he wasn’t in a hurry.

“Good, then I’ll explain to your wife’s attorney that there will be no more changes, and that until your wife is ready to sign the agreement as written, we have nothing further to discuss. We’re quite prepared to wait as long as necessary. If she wants this divorce as quickly as she says
she does, she’ll have to make the next move…. Yes, I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, Mr. DeFlores, try to stay calm. Time is always kind to the person who’s willing to wait.” Renee wasn’t sure if this was true, but it sounded good, and seemed to make her client happy. She hung up and was about to dial Mrs. DeFlores’s lawyer, then changed her mind. Mrs. DeFlores’s attorney was a thoroughly unpleasant young man who never failed to give Renee a headache. He talked loud and fast, and Renee could actually see him punching the air with his fingers through the phone wires when they spoke. Every time she talked to him, she was reminded of the joke Philip had told at a party one night. Question: what have you got when you have six lawyers buried up to their necks in sand? Answer: not enough sand. Renee had found the joke painful, but because she didn’t want to be accused of lacking a sense of humor, she had laughed along with everyone else.

Renee decided she needed a cup of coffee and headed for the staff room at the far end of the hall. She poured herself a cup from the pot that was kept brewing all day, adding ample amounts of cream and sugar, and sat down in one of several low-lying blue chairs, lifting her feet onto the well-scuffed coffee table in front of her.

It was all a matter of control, Renee understood, her mind back on Mr. DeFlores, though to tell him that would only upset him further. Agreeing to sign separation papers and then refusing to do so at the last minute, finding something unacceptable in what had already been declared quite proper, throwing out old demands, making fresh ones, all at the eleventh hour, that was all part of the game. Divorcing couples did it to
each other all the time. It was their way of trying to maintain the upper hand, of calling the shots, pulling the strings. Lisa DeFlores was doing it to her husband; Gary Schuster was doing the same thing to his wife. Renee closed her eyes, stretching her head back across the top of the chair so that her Adam’s apple protruded into the air.

At least her clients weren’t giving in, giving up, she thought gratefully, especially pleased that Lynn Schuster had decided to fight back. So many women didn’t. They collapsed under the pressure, either financial or psychological, sometimes both. Lynn was frightened and hurt, but she had given Renee permission to do whatever she felt necessary to deflate Gary’s threats. Renee was looking forward to their meeting next Monday.

Renee realized she liked Lynn Schuster and hoped that when Lynn’s divorce was settled, they could be friends. She’d lost touch with all her close female friends over the years, and she was just beginning to realize how much she missed them. Despite everything that was happening to her, Lynn Schuster seemed to be a woman who had her life under control. Well, so what? Don’t I? Renee asked herself, suddenly angry and impatient, though she wasn’t sure why.

“Hi. Everything all right?”

Renee opened her eyes to see Margaret Bachman, a lawyer who had recently transferred into the firm, standing a few feet away, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “I’m fine,” Renee said.

“Your face was twitching,” the woman explained. “You looked like you were in pain.”

Renee tried to smile. “Just arguing a case in my mind.”

Margaret Bachman laughed. “John says I do that all the time. Now I understand what he was talking about. How’s the coffee?”

“Great.” Renee watched the woman, who was approximately the same age as herself though her voice made her sound older, help herself to a cup of coffee. Renee also noticed that she took it black.

“We missed you at the party Saturday night.”

“Party?”

“At Bob’s.”

Bob was Bob Frescati, one of the firm’s original partners.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Margaret Bachman said immediately, obviously embarrassed. “I just assumed you’d been …” She stopped, knowing that whatever she said now would only make matters worse.

“We had another engagement on Saturday night,” Renee told her, giving Margaret Bachman her widest, most sincere grin. It was true after all. She and Philip
had
had another engagement on Saturday night, the party they had attended with Kathryn. So they wouldn’t have been able to make Bob Frescati’s party anyway, even if they had been invited. Just like they had been unable to make any of the other firm get-togethers lately because Philip always had other plans. Bob had undoubtedly sensed this. People had a way of not extending invitations once they had been turned down too many times. Still, she had to admit that it hurt. She had cut herself off from all her friends over the years. Was she starting down the same path with her partners and colleagues as well?

“I’d been looking forward to meeting that handsome husband of yours. He’s the buzz of the secretarial staff,
you know. They all say he’s so gorgeous.” Margaret sat down beside her.

“He’s a very handsome man,” Renee agreed.

“Lucky you.”

Renee nodded. She recognized the look. How did you manage to land a man who’s the buzz of the secretarial staff? it said.

“I was thinking of having a small dinner party one of these nights. Maybe you and your husband would like to come?”

“I’m sure we’d be delighted,” Renee told her, sure of no such thing.

“Well, why don’t you tell me when is good for you—I understand you’re pretty hard to pin down—then I’ll work around that.”

Renee took her feet from the coffee table, trying not to show the effort it involved. “I’ll call Philip now,” she told the startled woman, who obviously had not been expecting such immediate action.

Renee returned to her office, feeling angry and hurt, knowing it was all her own fault. She couldn’t expect people to keep inviting her to parties when she made something of a habit of not showing up, sometimes not even calling until she was already late. She wondered if there had been other events from which she had been excluded. Well, that was it. It was time to start fresh. She picked up the phone and dialed Philip’s office, bracing herself for the fake friendliness of Philip’s would-be English secretary.

“Dr. Bower’s office.”

“Samantha, can I please speak to Philip?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Mrs. Bower,” Renee said, not quite believing her ears. The nerve of that woman!

“Oh, do forgive me, Mrs. Bower. I didn’t recognize your voice. Dr. Bower is gone for the day.”

Renee checked her watch. It was barely three o’clock. “Gone? When did he leave?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“I believe he said he was going home.”

“Home? Was he feeling all right?”

“He was feeling fine,” Philip’s secretary said with an unpleasant laugh. Does he have to be feeling sick to want to go home? it asked.

“Thank you.” Renee replaced the receiver and immediately buzzed her secretary. “Marilyn, can you try to reschedule my four o’clock meeting? Thanks.” Then she dialed her apartment, letting it ring eight times before hanging up. Maybe Philip was out on the balcony and couldn’t hear the phone, or maybe he was down at the pool. She wondered again if he was feeling all right. It was very unlike him to go home in the middle of the day. She wondered where Debbie and Kathryn had gone, recalling that Debbie had said something about going to Singer Island with friends. Kathryn had declined Debbie’s invitation to join them, saying she just felt like a quiet day around the apartment. Maybe she and Philip had gone for a walk on the beach together. Maybe Renee could get home in time to find them and join them. The hell with work.

“Your meeting’s rescheduled for Thursday at four-thirty,” Marilyn’s voice announced over the intercom.

“I’m at home if there are any emergencies,” Renee told her a minute later on her way out.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” Renee said.