Pink Slips and Glass Slippers (14 page)

“What?”

“I knew we shouldn’t have used that place. Was it up to me? Nooooo, I’m only the freaking bride—what do I know? Once again, we had to do what
Eddie’s
mother wanted. I’m so pissed.”

Brooke grinned and strangled her laughter. Melissa’s voice sounded like an auctioneer on espresso. She expected her friend to be wound up with one day to go. But, Melissa sounded so upset, Brooke considered calling a zookeeper for a tranquilizer gun. Instead, Brooke made the mistake of asking, “What happened?”

***

Chase fidgeted all morning; paranoia coursed through his veins. The question haunted him—is Henry avoiding me? He glanced at his watch and grimaced. With the meter running at $500 per hour, he didn’t want to be one second late for his meeting.

Pam Moliere was recommended by all the local judges—many of whom she knew from Duke Law School. She graduated five years earlier than Chase and, from day one, built her reputation as one tough cookie. Though Chase considered divorce lawyers the dregs of the profession—tied with ambulance chasers—he respected Pam. Brilliant, engaging, tough on opponents, and bottom line: successful. The stakes were high and he had to hire the best. Recognizing the mother had the upper hand in custody battles, and sympathy from judges in high income settlements, he needed to act fast. He couldn’t risk losing Parker.

Though steadfast in his decision to divorce, it still gnawed at him. Why did it have to come to this? He had moved beyond the initial shock, then the sadness, and most of the anger, but he knew the mother of his child less now than he did when he met her. Hearing Max describe the life she had chosen versus being there for Parker—and for him—still stung. And, probably would for the rest of his life.

Unbeknownst to Pam, he tilted the deck in his favor. Chase had paid a retainer to each of the top-rated divorce firms in Durham, blocking Heather’s chance to even hire a competent opponent to Pam. He guessed she’d file a motion for legal fees; if Heather used his own money against him, it may as well be a win-win for him. Some would call it playing dirty, but he was just playing smart; he didn’t care at this point. Chase wanted the whole mess over as quickly and quietly as possible. So far, he had impressed Pam with his media connections—it wasn’t easy to keep a story this juicy out of the headlines.

Though confident in Pam, he noticed she did the thing he despised—procrastinate. Why are divorce lawyers slower than a romance novel in finishing? So far, Pam had dragged her feet enough to unnerve her even keel client. He understood the squeaky wheel got the grease in business, but that it backfired in divorce law. Applying unruly force broke the chain. But, Chase had an intangible on his side: Pam truly admired Chase—she empathized with him.

Pam’s admiration for Chase stemmed from her own childhood. Raised by her mother, after the father she never knew abandoned his three young children, she respected Chase’s undying devotion. His love for Parker contradicted her pessimistic paradigm. In a world where so many kids didn’t know their fathers, she appreciated her client’s commitment to break the cycle, to never waver on what mattered most—his own flesh and blood—even when his wife went AWOL. Pam sensed Chase hurt inside. She understood all the destructive phases and behaviors of divorce; her client fell in the middle of the uphill emotional battle. Stress revealed character and, in a selfish world of cut and run parenting, Chase was truly a good guy.

Pam realized the pre-nuptial agreement would hold up—lawyers understood how to do contracts—and though his differed from her template, it worked. Heather had signed all the dotted lines. Most divorce cases settled anyway—usually just before the scheduled court date. The procrastination strategy billed maximum hours, then it ended with a slice down the middle—unless there was a pre-nupe. When Chase handed Pam his financial spread-sheet, her eyes widened. For such a young guy, he’d done well. She thought, those corporate lawyers earned so much more. Hoping to avoid a public spectacle, Chase was willing to offer Heather double the amount of the pre-nuptial. Also, Chase was open to allowing Heather visitation rights with the son she deserted—if it came to that. Pam wished all her clients were like Chase.

Chase prayed to close the divorce loop without more heartache, especially for his young son. Right now, Chase handed Pam a no-brainer case to win—Heather had violated at least three of North Carolina’s grounds for divorce:

1.   Abandonment of family.
Easy to prove.

2.   Becomes an excessive user of alcohol or drugs.
Hazelden’s notes and finding her bags of legal and illegal drugs—including cocaine and pot.

3.   Commits adultery.
Tricky to prove, but Max promised to snap the right photos.

The only thing working against the divorce was Father Time. The court dockets were packed thanks to the skyrocketing divorce rate and post-divorce squabbles that overburdened the fragile system. Unable to serve Heather since her last known address was Chase’s house, and officially file the divorce, they turned to Hazelden, but Heather wasn’t there long enough. Pam mentioned other ways to commence, but, when pressed further, went into ambiguous divorce lawyer speak. But, now that Max found her—with ninety-nine percent certainty, Chase wanted a swat team to serve her divorce notice, taking no chances. Once that simple document was delivered—even if she refused to sign it—Chase and Parker could move on with their lives.

Chase arrived five minutes late, but still beat Pam to the same restaurant. Once she was settled, Chase covered his entire checklist with Pam before their meals arrived. He handed her the most important piece of information—confirmed with Max during the ride over—Heather’s whereabouts. The whole meeting lasted just under an hour. At five hundred dollars an hour, it was the most expensive burger he’d ever eaten. He didn’t worry though. If Pam could deliver him a happy ending to this unhappy story, it was priceless. Leaving Pam, he hoped she’d act fast; he applied enough of his own grease to the wheel.

Though the week passed like a decade, Chase noticed his mood brighten. He hustled to change his corporate costume to his golf gear. Though he desired an hour on the practice range, he just didn’t have it today. Didn’t matter: Dixie-dawg’s trash talking always fueled his A-game.

Chase barreled out of the clubhouse and, true to form, spotted Dixon loading a cooler into the cart. His madras pants made Rodney Dangerfield look conservative. Chase chuckled while Dixon monkeyed with the golf cart as if preparing for a safari. He wanted to snap a picture.

Hearing Chase’s laughter, Dixon spun; he donned prescription Vuarnets, circa 1980s, but so Dixon, “Hey, Boa. You made it.”

“Of course—I wouldn’t miss kicking your plaid ass for the world.”

“Hey, do you have to return your grandpa’s pants later—or can you wear those khakis all weekend?”

The introductory insults ended with Dixon’s frayed hat, then the two buddies drove over to the famous first tee, lining up behind an antique foursome. Both Chase and Dixon frowned, then made enough racket to rouse their hearing aids. The blue-hairs didn’t notice the speedier twosome. Chase hoped Dixon’s pants would scare them away. No avail, so much for golf being a gentlemen’s game.

Instead of griping, Dixon bolted up from the cart, and said, “Ready for a cold one?”

Chase, not a big boozer, rarely drank before nightfall. But, after this week, didn’t hesitate, “Sure, why not.”

The two best friends polished off an entire Heineken each before the group from hell hit their mulligans. The beer that looked so relaxing in the ads had the opposite effect on Chase. He couldn’t shake the stiff neck that he’d had since Tuesday’s hurl-a-thon. Even Dixon’s banter, which usually elevated his spirits, irritated him.

After scrutinizing the senior foursome, on pace to break the course record for slowest play, the college buddies settled into the cart on the third tee in silence. Finally, Dixon said, “Chase, I’ve never seen you double-bogey two holes in a row.”

“Don’t remind me.” Chase stared straight ahead.

“All kidding aside, dude, what’s buggin’ ya?”

Chase turned, and the pain shot from his neck down his side like a taser. Dixon peered over his Vuarnet’s. Usually,
all kidding aside,
coming from Dixon’s mouth, meant Three Stooges time. Not now. “I had the week from hell.”

“Join the club. I had a guy shit all over my operating table this morning. So much for a routine scope. I’m not sure that’s what they meant in residency when they said, ‘ya never get used to the smell.’ I’ve been around morgues that smelled better.”

Chase’s silence struck Dixon like a stun gun. Dixon said, “You need another beer!” then popped up to the cooler.

Chase said, “No thanks, not yet. I think I need some water.”

“So do those geezers in front of us. They’ve been searching that pond for hours. Sheesh, did they die looking for a lousy ball?”

Chase just stared at the cart path. Dixon said, “I’ve never seen you this quiet. You all right?”

“Huh…Oh, I’m just thinking.”

“You look like a Rodin sculpture.” Still no response. Dixon continued, “Talk to me—what’s up?”

“I’m having a
come to Jesus
week. They brought in some chop-shop consultant who wants to cut everything I’ve done and hang me out to dry.”

“That’s why they pay you the big bucks.”

“No, they pay you to cut, they pay me to build.”

“Good one. What are they chopping?”

“An entire division…sending it over to India. A bunch of my people lose their jobs so we can help a bunch of maharishis buy bigger hookahs.”

“That sucks. Sorry about that…what about your girlfriend Brooke. Is she getting axed?”

Brooke?
Dixon pressed the button that finally brought Chase back to life. That’s what friends are for. “First of all, she’s not my freaking girlfriend. Will you guys stop calling her that!”

Dixon opted to ignore the
you guys.
Instead, “So, is she getting canned?”

“Looks that way. But, the thing that irks me most is I’m totally out of the loop.”

“And here I thought CEOs had all the fun.”

Chase surveyed his reflection in Dixon’s glasses—one of those moments when Dixon unwittingly hit the nail on the head. Chase said, “It used to be fun. I used to love what I did. Building this company into something. You wouldn’t think I’d hit a roadblock now. Hell, our board of dinosaurs couldn’t build a bridge across a dried up creek.”

“Think of it on the bright side.”

“How’s that?”

“Now you can bang Brooke, Boa.”

“Quit calling me Boa! I still can’t believe you called me that in front of her.”

“Well, you called me Dixie-dawg…and she was a patient. C’mon man, listen to yourself. Plus, Boa’s a better nickname than dawg any day.”

“Says who?”

“You kidding me? Why? Did she ask how you earned the name Boa?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell her.”

“Wah, wah, wah. Here, use this cry towel,” Dixon said, unclipping his golf towel from his bag, and flinging it in Chase’s face. Dixon continued, “You know how many times that nickname got you laid? And, do I get any thanks? Nooooo. You owe me—big time, Boa.” Chase chuckled.

“Are you ever going to grow up?”

“Not till you have another beer. You won’t let me smoke a cigar, and the way you wasted a perfectly good Heineken just doesn’t cut it. You need to get laid, big time.”

“Wah, wah, wah, yourself. Throw me a beer—and a cold one this time. And, I’m doubling our bet.” Dixon nearly fell over, thinking, he’s back. Neither of them realized the Geezer party in front of them had a full hole lead.

After Dixon’s duck-hook drive, Chase made a quacking sound, then stepped up to the tee. Feeling a burst inside, Chase tightened his golf glove, then launched his drive straight down the middle, well past Dixon’s. Sometimes it took a good berating from a guy like Dixie-dawg to pull you off the floor. Snapping the icy beer can open with a spray, Chase strutted like a matador, and said, “Take that!”

“Where’d you go? I didn’t see it down.”

“You’d need binoculars. They’re building a Walmart between our shots.” Take that—that’s what friends are for.

For the next three holes, Chase put on a clinic, beating Dixon like a drum. And, Dixon didn’t mind. Chase was a much better golfer anyway and should win. Dixon was just happy to have his buddy back. Now even in their match, Chase yelled, “What do I have to do to get another beer around here?”

“He’s back—I love it. You didn’t even need a nipple on that one.” They laughed.

At the turn, the geezers called it quits. Feeling giddy from three beers, marveling it was before five o’clock, Chase slogged to the window to re-stock the cooler with green cans.

With smooth sailing in front of them, Chase and Dixon raced around the scenic back nine, laughing and heckling each other on every shot. Buddy golf.

By hole 13, Chase’s beer muscle faded; his swing looked more like flailing while Dixon could have performed brain surgery. Chase still scored well enough to tie Dixon through 17. Then, on 18, Dixon sank an impossible putt to win bragging rights, worth much more than the cash. Chase smirked and before Dixon could say it, handed him his wallet, and slurred, “Take it all, ya cheatin’ bastard.”

“Better luck next time, Boa,” Dixon said while leafing through the green bills like a deck of cards.

“Enough with the Boa!”

“Wah, wah, wah…Hey, since I own your wallet after that ass whooping, the least I can do is buy you a cocktail. You up for the 19
^th
hole?”

“Ah, thanks, dawg, but I can’t tonight. I haven’t seen Parker all week and I’ve gotta set up our fishin’ trip this weekend.”

“This weekend? Have you forgotten about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Don’t give me that look. You better not bag on me like last time.”

“Help me out here. I’m sure I have it on my Outlook. What’s tomorrow?”

“Hello…” Dixon removed his sunglasses and studied Chase’s face, then said, “Charity for Children.”