At Claudia’s words, my anger turns to a deep, hollow sadness. I think back to the weeks before my wedding, and I want to cry at how stupid I was. “It won’t work,” I say, fighting my own tears now. “I won’t get anything.”
“Of course it will work,” Lishelle assures me. “What you need is a man-hating lawyer who knows how to go for the jugular.”
“You don’t understand.” And of course they won’t. I’m overwhelmed with shame over what I’m about to admit to them, something I couldn’t admit five years ago when I was getting married.
“Oh, Annie.” Lishelle squeezes my hand.
“Damn him. I swore I wasn’t going to cry anymore.”
“Cry now—but get even financially,” Lishelle tells me. “That’s what you do.”
“I can’t!” Two women at a nearby table shoot a curious glance at me. I face my two friends and whisper, “I signed a prenup with Charles.”
My confession leaves both Lishelle and Claudia dumbfounded.
“You signed a
prenup?
” Lishelle asks.
“He said he didn’t want me marrying him for his money.”
“But the firm’s only started to do really well since you got married.”
“He said he
might
be worth millions one day.” Now I gulp my Cosmo, needing something to numb the pain.
“I’m lost,” Claudia admits. “What prenup?”
“About five days before we got married, he produced this prenup agreement. I was shocked. We’d never even talked about one. He basically said he wanted to know that I loved him for who he was, and not his potential income. We were so in love, about to get married…I didn’t even think of a possibility of getting divorced.”
“He obviously did,” Lishelle comments. “Or he wouldn’t have made you sign a prenup just days before your wedding.”
“Yeah, that sucks,” Claudia agrees.
“I wish you’d told us,” Lishelle goes on.
“What good would it have done?”
“We’d have made sure you didn’t sign anything so ridiculous. Let’s face it—you’ve been with him from the time his business started doing really well. Whatever he’s earned, you deserve half of.”
I shake my head with regret, wishing I could turn back the clock. “I won’t get a penny. Unless…” My brain, despite being clogged with alcohol, starts to work. I remember something I’d long ago forgotten.
“Unless what?” Claudia asks.
“Unless Charles is making seven figures. I think there’s some kind of provision in the prenup that states if he’s making over seven figures, I’ll get a six-figure settlement should we divorce.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Lishelle tells me. “As a partner, isn’t he making that much?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I…I would think so. But even if he is, how can I fight him? It’s going to take money—money I don’t have. You’d think that because he was screwing around on me, he’d at least want to do right by me in the divorce.”
“Honey, it doesn’t work that way,” Lishelle says. “Remember how David tried to go after me for support? The slimeball.”
Anger brews inside me again. Never in a million years did I expect Charles to treat me this way, even if we were to split. But how good was he to me during the marriage? He rarely brought me flowers, rarely took me out for dinner, rarely spent time with me even when we were both home together. And it’s not just that. Charles has got to be making big bucks, yet I’m suffering to keep my business above water. It’s not that I haven’t asked my husband for help. Every time I’ve broached the subject, he reminds me how much he has to pay the nursing home monthly to take care of his mother.
How hard off can a man be who drives a top-of-the-line Mercedes and wears expensive clothes? According to him, he’s stretched to the limit financially, and I never questioned that.
But now…
“Something’s not right,” I say.
“Exactly,” Claudia chimes in, sounding as if she’s high. “You let me see that prenup. I’ll have my uncle look at it, tell you if it’s on the up-and-up.”
I nod. But that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about the fact that Charles has cut off my credit cards and cleaned out our account. Lishelle’s right. He’s got to be worth oodles of money. Our house alone is over five hundred thousand.
So why leave me penniless? Out of spite?
Or, I wonder, is there something Charles is trying to hide?
I
’ve had a fucking shitty week.
If all the drama my friends have been going through weren’t enough, I’ve been having my own issues—with Glenn. The biggest problem—he hasn’t called.
All week.
And he hasn’t returned my calls. Until last night, that is.
Last night, before I got home, Glenn called and left a message. He apologized for being out of touch and said that he’s been really busy with work, and that the company had him working the West Coast this week. But at least he promised he’d be in town tonight so we could have at least one night together this weekend.
That’s why, despite the fact that I’m fighting a killer migraine, I’m lying on my bed, wearing the raunchiest black negligee I could find at Frederick’s. I’m waiting. Have been for hours now.
Glenn’s message said he’d be in town around seven. I rushed home, expecting to greet him. When I didn’t find him here, I assumed he would arrive shortly. But it’s now close to midnight and he’s not here yet.
Another half hour passes, and I only barely sip on my wine. I haven’t called him yet because I don’t want to seem like the pathetic overly anxious girlfriend who doesn’t have a life. But now, I can’t wait another moment. I need to know if Glenn will be showing up, or if I should get some sleep.
I position myself on the edge of the bed and lift the receiver. I punch in his cell number. It rings and rings. Not even his voice mail picks up.
So I try his home number.
The number you have reached is not in service.
Odd. I thought I dialed correctly. But obviously, I misdialed. I punch in the number again.
The number you have—
My pulse quickens. I’m starting to feel uneasy here. I slam the phone down, then stare at it for a very long time. What the heck is going on?
I try Glenn’s cell again. It rings and rings.
“Where the hell are you, Glenn?”
I call his cell one more time. One more time, it just rings.
My phone finally rings a little after six the next morning, and I snatch it up immediately. I pray it’s the call I’ve been waiting for.
“Hello?”
“Baby, hi.”
My eyes flutter shut as a slow breath oozes out of me.
Thank God.
“Glenn.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“You were supposed to be here last night.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
“Please tell me you’re on your way.”
“Aw, baby. I wish I was.”
“Glenn.” My voice comes dangerously close to whining. “What’s going on?”
“My schedule was changed, and I had to fly to Montana. The weather here has been awful. Part of the airport’s flooded, and all the flights have been canceled.”
“Then why didn’t you call last night?” I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be in a relationship. There’s not just the sex and the laughter. There’s the worry and the fights.
“I didn’t want to call until I knew what the deal was. Then it got too late.”
“So you won’t be in Atlanta today?”
“Afraid not. I really am sorry. If you only knew how much I wanted to see you last night. I whacked off at least three times.”
That gets a smile out of me. “Where are you now?”
“Some shit hotel near the airport.”
I nod. Then I frown. “Are you sharing a room with someone?”
“No.”
“Then why are you whispering?”
“Am I whispering?” His voice rises marginally. “Habit, I guess. That and the fact that it’s early.”
“I guess.”
“I didn’t ask how your week was. Is everything okay? How’s Claudia?”
“I’ve had a crazy week. Both Claudia and Annelise have drama with their men now. I feel like I just need to see you and hug you. Ya know?”
“I hear you.” He pauses. “That’s it—nothing else bothering you?”
“That’s more than enough.”
“True, true.” He blows out a soft breath. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, wait.”
“I know—you love me. I love you, too.”
“That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to ask why your home phone is cut off.”
“Huh?”
“Your home phone. I called and the number’s out of service.”
“Christ, you’re kidding me.”
“No.”
“Must be one of the bills I didn’t pay. I’m really bad that way. I travel so much, I often set my bills aside and forget them. I can’t believe they cut off my phone though.”
I shake my head. This is the same Glenn I knew ten years ago. “You’ve got to get organized.”
“I know, I know. Things will be better when we’re married. You’ll see.”
When we’re married…
Glenn’s words should comfort me, make me feel blissfully happy like when he first proposed.
But they don’t. I’m not sure why, but I can’t quite shake the nagging feeling in my gut that something is wrong.
Hours later, I still can’t shake the feeling. I find myself sitting before my computer instead of getting ready for brunch with my girlfriends. They’re not expecting me, since Glenn’s supposed to be in town, but considering he didn’t show I plan to surprise them.
At my computer, I type in the search words “Montana weather.”
Several Web site options pop up, and I click on the first one. According to this Web site, the weather in Montana is sunny. In fact, this Web site says Billings has been suffering a drought.
“Okay, so Glenn didn’t say he was in Billings,” I find myself saying out loud. “But does All-American Air fly to other spots in the state?”
I ponder the other cities to check, but after a moment I place my hands on the edge of the desk and heave myself away from it. My chair rolls backward on the hardwood floor. Damn it, I don’t like what I’ve been reduced to. This is exactly the way I became with David, searching his e-mails and documents on the computer to see if I could find proof of his cheating.
I don’t want to be that person again. I hated that person.
Go to the brunch.
I force myself to my walk-in closet. The first thing that jumps out at me is a black Ann Taylor suit.
Black, like my mood. It’ll do just fine.
I don’t make it to the brunch. Instead I drive to Duluth and cruise through the Thornhill neighborhood, searching for the house where Glenn brought me to propose.
I pass lush green lawn after lush green lawn until I finally reach the house. I slow down in front of it, but don’t turn into the driveway.
The For Sale sign is still up.
Inhaling a deep breath, I get out of the car. I make my way up the cobblestone walkway to the front of the house. The house is close to five thousand square feet, but despite its large size, it still has a homey feel. Making a funnel around my eyes, I peer inside. That grand staircase. The gleaming hardwood floors. I try to see the back of the house and the kitchen, but my sight is obscured by the staircase. I do, however, catch a glimpse of the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the impressive view of the lake.
“I want this house,” I whisper. “I want this life. I want it with you, Glenn.”
I call his cell number. No answer.
And then I dial another number, one that is also committed to memory. It’s the number to Channel Four News, where I work.
A minute later, I’ve got Juan Cortez on the line. He works in the weather department on the weekend.
“Juan, hi. It’s Lishelle.”
“Hey, Lishelle. Why are you calling here on a weekend?” he asks in that sexy Spanish accent of his.
“I’m curious about something. The weather in Montana.”
“Montana! Trust me, darling, you don’t want to go to Montana. I went there once when I first came here from Colombia, and there’s nothing but cows and corn over there.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m not planning a getaway. I just want to know about the weather. Across the entire state.”
“Give me a moment.”
Less than a minute later, Juan comes back on the line. “Well, Montana’s hot right now. Brutally hot. It’s been over one hundred degrees across the entire state. They’re in the middle of a drought.”
“A drought. You’re sure about that? Because I heard something about some flooding—”
“Not a chance,” Juan assures me.
“Thanks, Juan.”
“No problem, darling.”
I end the call and once again stare into the window of this gorgeous house I hoped would be mine. The house I hoped to fill with children with the man I love.
I wanted the fairy tale. But fairy tales don’t exist.
You’d think that at my age, I would know that by now.
My years as a field reporter taught me to trust my gut. And my gut, on my drive back home, tells me there’s something drastically wrong with this picture.
“Please, God,” I pray, fearing the worst. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before, but it’s all I can think of now after seeing my dream house again.
Money.
Was I totally duped? Did I miss the signs?
Please, God. No.
It seems like days later when I finally pull up to my brownstone. I charge inside and head straight for my office.
I open the drawer where I placed the checks for the line of credit.
The checkbook is gone.