Thirty-Seven

Sara

“God, that felt good!” In the car on the way home, Dorothy is like a prizefighter exulting at the end of a championship bout. “I’m so glad we didn’t just let him off the hook without at least having our say. Don’t you feel empowered?”

“I do,” I say truthfully. “But you’re the one who landed the knockout punches, Dorothy. You were impressive as hell.”

She raises one fisted arm like the prizefighter in my head. “I would have chickened out if not for you . . . and the others. And I would have regretted it.”

“I think that’s true for all of us, Dorothy. But you, my friend, are a formidable woman.”

“So are you,” she says.

We smile the whole rest of the way home, completely in accord.

Some of the joy dissipates when we arrive and see Mitchell’s car in the driveway. I’d hoped he and his things would be gone before we got home. Now I have no choice but to face him. Hopefully, for the last time.

We come in from the garage and find him standing at the kitchen window looking out at the yard.

His presence dredges up the memories that I’ve buried under my hurt and anger. I loved him. In some ways, I always will. He was the first person who loved me back. Not out of pity or duty—which I’ve learned the hard way are not his strong suits. But because he saw things in me that no one else ever had.

It was with him that I first felt and recognized desire. He was my first and only.

Dorothy’s eyes narrow. She nods at her son. To me she says, “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

I watch Mitch’s face as her footsteps recede.

“Do you remember how small the magnolia was when we got it?” He points to the now towering tree that we planted the day we moved in. My very first tree in my very first house.

His eyes meet mine. For the first time in a long time, I see the man I married, and I believe he sees me.

“I really fucked things up, didn’t I?” he says.

“You did.”

“I’m sorry. Honestly. I don’t know what got into me. I just . . . If I could go back and undo what I’ve done, I would.”

I study his face. Try to read what’s in his eyes. I see love and sorrow and regret, all the things that have churned inside me. My heart aches for who we were, for what I thought we’d always have. I wish that everything that’s happened—Mitch’s secret life, the divorce, all of it—was just a bad dream, something conjured out of my own fear and insecurity.

He moves toward me, reaches out as if to cup my cheek.

“No. You no longer have the right to touch me.” I step back and shrug away from him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Dorothy materializes in the doorway and walks toward us. “What are you doing, Mitchell? I certainly hope you’re not trying to get her into bed.”

“This is none of your business.” He scowls at his mother. “Leave us alone. We’re just . . . saying goodbye.”

“Your attorney did warn you not to sleep with him before the divorce goes through, didn’t she, Sara?” Dorothy’s tone holds a clear warning.

“Yes.” I think about that first appointment. “She said that it could . . . derail things. But I assumed that was for emotional reasons.” I stare at my husband. “I promise you I have absolutely no intention of sleeping with him.”

“Good.” She steps up beside me just as I stepped up beside her when we faced Frank Anderson in the carriage house. “Because my son, as usual, appears to have his own motives.”

“What motive could there be?” I ask.

“Do you want to tell her, Mitchell, or shall I?” Dorothy asks.

“Go right ahead, Mother,” Mitchell exhales angrily. “You seem to have it all figured out. I didn’t realize you’d taken the bar exam.”

Dorothy’s eyes remain on me. She’s still in prizefighting mode. But this time she’s fighting for me.

“If you were to have sex with each other and either attorney found out, they’d be legally bound to tell the judge that you were not living in ‘bona fide separation.’ It would cause your divorce to be dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” Fear wraps itself around me like a heavy blanket. “You mean the divorce wouldn’t go through?”

Mitchell exhales sharply. He closes his eyes.

“Ultimately, you could file again,” Dorothy says. “But it could take an additional nine months and more money that I know you don’t have.”

“So, you hung around until we got home, thinking you’d somehow lure me back into bed one last time so that you could get the divorce dismissed?” I ask, trying to work it through.

His jaw is tight.

“But it makes no sense. We’ve agreed on everything. The paperwork’s been filed. You’re the one who chose someone else and built a family with her. Why would you want a dismissal?”

His gaze drops.

For the span of a heartbeat, I think he’s going to tell me that it’s me he loves and that if I’ll only forgive him and take him back, we can start fresh and live happily ever after. I let myself forget that there are children involved. Another woman.

But what he says is, “I’m just not ready. Margot’s changed. She’s so anxious about everything. All the fun is gone.”

If I had access to a weapon, he would already be dead. If I weren’t so shocked and horrified, I could probably do exactly what Dorothy threatened at the bookstore and rip him apart with my bare hands.

“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “How can you care so little for the people in your life?” I look him directly in the eye. “I wasn’t interesting enough, so you cheated on me with Margot. Margot, the woman who is carrying your second child, isn’t fun anymore so you think maybe you can have sex with me so that you can put off marrying her and accepting responsibility for your children? And if that keeps me from getting the divorce I deserve, too bad for me?”

Dorothy places an arm around my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Sara. I can hardly believe I raised such a monumentally selfish and conscienceless human being.”

“No. This is not on you. Mitchell’s failings are not your fault. He is who he is. And I know you well enough now to know that you tried your best.” I look at Mitchell. “You need to get out of here right now. And don’t ever come back.”

“We don’t actually have to sleep together, you know,” he taunts. “I just have to tell my lawyer that we did.”

Mitchell’s face is flush with triumph and satisfaction. He believes he’s “won” again.

“You’d do that just to buy yourself some time? Knock yourself out. I’ll just file again.” I refuse to shed a single tear in his presence.

“Mitchell isn’t going to say anything to his attorney or anyone else,” Dorothy says evenly.

“This has nothing to do with you,” Mitch says dismissively. He turns toward the door.

But I hear the determination in Dorothy’s voice; I can see it on her face. She’s not one to make idle promises or threats.

She smiles at me, then takes Mitchell’s shoulder and turns him back around. “If you attempt to use this lie to stop the divorce, I will sue you for elder abuse. Then I’ll call your employer and tell them just how untrustworthy you are and that you’re a thief who stole from his elderly mother and left her homeless.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” he chides her. “Not to me.”

“Unfortunately, you have a tendency to underestimate others while overestimating yourself,” Dorothy replies evenly. “This ends now. You will finalize your divorce, marry Margot, and raise your children. I’d like to know my grandchildren and their mother. But I’m grateful to Sara, and I’m glad I’ve finally come to know her. I consider her a friend and the daughter I never had.” Dorothy smiles and takes my hand. My heart is fuller than I’ve ever felt it.

“You’re bluffing,” Mitch huffs. “You’d never sue me. You’d just be making yourself look ridiculous.”

“Ah, darling,” Dorothy says. “I’d rather not have to. But don’t fool yourself.” She slings an arm around my waist. “Sara and I both have better characters and bigger balls than you do.”

His shock is almost comical, but ultimately, Mitchell Whalen does what he does best. He cuts and runs.

Through the kitchen window we watch him climb into his car, fire it up, then back down the driveway.

When the sound fades into the distance, Dorothy and I turn and face each other.

“I think I might need a glass of wine,” she says.

“Me, too.”

I go to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of prosecco that I’ve been saving for a special occasion while she lowers herself into a kitchen chair and folds trembling hands on the table.

I feel awful inside but wonderful, too. I’ve lost a husband but gained a formidable friend who’s beginning to feel like family. I fill two champagne flutes and carry them to the table. “We have foiled two nefarious plots in one day. I think that might be a record.”

I raise my glass. We toast like the bookworms we are. “To the end of a chapter.”

“To turning the page,” Dorothy adds. “And starting a new one.”

for·mi·da·ble

/ˈfôrmədəb(ə)l, fərˈmidəb(ə)l/

adjective

inspiring fear or respect through being impressively large, powerful, intense, or capable

Ex: “I hope to one day be as formidable as my mother-in-law.”