Chapter 11

How could Philip do this? He suggested the amicable split, he recommended dividing their assets fifty-fifty, and he advised not to waste money on mediators or litigation.

Sarah buried her head in her hands. And I believed him. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” She slapped a hand on the desk.

Her phone dinged, and Sarah raised her heavy head. New e-mail received. Sender: Judy French. An angry pulse throbbed in her temple. She peeled her hand from the grainy hardwood and winced at the sting in her palm. She opened her laptop, pulled up the attachment, and scrolled. Near the bottom, bright yellow highlighted one sentence.

Proceeds of the sale of 850 Mt. Vernon St. shall be split as follows: 65% to Mr. Philip Flynn, 35% to Mrs. Sarah Flynn.

Sarah’s stomach plummeted. “Sixty-five, thirty-five?” The words tore out of her mouth. “Damn it.” She smacked the desk. “Damn it!” She whacked the desk again…and again. She hit the wood so hard her laptop shook—so hard her palm swelled.

With shaky hands, Sarah slammed shut the laptop. Ripe breaths came rapidly, and her pulse soared. Effing Philip Flynn. How had she been so naive to trust their verbal agreement? He’d probably always planned on this bait and switch. Or maybe Amanda suggested to squeeze her for another—

She punched several numbers into her phone’s calculator—$8,540. $8,500! An angry growl ripped from her throat. Damn Philip Flynn and damn husband-stealing Amanda, too! Her phone still in her grasp, she pulled up Meredith’s contact. But then she hesitated. Meredith had the brilliant idea for her to take this job. What had she said? “Everything will be fine.” Meredith and her cheery attitude. She should have listened to—

As Sarah tightened her grip on the phone, she shifted her gaze to another contact—her mother’s. The cross on the wall would have to burst into flames before Sarah called her. If she had to listen one more time to Mom’s exasperated, “I told you not to leave D.C.,” she might smash her phone into a thousand pieces—her laptop, too.

Her chest burning, Sarah exhaled and put down the phone. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? She toggled her phone between Meredith’s and Mom’s contacts, but she didn’t call either. A new thought percolated, redirecting her anger from outward to inward; Meredith and Mom hadn’t gotten her into this mess. She had. And she would have to get herself out.

****

Two hours and three cups of tea later, Sarah still sat in front of her laptop. Figures covered a sheet of paper. Each counter suit to Philip would cost eight hundred dollars. But how many counters would she need? One? Five? A dozen? And what if they couldn’t reach an agreement? Litigation—costing at least ten grand—would be needed and flights to and from Rome. Another twelve hundred. And that scenario assumed Sister Maria would even grant the time off.

Sarah snorted. Yeah, right. Sister Maria would more likely hand her a pink slip and march her straight to the confession booth. Sighing, she reopened her laptop and logged into her bank account—just over five thousand dollars left. Moving trucks, airfare, and the mind-boggling bill from the fertility center ate up the rest.

Hollowness grew inside her—a dark cloud replacing all rational thoughts. She scanned the desk—numerical figures, her silenced phone, a clutter of windows open on her laptop—and everything spun.

Cost aside, could she stand to prolong the divorce for one minute longer?

She finished the last drop of warm chamomile tea, pulled on her fuzzy, teddy-bear slippers, and buried herself under the covers. But a chill still rattled inside. Sarah hugged her knees to her chest. Can I really make a counter suit?

****

By Monday afternoon, Sarah still hadn’t come to a decision. She only knew that the longer she waited, the more likely she’d need shock therapy—or at the very least, a prescription for strong anti-depressants.

“Are you listening?”

“Huh?” Sarah blinked. From her vantage point at the school’s entrance, the daily pick-up line came into focus through the hazy eyes of a sleepless weekend.

“I was telling you Juan bought me these earrings.” Anna cocked her head and pointed toward diamond stud earrings.

“Oh, right.” Sarah studied the earrings, but like everything else in her view, they had no luster. “They’re very nice.”

Anna squinted her eyes. “Are you sick or something? You don’t look well.”

“Me? No, no. I’m fine.” Sarah yawned. If she took the deal, she could go back to the way things were. She could sleep and not worry about Philip Flynn ever again.

A horn beeped, and Anna’s elbow jabbed her side. “He’s waving at you.”

“Huh?” Sarah scanned the staircase filled with departing students.

“Lucia’s father.” Anna pointed toward the line of cars.

At the front of a line, a blue Mercedes idled, and Eduardo stood next to the driver’s side. He smiled and waved.

Sarah didn’t raise her hand and didn’t return his smile. She glanced from him to the back seat, where Lucia sat in a booster seat, and back to him. Where had her gumption to confront him gone? Where were the anger, the conviction, and the lust? None of the feelings remained. Her emotions shriveled like dry tea leaves.

Sarah dropped his gaze. How many more days could she go on like this? And to what end? Only one way remained to reconstitute herself—to live again. So what if Philip got the last victory? Her marriage had only been one long battle that slowly wore her down, anyway. She needed to be done with Philip Flynn. Turning on her heel, Sarah marched straight to her room, where she immediately sat at her computer, opened her email, and typed.

“Sarah?” Anna called through the closed door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” Sarah closed her laptop.

Across the room, Anna opened the door and entered. “What’s going on? You haven’t been yourself all day.”

Sarah didn’t look at her—she couldn’t, for fear she might break down. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? You just ignored the hottest dad in school and left me standing there like an idiot.”

Tears filled Sarah’s eyes, but she blinked them away. Anna’s tiny hand touched her shoulder.

“You can tell me.”

“It’s…it’s…” Sarah’s voice faltered as the tears fell. “It’s my divorce settlement.”

Anna rubbed her back. “Yes?”

“My husband… He…” Sarah wiped the tears with the back of her hand. “He’s a complete a-hole.” The story spilled out through a mixture of sniffles, sobs, and occasional profanity. She told Anna about everything: the affair, the failed fertility treatments, and the debacle of a divorce agreement. When the words finally stopped spewing from her mouth, she felt like she finished running a marathon. “Come on,” she said to Anna, who made herself comfortable on her bed. “I’ll buy you dinner.” Sarah grabbed her purse.

“Wait.” Anna caught Sarah’s wrist. “What about the papers?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure them out later.”

Anna turned down her mouth. “I don’t think so. Get on the phone.” She stood. “Now.”

Sarah stepped back. “I don’t know, Anna.”

“He’s bluffing.” Anna snatched Sarah’s purse and rifled the contents. “He knows you’re here, short on money, and desperate for this divorce to be over.” She pulled out Sarah’s phone.

Sarah took a long look at Anna. A nervous energy tingled in her fingers, and she seized the phone from Anna’s outstretched hand.

“Call the bluff,” Anna said. “Counter.”

Inhaling deeply, Sarah pulled up her attorney’s number. Was she really taking the advice of a twenty-three-year-old whose longest relationship lasted six weeks?

“What are you waiting for?” Anna scrunched her eyes and placed hands on her hips.

“Um, I…” Sarah’s pulse quickened, but she pressed the green button. Please go to voicemail.

“Judy French.”

“Oh, uh, hi, Judy. Sarah Miller. I’ve, um, I’ve decided I’d like to counter.” Her heart thudded in her chest.

Anna flashed a reassuring smile.

“Great. What are the terms?”

“Terms? Oh, fifty-fifty.”

“What?” Anna opened her eyes wide, and she grabbed Sarah’s arm. “No! Sixty-five, thirty-five.”

“Wait”—her voice quavered—“I mean sixty-five, thirty-five.”

“And he pays lawyer fees,” Anna said.

Sarah repeated the words to Judy.

“All right,” Judy said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear.”

“Thanks.” Sarah hung up. Had she really one-upped Philip?

Anna grinned.

“I can’t believe I just did that.” Sarah released a tight laugh.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

With a smile, Sarah wrapped her arms around her waist, a glow blossoming inside. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

“Al Forno’s?” Anna lifted her chin.

The glow morphed into tiny bursts of energy pulsating through Sarah’s chest, her arms, her fingers. She blinked and refocused on Anna, whose eyebrow was spiked up in question.

Sarah smiled. “Spaghetti alla carbonara?”

“You know it.” Anna linked elbows with Sarah. “You going for the caprese salad?”

Sarah closed her eyes and imagined the scent of fresh mozzarella, thick slices of tomato with basil, and tangy balsamic vinegar. Her stomach rumbled. “As always,” she replied. She followed Anna out the door. “And you know what? Tonight, I’m definitely saving room for dessert.”

“Ooh. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Sarah grinned and nodded.

“Gelato!” Anna said.

“Gelato!” Sarah said in unison. She grabbed Anna’s elbow and dashed to the restaurant.

For the next few days, Sarah kept her phone with her at all times: on vibrate, shoved in her pocket during lessons or ringer on high, delicately placed on the edge of the sink during showers. But by Thursday’s play rehearsal, she still hadn’t heard from Judy.

Sarah finished sketching the forefront of the panels—an outline of the buildings. The scale seemed right, but something was off—the image didn’t match the sketch in her book. She chewed the back of her pencil and stepped back. Why did the panels look so strange?

“Signorina Miller,” said a voice behind her.

Spinning, Sarah found Mr. Moretti standing before her. He stared at the backdrop.

She dropped her sketchbook and stumbled back, nearly tumbling into the panels. She caught the edge of one with her hand and balanced herself. “Buongiorno.” She gave a tight smile.

With a curt nod, he approached the panels, rambling in his nasal Italian.

What was he saying? Order? Arrangement? She shook her head.

He frowned then continued with more grandiose gestures. He pointed first to the joint between the panels and then to her sketchbook on the floor.

“Oh, capisco!” She drew the blueprint for the right panel on the center one. How could she have been so distracted?

He squeezed out a wry smile, accentuating his pudgy cheeks. His eye twitched before a scowl settled on his face. In a swift motion, he bent down and unlocked the casters on the base and reversed the panels.

“Grazie,” Sarah said.

He nodded then disappeared behind the curtain.

Sarah surveyed the three panels. The scene took shape. And Mr. Moretti wasn’t upset. At least—no more than he usually was. She could cross out pissing off Mr. Moretti from her list of worries—well, for the time being. She made her way onto the stage.

Near the curtain, students rehearsed with Anna, Lucia among them.

Sarah planted herself behind Lucia.

Lucia flipped the page of her script, revealing the highlighted text.

Only a few lines remained before Lucia’s. Sarah tensed. Would Lucia be okay? She’d only practiced with her once.

As she clutched the script, Lucia tapped her light-up sneakers.

Sarah took a step forward and patted Lucia’s shoulder. “I’ll read with you,” she whispered in her ear. Lucia’s shoulder relaxed under Sarah’s hand.

“Thank you.”

When the time arrived, Sarah read the line loud enough to cover Lucia’s shaky voice.

Anna raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t worry,” Sarah mouthed silently.

As the words left her mouth, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Without bothering to excuse herself, she rushed off the stage, pressing the green icon as she barreled through the auditorium doors. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Judy? Is that you?” She wrung her skirt with her free hand.

“Buonagiorno, Signorina Miller!” a computer-generated voice said.

What? Telemarketers worked here, too? Sarah ended the call with an assertive thumb-click. She dropped her skirt from her hand and frowned. Would Judy ever call? Would this marriage ever be over?

Sarah returned to the auditorium, kicking open the door with her heel. Rehearsal had apparently wrapped up, as the children gathered their belongings and joined their waiting parents—all except for Lucia. She stood with someone Sarah had never seen before—a man about Eduardo’s age, maybe slightly older, with slicked back hair and a goatee. Lucia cowered by the man’s side. Sarah’s senses rose to high-alert. As she started across to them, she narrowed her gaze, pursed her lips, and squared her shoulders. He’d need to show identification, hell maybe even provide fingerprints, before she’d let Lucia leave with him.

“I’d stay away from that one,” Anna said.

“Why?” Sarah spun. “Who is he?”

“Remember our conversation about dads and their gestures? Lucia’s dad likes to communicate with his hands.”

His hands? Oh, hell no. Sarah took a step in Lucia’s direction then stopped. “Wait—Lucia’s dad? He’s not Lucia’s father.” She searched Anna’s face for an explanation.

Anna raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side.

Did she have to be such a know-it-all? Sarah peeked over her shoulder; Lucia reached the man. Sarah’s pulse soared. She turned back to Anna and huffed.

“No,” Anna said. “He’s her stepfather.”

Stepfather? Sarah gasped. Then Eduardo wasn’t Roberta’s husband. She slumped her shoulders. What had she done?