Two Wee Drams of Love, page 4
She paused, a taupe silk scarf hanging around her neck, her coat gaping open.
“It’s called rehabilitative alimony, right? So I can get back to work, complete a master’s degree, maybe get a PhD. A fine idea, but who’s going to finish raising our children while I’m recovering from fourteen years of stay-home parenting and Calvin’s sitting in traffic?”
She whipped the scarf over her shoulder and swept out, a woman entitled to her petty dramas and parting shots.
But Dunstan prayed to God he’d sniffed the last of whatever fragrance she’d worn today. Most perfumes didn’t bother him—and some, say, that favored by Jane DeLuca—he liked—but if Doreen wore the baby powder scent again, he’d have to say something.
And the tickle in his nose was accompanied by a tickle in his memory. Teal was close to turquoise, and Dunstan’s mind clicked into recognition: Doreen’s wardrobe favored the same colors as Jane DeLuca’s carpetbag, though carousel horses and angry housewives were very different uses of the same hues.
He pushed aside his recollection of Jane rummaging in her bag as she tried desperately to prevent him from paying for her meal. Tried and failed.
No more cozy lunches with opposing counsel for him, not when the Almquist case was developing a faint odor of complication and bad behavior.
Doreen maintained her designer wardrobe, designer nails, designer hair, and designer body out of the household account, while also driving an SUV that likely averaged twelve miles to the gallon and four entertainment stations per child.
Spin classes, yoga classes, lunch with the ladies, membership at the bath and tennis club if not the country club… All of that cost money, and Calvin managed to provide for it on an accountant’s salary, while also contributing to investment and retirement assets.
Dunstan left the sticky posters where they were, for by this time Tuesday, those draft schedules would sport every color of the rainbow. Despite all the discussion and worry that went into the final product, Calvin would likely end up with every other weekend, alternating holidays, and two non-consecutive weeks in the summer.
Unless he was serving time in a federal prison for embezzlement or fraud.
* * *
Dunstan Cromarty’s office was almost what Jane had expected: a historical row house, renovated in the nick of time for office use, complete with narrow stairs, creaking floors, and chair rails bearing at least a century’s worth of nicks and dents.
The octagonal conference table, however, was magnificent.
“I wonder how many hours Cromarty billed to be able to afford this table,” Calvin said, taking a seat. “Maybe I should carve my initials into it for my contribution.”
“Don’t be sacrilegious,” Jane retorted, stroking the rich, red-blond surface of the table. “Chestnut trees in Maryland all but died out when the chestnut blight came through a century ago. My grandpapa said antiques like this are all that remain of a gorgeous and once-thriving native tree.”
“That’s not exactly true.”
Dunstan Cromarty stood in the doorway to the conference room, his suit today a dark, forest-at-sunset green, his tie a paisley in shades much like the polished wood of the table. Tie tack and cuff links matched again, gold with inset amber—a lion this time, not a fanciful unicorn.
He wore wire-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose that, for reasons Jane would examine in solitude, made her wonder what he’d look like wearing only those glasses.
“Mr. Cromarty.” She rose and extended a hand, because demonstrating to the clients that matters would proceed civilly—not speculating about opposing counsel’s physique—was the first order of business. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Calvin Almquist. Calvin, Dunstan Cromarty.”
They shook, Calvin eyeing Dunstan like a frat boy pledging a rival house.
“Mrs. Almquist and I will join you shortly,” Dunstan said. “Can I get anybody a cup of coffee?”
More civilities, of course, though it would be law office coffee, which only night-shift cops or nurses would regard as drinkable. Jane demurred and resumed her seat when Dunstan had withdrawn to whatever neutral corner his client lurked in.
“Is making us wait in here supposed to be a tactic?” Calvin asked, thumping his metal briefcase onto the conference table with about as much regard for the finish as a dog had for the sofa’s upholstery.
“We were a little early, Cal. That wasn’t a tactic on our part, so no, I won’t start accusing anybody of tactics yet.” Nor would she speculate any further on whether—twice—Dunstan had touched her foot by accident or by design.
And if by design, had he been trying to distract her from the case?
Mrs. Almquist was like Dunstan’s office. In general, she was pretty much as expected: mid-to-late thirties, chilly, wary, tired, and dreading what lay between her and her freedom. She was a bit unexpected too, though, in that she was well put together, right down to lacquered bronze nails, honey-blond highlights, sculpted brows, expert makeup, and a blue silk suit that tactfully whispered outstanding good taste.
She hadn’t let herself go to pot. Just the opposite, right down to a light, baby powder and freesia scent.
Calvin didn’t stand when his wife came in, and neither did Mrs. Almquist offer her ex-to-be any greeting.
Dunstan shot Jane a single, veiled glance: Let the wild rumpus begin.
Under the table, Jane toed off her ballet flats and prepared to model sweet reason and professional cooperation for the Almquists.
“Ms. DeLuca and I thought we’d use today’s meeting to consider parenting schedules,” Dunstan said, “but if we can’t come up with something you both agree to, then Maryland law pretty much requires that you attempt mediation.”
Calvin popped the latches on his briefcase. “You mean we have to pay for both? For you two spinning your wheels and then some touchy-feely counselor type wasting more of our time? Thanks so much. If we take long enough to figure out how I’m to become a stranger to my own children, then we won’t have to worry about paying for their college educations, because I’ll be too broke.”
Doreen slapped both palms onto the table. “You’re already a stranger to them, though they’re our children. The point of this divorce is to ensure you become a stranger to me too. Nobody told you to go for the partner slot, Cal. That was your decision.”
“Children cost money, Dorie.”
Some attorneys would have let this venting and posturing go on until the clients ran out of steam, but Jane had already had enough.
“Your bickering costs money too, at least when Mr. Cromarty and I are in the room. You can stand out in the parking lot all afternoon berating each other, but today we’re supposed to focus on your children. How are they doing?”
Playing the kid card so early was a calculated risk, but this time, it paid off. Husband and wife exchanged sad, guilty looks.
“Mark asked me if I was moving to DC,” Calvin said. “He was giving me permission—my own son, giving me permission—to abandon him. Luke won’t say anything, but…”
But a child’s silences could bludgeon even an absent parent.
Dunstan pushed his glasses up his nose and passed over several pieces of paper. “Mrs. Almquist and I came up with this schedule for tax season, which we understand to be Mr. Almquist’s busiest time. We’re hoping that over the summer, the boys can spend more time with their father.”
“So I get them when I’ll have to take off work to look after them?” Calvin said, wrinkling his nose. “Or I can put them in hockey camp all summer, and forget about affording any vacations.”
For the next hour, it went like that. Every attempt at concession from one spouse met with suspicion and grumbling from the other. One would indulge in a flare of temper while the other tried for compromise, then the roles would switch. Jane intervened when her own client was particularly nasty, Dunstan reined in Mrs. Almquist when she was similarly uncooperative.
Dunstan was inclined to roam the room, and at one point he cracked the conference room door a few inches for no reason Jane could discern, because the room was neither warm nor cold.
They eventually wrangled a basic schedule into place, though both parties would take the next week to consider the tentative agreement.
“I’ll make copies of these,” Dunstan said, collecting the most recent version of the four-week parenting pattern. “Doreen, if you’d join me for a moment?”
“What are they talking about?” Calvin asked, though the question had none of his previous snark. Putting down on paper the reality of a family splitting apart would wallop the snark out of anybody.
“If the parenting agreement flies, then the next step is usually the division of marital assets, but I have a question for you, Calvin.”
“I’m apparently full of answers today. I’ve never seen Dorie so subdued.”
And this bothered him, which was the price extracted from a man who could pay attention to his wife, but hadn’t for too long.
“For many couples, the parenting aspect of the divorce is the worst part. Once they know they’ll still be able to spend time with their children, they can pay attention to the rest of the agenda more easily. Any time you want to put the divorce on pause and try some counseling with Doreen, you let me know.”
At some point, Calvin’s international document courier briefcase had found its way to the floor. He set it back on the table now as if it were a cinder block, not an essentially empty box.
“Doreen would never go to counseling, and there’s no easy part to ripping your life in two. We’ll get through the money issues, but I don’t see how we’ll hang on to that house. Dorie loves that house, and the boys have friends all over the neighborhood.”
“That was sort of what I wanted to ask you. Doreen takes good care of herself.”
He rummaged in his briefcase. “She does—tennis, spin classes, yoga, zumba, swimming, massages, and that sort of thing. Always has and has insisted I do likewise. She’s right. A lot of the guys at the office are not exactly fit—accounting is a sedentary profession—but Dorie says if we don’t want the kids to sit around playing video games all day, we need to get off our duffs too.”
“You should thank her for that.” In counseling.
Calvin closed the briefcase, crossed his arms on top of it, and rested his forehead on his wrists. “Then she’ll snap at me, tell me if I could listen to her about staying fit, then why not about anything else? I’ll snap back that nobody wants to listen to constant bitching…” He heaved a sigh and straightened. “What did you want to ask?”
“How does she afford all that upkeep? She’s sporting salon nails, salon hair, and that was a lovely outfit. The shoes were either very good Jimmy Choo knock-offs or the real deal, and her handbag—” Would have paid for several counseling sessions by itself.
“I don’t know this Choo guy, but Doreen manages on what I put in the household account. I suppose that will change.”
Everything would change, everything except the leaden feeling old Cal drove up and down the interstate with each day, and that would hang around all too faithfully.
“All of those classes and memberships cost money, Cal. I’ll bet she has her hair done down in DC and shops for her clothes at least at White Flint. Mr. Choo doesn’t get out this way much. Do you typically give Doreen jewelry for birthdays and Christmas?”
He gazed off into the middle distance, an emotionally overwhelmed and exhausted man trying to make his intellect function. “Not jewelry. Dorie buys that herself—she has better taste than I ever will. I’ll send her flowers, or stuff that can be planted.”
Dorie had been wearing four rings—in addition to her wedding rings, interestingly—each sporting a semi-precious stone in a craftsman setting, as well as bracelets and earrings to match.
“Her household account will bear some scrutiny,” Jane said, discreetly toeing her right ballet flat back onto her foot. “Maybe she clips a lot of coupons, maybe she’s a secret shopper, but nobody looks that well put together for nothing.”
“She smells good too,” Calvin said wistfully, now that nobody of any import could overhear him. “Even when she comes home from the gym, that woman smells good and has every day I’ve known her. The boys will have to do some looking to find wives who measure up to the standard Doreen has set.”
Ah, the sentimentality of the soon-to-be single.
“Maintaining that standard when you’re trying to establish a second household will be a challenge, Cal, and I can promise you Doreen will not meet that challenge graciously.”
Jane maneuvered the left ballet flat on and stood. “I can send you the notes if you want to be on your way. The weather’s supposed to get stinky this afternoon, and the temperature has already started to drop. You might want get going before the drizzle starts freezing. Mr. Cromarty and I will probably need some time to confer anyway.”
“About?”
Calvin was not a trusting soul, but that was to be expected when his wife of seventeen years had turned into a stranger, and his children could well do likewise.
“Who’s to draft the parenting agreement, when will he have Doreen’s version of the financial statement together, when will I have yours? This stagecoach doesn’t drive itself, but you’re off to a good start.”
Sort of like congratulating somebody on putting together an excellent funeral.
He checked his watch, a big, clunky, fourteen-function deal held to his wrist with the jeweler’s equivalent of a chain-link fence. Nobody wore a watch any more, cell phones serving the need more than adequately, but Calvin probably relished the comfort of a dedicated timepiece that doubled as an altimeter and food processor.
“I’m off to the salt mines, then. At least this time of day, traffic will be light.”
“You ever think of telecommuting one or two days a week in the off-season?”
Jane telecommuted frequently when she didn’t have to be in court. Put on her best bathrobe and most comfy slippers, popped open her laptop, and alternated drafting legal motions with Spider Solitaire marathons all from the comfort of her favorite corner of the sofa.
Nothing like a seemingly impossible game of Spider for helping the subconscious tackle sticky legal puzzles.
“One of the partners telecommutes,” Cal said, shrugging into a Burberry raincoat. “She lives on the other side of Baltimore. The gas and commuting time made the argument for her, though during tax season, it’s all hands on deck, no matter where you live.”
On that naval note, he departed for his rainy commute.
Chapter Three
* * *
Anybody handling divorce work needed to acquaint themselves with the traditional phases of grieving: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Clients ricocheted through them, sometimes touching four out of five in the space of ten minutes.
The fifth phase…acceptance. That one was elusive. Dunstan sensed the Almquists might never attain it.
“Don’t look out the window,” Jane DeLuca said, stuffing her undersized computer into her oversized carpetbag. “Our clients are not at their best.”
“One doesn’t expect them to be,” Dunstan said, passing over copies of the first-round parenting schedule. He, of course, took a gander out the window so he could surreptitiously open it another three inches and begin detoxing the baby powder nerve gas from the room. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“I warned you,” Jane said, coming to stand beside him. “Pathetic, but predictable. I’ve tried to nudge Cal into counseling, but he’s the white knuckle divorce type, apparently.”
Under the old oak, dead leaves drifting around them, rain mizzling down, Calvin held Doreen and stroked her hair. Mrs. Almquist was clearly in tears, and Calvin…
“Your client is pretty broken up about this divorce,” Dunstan said, knowing he should look away, but enjoying a moment with opposing counsel standing next to him, despite the sad tableau under the oak and the tickle in his sinuses. “Hit him by surprise.”
And that wasn’t what Dunstan had expected. Embezzlers were a canny lot, usually. The cheeriest people you’d ever want to meet, all the while sliding a hand into your pocket.
“They seem like a good team,” Jane said. “I get that violent relationships need to end, but for people like these, I can’t fathom what is so awful, what is so damned, unbearably miserable, that signing up for Match.com looks good in comparison to what you’ve spent years building with your children’s other parent.”
“One of life’s great mysteries. My Uncle Donald says if birds can mate for life, great apes ought to be able to pull it off.”
“What does your aunt say?”
“Uncle isna married.” Though he had close and abiding relationships with his pocket flask and his weaponry.
“Dunstan, may I ask you something?”
And here it came, the sticky, tricky question, about foregoing court-ordered discovery on the financial documents, or about sending the clients for financial mediation, where such informality was often the norm.
“Aye, but let’s move away from the window.”
For the Almquists were having a good, long, miserable cuddle amid the dead leaves and autumn mist.
“I don’t begrudge them a moment to console each other,” Jane said, stuffing the schedule into the depths of her carpetbag. “But too much of that, and they’ll turn their gun sights on us.”
Because whatever animosity the divorce engendered often did end up being aimed at the lawyers, giving parties desperate for common ground targets they could both fire at.
“They’ll get around to playing get-the-lawyers eventually anyhow,” Dunstan said, closing the curtain over the window. Which was a…mistake. The day was dreary, and closing the curtains cast the small conference room into a cozy gloom, like a confessional. “If you’re about to ask about waiving formal discovery, I haven’t discussed the notion with my client.”
