Breach of Promise (8 page)

At the apartment I just could not shake the whole lawyer thing. I hated lawyers. All of them out for a buck, only making life worse for everybody. The thought that Paula would try to bury me with a lawyer was inconceivable.

Okay, maybe she’d had an affair, maybe she was going to divorce me. But that didn’t mean all that we’d had together was squat, did it? How could she possibly look at her daughter’s father as someone to
crush?

The cliché popped into my head:
If only she’d listen to reason. Or her mother
, I thought.
Erica Stanton Montgomery was not my biggest fan, but maybe

that was the way to get to Paula. Her number was programmed in my cell phone.

I should have checked the time. It was ten thirty on the West Coast, one thirty back East.
Erica’s voice was groggy. “What on earth?”
“It’s Mark,” I said. “Sorry, but this is important.”
“What could possibly—”
“Do you know what’s going on?”
Pause. I imagined Paula’s mother in her huge bedroom in Darian, Connecticut. Her house was as big as a soundstage. “In what way?”
“Come on, Erica. What has Paula told you?”
“She has told me there is going to be a change in her circumstance.”
Change in her circumstance?
Cold as ice, Erica was.
“Is that all you can say?” I was pacing around the apartment, going by my bedroom and Maddie’s, willing someone to be there.
“What is it you wish me to say, Mark?” Her voice was gaining its normal tone—haughty indifference toward her only son-in-law.
“Something besides her marriage to me being a circumstance,” I said.
“That is between you and Paula.”
“Oh, come off it. You’re her mother. You can give her your opinion.”
“My opinion is that she is doing the right thing.”
“By divorcing me?”
“Yes.”
No beating around the bush by this woman. If I thought I would get her to talk Paula out of her impending decision, I was dreaming.
“You approve of her sleeping around?” I wanted to hit Erica with the biggest guns I had.
“That is not what happened,” Erica said like some eyewitness.
“How can you say that? Were you there? Are you even aware?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
“I’ll sing opera if I have to, to get you to listen.”
“I don’t care for—”
“We got married in church, remember? Because you wanted a Christian wedding, right? So now that your daughter starts sleeping with a man not her husband, what’s your answer? That she should go ahead and divorce me? Is that your idea of Christianity?”
“I will not go on with this—”
“And what about Maddie? Have you thought about her?”
“Maddie is a survivor.”
“She’s five years old!”
“She has her mother in her. And me.”
“Now there’s a horror story for you.” I shouldn’t have said that. But there was no sock around to stuff in my mouth.
“You will not call me again,” Erica said.
“That’s it? Forever?”
“As far as I’m concerned, yes.”
That hurt, even though no love was lost between us. But I tried my best to be civil to Erica Stanton Montgomery. She was Maddie’s grandmother, the only one she had. For that alone I did try.
“Why didn’t you ever like me?” I said.
“Because you’re a child, and you don’t have it in you to grow up.”
My instinct toward self-defense flew out of me. I was speechless.
Erica filled the void. “And you coerced my daughter to marry you, against my wishes.”
“Coerced? How?”
“You got her pregnant and then took advantage of the situation.”
My chin was shaking. “Paula
wanted
to get married.”
“That’s what you think.”
My breath left me. Did Paula really feel that way?
“Thanks, Erica. You’ve been a great comfort.”
I threw the cell phone across the room.

I couldn’t fall asleep that night. Not until about two in the morning. Instead, I just lay in the dark, remembering voices, remembering when Paula and Maddie used to live here.

In the darkness of our bedr oom I ask Paula, “What is the greatest movie scene you ever saw?”
“Greatest movie scene? From any movie of all time?”
“Yes. Silent, modern, whatever you want. What scene was it that moved you the most or is stuck in your head?”
She thinks a long time.
“If I had to choose just one,” she says, “I think it would have to be the party scene in
All About Eve.
”
“Oh yeah. Where Marilyn Monroe shows up?”
“Yeah, but of course the best line in the whole thing is where Bette Davis goes up the stairs, stops, looks at everybody with those big eyes, and says, ‘Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.’”
I crack up. Paula does a great Bette Davis.
“So what about you?” she says.
“My favorite scene of all time? That’s a tough one, but I think I’ve got it.”
“So?”
“It’s got to be from
Shane
.”
“I haven’t seen
Shane
.”
“You never saw
Shane
?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“You never saw
Shane
?”
“No, I never saw
Shane.
”
“And I let you marry me?”
“So what’s so great about
Shane
?”
“Shane, man! He’s riding into this valley from some mysterious past, see?”
“Okay.”
“And he’s got no home, but he happens on this homestead, where Van Heflin lives with his wife and son.”
“
Van Heflin?”
“Will you listen? Heflin is chopping at this big old stump in the ground, and he lets Shane have a drink of water. Then the bad guys ride up and he thinks Shane is one of them, so Heflin tells Shane to get lost.”
“Makes sense.”
“Be quiet. But then Heflin sees Shane isn’t one of them, and he’s sorry and asks Shane to stay for dinner.”
“This is your favorite scene?”
“Listen! So Shane gets the first good, home-cooked meal he’s had in who knows how long, right? When it’s over, he stands up and walks outside.”
“He eats and runs?”
“I’m gonna clock you one if you don’t be quiet.”
Paula giggles.
“Now listen, please,” I say. “This is really important to me. Shane goes outside and picks up an ax and starts chopping away at the stump. See, that’s his way of saying thank you. Van Heflin grabs an ax and the two of them go to work on the stump together. By evening they’re almost through. They’re both pushing the stump, but it’s not coming out easy. The wife comes over and says, ‘Hey, why don’t you hitch up the horses and pull it out.’”
“Seems reasonable.”
“But Heflin says no way. He’s been battling that stump for two years. If he gives in now, the stump could say it beat him.”
“He really says that?”
“He says sometimes nothing’ll work for a man but his own sweat and muscle. So he and Shane go at it again and together they push out the stump.”
“That’s your favorite scene?”
“That’s it.”
“You are such a guy.”
I prop myself up on one elbow in the dark. “But see, they came together, and they got the job done. And then they have to get together again later in the movie to fight the bad guys who want to take over the valley. It’s like the guys who fought World War II. It’s like what made America great. Can’t you see that?”
“Why don’t we rent it?”
“You want to see it?”
“Of course,” Paula says, leaning over to kiss me. “If that’s your favorite scene, I’d like to see it, too.”
“You got a date.”
A shaft of light falls across the bed then, and the door is opening. It’s Maddie, all of four years old.
“I could hear you,” she says.
“Sorry, honey,” Paula says. “Come here.”
Maddie, in her fluffy pajamas, crawls up on the bed and gets under the covers between us.
“I’m really sorry,” I say, kissing Maddie’s hair. “Daddy was getting excited about movies.”
“I like movies,” Maddie says in a sleepy voice. “I like
The Little Mermaid.”
“
The Little Mermaid
is good,” Paula says.
“Great,” I say.
We lay there in silence for a long time. I’m feeling the warmth of Maddie’s body and smelling the Johnson’s Shampoo in her hair and holding Paula’s hand outside the covers.
And then Paula whispers, “I think she’s asleep.”
I listen to Maddie’s breathing, slow and rhythmic, like soft waves lapping on a distant beach.
“I was wrong,” I say.
“Wrong?”
“This is my favorite scene.”

L
AWYERS
1

 

“Hello, Daddy.”

Maddie’s voice sounded quiet over the phone, almost formal. A horrible thought hit me. She sounded like a little version of Erica Stanton Montgomery from last night’s conversation. Maybe it was just the weirdness of the situation for her. But it chilled me.

Paula had accepted my call and given Maddie over to me immediately. I took that as a positive step.
“How are you, pumpkin?”
“Fine.”
“Great. Whatcha doin’?”
“Watching TV.”
“Uh-huh. Cool.” Why was it so hard to make small talk with my own daughter? Because I wanted her in my arms, not in Troncatti’s house. And I did not want to upset her.
“Are you coming over here?” Maddie said.
“I don’t think so.”
“How come? Tony has a big house.”
The name, the familiar way she said it, was a hot knife.
“Wow, great,” I said. “Hey, you want to go to the ballgame with me?”
“And get a Dodger Dog?”
“You betcha.”
“Okay. When?”
“Soon. Let me talk to Mommy, will you?”
“Okay.”
“I love you,” I said, but I guess she didn’t hear me. Paula came on.
“So?” she said.
“When will you bring Maddie back?”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“Well, that doesn’t help me,” I said, trying not to snap. “You don’t have the right to keep her from me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“We have to work all that out.”
“Fine. Let’s start by you telling me when she’s coming home.”
“Stop trying to force me into things, Mark.”
A tongue of flame lit inside me. “Like I forced you to sleep with Troncatti? Come on, Paula, stop this right now. Come home and let’s work this thing out.”
In the short silence I indulged a vision—of Paula in torment about her actions and a real inner struggle. But for the good of Maddie, she’d see it my way and come home. At least to talk. At least to bring Maddie back.
That vision quickly vaporized. “I can’t talk to you anymore,” Paula said. “Talk to my lawyer. His name is Bryce Jennings and he’s in Century City.”
“Wait.”
The line went dead.
My heart went dead, too, like someone had flipped a switch and cut the life out of it.
It was really happening. Milo Ayers was right. She was going to try to take everything, including Maddie. I started to sweat.
I fished out the card Milo had given me. I didn’t want to do this. This was a bad soap opera story line. Wife runs off with Italian movie director. Hires lawyer. Dumb husband is standing there, phone in hand, as the music goes up and the camera closes in on his perplexed face.
I must have stood like that for ten minutes, waiting for someone to yell
Cut.
No one did. Instead, I dialed the number on the card. The law offices of Gregory Arsenault were in the largest building in the Valley, on Ventura Boulevard. Spacious and done up in dark wood and brass, with expensive-looking leather-bound books in perfect order on floor-to-ceiling shelves, the office had the feel of money. Not chump change, either.
The receptionist was a tall, sleek woman who asked me to please be seated. There were some magazines on a glass table. I picked up
Forbes
. Maybe I could find a tip on how to make enough money to afford Mr. Gregory Arsenault.
A few minutes later a tall, angular man with penetrating blue eyes opened the big door next to the reception desk.
“Mr. Gillen? I’m Greg Arsenault.”
I stood up and shook his hand. His grip was firm, like a Brinks guard holding the cash bag.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said.
“Anything for Milo.”
I followed him down a long corridor, past some workstations and inner reception areas, file cabinets and a kitchenette, to the very last office. It was in the corner of the building (we were on the thirtieth floor) and it had a breathtaking view of the San Fernando Valley.
“Have a seat,” Arsenault said.
The chairs in his office were made of leather and wood, with arms and legs that had fancy curlicues. Arsenault’s desk was large and organized. Absolutely nothing on it looked out of place.
Arsenault sat himself in a big executive chair and leaned back. He wore a crisp white shirt and patterned tie with a dark blue vest. A gold watch chain made its way out of his vest pocket and a watch fob—looking like a gold nugget—dangled from a vest button in the middle of his torso.
“So your wife wants a divorce,” he said.
I’d told him a few preliminary things over the phone. “Right.”
“What do
you
want?”
“I don’t want the divorce.”
“You want money?”
“No.”
Arsenault blinked a couple of times. “Interesting. Children?” “A daughter. Madeleine. She’s five.”
“You want custody?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t say of course,” Arsenault counseled. “Not just yet. Does your wife have a lawyer?”
“Yes. Jennings something.”
“Bryce Jennings?”
“Yeah.”
Gregory Arsenault put his head back and laughed. I did not like the sound of that. When he looked at me again he said, “She is quite serious. Do you know anything about Jennings?”
I shook my head.
“Jennings is known as The Destroyer to the Stars. He has made a name for himself, and millions of dollars I might add, representing celebrities in divorce and palimony cases. He is ruthless.”
My chest was beginning to tighten as my mind formed images of a lawyer I’d never seen.
“You are definitely going to need representation,” Arsenault continued. “Otherwise Jennings will rip your head off and spit down your neck.”
For a long moment I sat there, shaking my head slowly. “Why can’t Paula and I just settle this thing?”
“There are alternatives. Have you tried marriage counseling?”
“Not yet, but I don’t know if she’d go for it.”
“Hiring Jennings is not a good sign, no. There is something called Family Conciliation Court. It’s informal, confidential, and
free.
It’s mediation, is what it is, and to work it requires that the two parties try to reach solutions without the blood of litigation. Again, the hiring of Jennings is a sign that your wife wants this to be handled with drawn swords. That’s where your lawyer comes in.”
“Why does it have to be that way? It seems so stupid.”
“You’re not the only one who thinks so,” Arsenault said. “The whole purpose of the Family Code, if you look at the intent of the legislature, is to foster cooperation between the parties, to actually reduce the adversarial nature of the proceedings.”
“You’re kidding.”
The lawyer shook his head. “But there is no area of the law that is nastier, meaner, as full of brass knuckles and raw hatred as family law. Defending child molesters is a walk in the park by comparison.”
“But Paula and I were in love.”
Arsenault nodded with understanding. No doubt he’d heard variations on this theme countless times. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened. Don’t hold back. Everything you say to me is held in confidence.”
“Where should I start?”
“Why does your wife want a divorce?”
“Oldest reason in the world, I guess.”
“Another man?”
“You ever heard of Antonio Troncatti?”
Arsenault’s chin dropped just a little. “That’s the other man?”
I nodded.
“No wonder Jennings is involved,” Arsenault said. “When did all this happen?”
“Over the last few months,” I said. “She got a part in his new movie and went over to Europe to shoot.”
“You never went over there?”
“No. I was taking care of Maddie.”
Reaching into a drawer, Arsenault took out a new yellow legal pad. He jotted something on it.
“All the time your wife was in Europe, you stayed home and took care of the daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“What type of work do you do?”
“I wait on tables, try to get acting work.”
“Two actors in the family? How’s that going?”
“Better,” I said. “I just landed a great part in a series.”
“Did you?” Arsenault brightened and wrote some more. “That’s very good news. It pays well, I’m assuming.”
“You can assume that, yes. John Hoyt is in it.”
He scribbled. He asked me a series of questions, probing into more areas of the marriage. It was like having a dentist drilling me. Not much pleasure in it, but it had to be done.
Finally there was a long pause while Arsenault surveyed the notes he’d made. Five pages of legal paper. He flipped them back and forth a couple of times. “The only thing left to discuss,” he said, “is the fee arrangement.”
I tried to swallow. My throat constricted. “Sure,” I said, waiting for him to give me the bad news.
“I will need twenty thousand up front.”
“Twenty thousand? As in dollars?”
“It is a retainer,” he explained. “If things are settled the final bill won’t be that much. But if they aren’t—”
“I haven’t got anywhere near that much.”
“Perhaps you have some resources.”
“I don’t own any property, if that’s what you mean.”
“Friends or family?”
“Can’t we work out some sort of payment plan?”
Gregory Arsenault’s face changed from understanding to hard reality. “You have to understand that Bryce Jennings is a $600 an hour man, and that’s exactly what your wife—or your wife’s lover— is paying for. If this thing proceeds, we can move the court for attorney’s fees, but we can’t count on that. My hourly rate is $450. As a friend of Milo’s.”
Suddenly the disparity of the situation hit me. I was still in the same economic shape I was when Paula left for Europe. But in the meantime, she had hooked up with a multimillionaire director; she would have no problem paying The Destroyer.
“I’ll, um, see what I can do,” I said.
“That’ll be fine. My assistant will give you a client agreement form, and we can talk later. Meantime, you have some homework.”
“Homework?”
“I have an information form for you to fill out. All sorts of questions on assets, your child, your work, your references, all that. It’s self-explanatory. I also want you to make a list of positives and negatives. First, your positives. Then her negatives.”
“Why?”
“That will be important when it comes to custody.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to do that.”
Arsenault’s eyes got serious. “Do you want joint physical custody of your daughter or not? Because Bryce Jennings is going to do everything he can, with your wife’s help, to get her sole custody. Of that you can be sure. And to do that, he’s going to try to make you look bad.”
“But I’m not. I mean, I’m not perfect, but—”
“Which is why I want to know your negatives, too.”
“What for?”
“So I can anticipate what Jennings will be using.”
I felt sick. Arsenault looked at his watch and stood up. The signal our time was at an end. “Last thing,” he said. “Do not discuss these matters with anyone. If you do, the other side may claim that you have waived the confidentiality privilege.
Capice?
“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Zombielike, I got to my feet. “She has Maddie,” I said. “Can she keep her from me?”
“We can file an Order to Show Cause if there’s a problem.” He opened the door to his office. “I’ll give Bryce a call, as soon as all this is official.”
As I staggered by he said, “And try not to worry, Mark. We’ll get this thing straightened out.”
Sure. No worries. This was going to be a walk in the roses. For a mere twenty grand.