Authors: Joy Fielding
And suddenly, one day, without warning, she was gone. The semi-official explanation was that her parents had taken her home. Later came the news that the family had moved to Wyoming, that she wasn’t coming back.
She didn’t. Nor did she visit. Or write. Or phone.
Two months later, on Kristin’s eighteenth birthday, Kristin had walked out of the group home and disappeared into the humid, mean streets of Miami.
“Do you think Jeff would be upset if you slept with another guy?” Will was asking now, returning Kristin abruptly to the present.
“Only if he didn’t get to watch.” This time Kristin’s laugh was harsher, more forced. “God, Will. You should see your face.” She suddenly stopped laughing, her face growing dark and serious. “Did you just proposition me?”
“What? No. I just meant—”
“Relax. I know what you meant.” She leaned forward so that their knees were touching. “There are no other guys, Will.”
“Do you love him?”
“Do I love him?” Kristin repeated. “Now that’s a loaded question.”
“I would have thought it was pretty simple.”
“Nothing’s simple.”
“You either love him or you don’t.”
“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I do. In my own way.”
“What way is that?”
“The only way I know how.” She stood up. “Anyway, enough soul-searching for one day.”
“I’m sorry,” Will apologized immediately. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” She reached over, stroked his cheek. “God, you’re sweet. I’m really sorry you’re hurting, Will. I wish I could kiss you and make everything all better.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Will said with a laugh. He pushed himself to his feet, so that they were standing no more than a foot apart.
For several seconds they remained that way, neither moving, their eyes locked as their bodies swayed slowly toward one another.
Is she going to kiss me? Will wondered. Could he do that to Jeff?
Is he going to kiss me? wondered Kristin. Can I let that happen?
From the other room came the sound of a key turning in the front door.
“Hello?” Jeff called out. “Anybody home?”
Kristin quickly pulled back and away. “Jeff?” She marched out of the kitchen, taking several deep breaths along the way. “Is everything all right? I thought you had clients all day.”
“My eleven o’clock canceled. I only have a few minutes. Is my brother here?”
Will stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Jeff was standing just inside the front door. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Somebody wants to talk to you.”
In the next instant, Suzy was standing in the doorway, a genie freshly freed from her bottle, backlit by the sun. Her soft voice emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Will,” she said.
ELEVEN
T
OM
STOOD IN THE
glass-enclosed foyer of the pink three-story building on West Flagler Street, scanning the office directory for at least the fiftieth time. He’d read it so many times in the last sixty minutes, he knew it by heart. First floor: Lash, Carter, and Kroft, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 100; Blake, Felder ' Sons, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 101; Lang, Cunningham, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 102; Torres, Saldana, and Mendoza, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 103. Second floor: Williams, Seyffert, and Keller, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 200; Marcus,Brenner, Scott, and Lokash, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 201; Levy, Argeris, Kettleworth, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 202; Sam Bryson, Attorney, Suite 203. Third floor: Tyson, Rodriguez, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 300; Michaud, Brunton, Birnbaum, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 301; Abramowitz, Levy, and Carmichael, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 302; and finally Pollack, Spitzer, Walton, Tepperman, and Rowe, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 303.
“What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?” Tom asked out loud, pacing back and forth across the small space. “A start!” he shouted, laughing at his own joke and wondering whether anyone had heard him. The place seemed deserted. There was an elevator to his left and a stairwell right behind it, but nobody had used either since he’d arrived. “Business is obviously booming,” he muttered, thinking he could start at the top floor and work his way down. “Hello, Misters Pollack, Spitzer, Walton, Tepperman, and Rowe. Greetings, Misses Lash, Carter, and Kroft. Any of you legal beagles seen my future former wife?” He laughed again, wondering how long it would take to locate her. Certainly not any longer than the hour he’d already wasted waiting for her down here.
Why didn’t any of these big-shot attorneys list their specialties, for shit’s sake? Surely they had them. Was it too much to ask for a little clarification? How about Lang, Cunningham,
Family Law
? Or Sam Bryson,
Specialist in Divorce
? Something—anything—to give him a clue, point him in the right direction. No, that would be too easy.
And Lainey wasn’t about to make this easy for him.
Not that she ever had.
“Never should have gotten mixed up with her to begin with,” Tom muttered. Jeff had warned him about her, said she was a leech and that he deserved better. Except “better” usually consisted of Jeff’s discards, and he was tired of the hand-me-downs he’d been getting all his life, first from his brothers’ closets, then from his best friend’s bed. He wanted a woman that didn’t come with Jeff’s prior-rated seal of approval, and one of the things he liked best about Lainey was that she’d always been relatively impervious to Jeff’s charm. “I just don’t get what all the fuss is about,” she’d said one night, not long after they’d started seeing each other, and Tom had fallen instantly in love.
Of course, he’d fallen out of love even faster. Just seeing Lainey through Jeff’s eyes—“Christ, man, she’s not even pretty. She’s got these little beady eyes and her nose is way too big for her face. Plus, man, her legs are like bowling pins. You can do better than that”—had been enough to completely quench his already cooling ardor. Except by then it was too late. Lainey was already pregnant, and she was pressuring him to get married. He’d let her talk him into believing that, after Afghanistan, what he needed was a little stability. Let me take care of you, she’d urged. And why not? he’d decided. He deserved a little looking after. He could always get a divorce later on.
So why was he so upset now that it actually seemed to be happening?
Because nobody walks out on Tom Whitman, he thought. “I decide who leaves when,” he announced to the directory of lawyers. He thought of Coral Gables. That asshole husband of Suzy’s.
Don’t let me catch you boys in this neighborhood again,
he’d warned them. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? “I decide who does what,” Tom said now. “I decide how.
I
decide when.” Just ask that little cunt in Afghanistan.
Of course, the bitch had almost gotten him thrown in jail. Tom remembered the accusations, the weeks of investigation, the very real threat of incarceration. Ultimately, the army had decided against bringing the matter to trial, choosing instead to ship him home. After having laid his life on the line for almost two years, two years spent eating sand and watching friends die, his prayers reduced to a single wish—
Please let me come home with my legs
—he’d been unceremoniously tossed out on his ass. Dishonorably discharged. That was the thanks he got.
Just like with Lainey.
Another dishonorable discharge.
He’d done the right thing by her, and now she was trying to screw him out of what was rightfully his—his kids, his house, his way of life. Was that what she wanted? After almost five years together, did she really expect him to just walk away? So what if her parents owned the house? That was just a technicality. It was still the matrimonial home.
His
home. And Candy and Cody were
his
children. Did Lainey really think she could just walk away from him, that he would give up without a fight? Hell, if a fight was what she wanted, he’d give her the battle of her life.
The elevator doors suddenly opened, and a woman got out. She was blond and middle-aged, and was wearing a suit jacket, despite the heat of the day. She had a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, ready to light up as soon as she stepped outside.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Tom said, propelling himself forward so abruptly the woman almost dropped her cigarette. “Are you a lawyer?”
The woman looked wary. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Lainey Whitman.”
“Lainey . . . ?”
“Whitman.”
“I don’t think I recognize the name. Which firm is she with?”
“She’s not with anyone. She’s here seeing somebody.”
Now the woman looked confused. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know—”
“Can you tell me which firms specialize in divorce?” Tom asked as the woman backed toward the door.
“I believe Alex Torres deals with divorce, and Michaud, Brunton, Birnbaum has a family law department. Maybe Stuart Lokash handles divorce cases. I’m really not sure.” She pushed open the door, backed into the street, was swallowed by a flash of sunlight.
A wave of hot air blew across Tom’s face. “Alex Torres, of Torres, Saldana, and Mendoza, I presume. Suite 103.” He could start there, he decided, taking the stairs two at a time, pushing open the door to the first floor seconds later.
The hallway that greeted him was wide and lined with blue and silver carpeting. He walked down the corridor, passing the offices of Lash, Carter, and Kroft; Blake, Felder ' Sons; and Lang, Cunningham, before stopping in front of the closed double doors to suite 103. Probably should have worn a tie, he thought, tucking his shirt into his jeans and patting the gun tucked inside his belt buckle, making sure it was well concealed. Then he grabbed the brass knob of the heavy, wooden right-hand door and pulled it open.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. Weren’t lawyers supposed to be rich? Weren’t they supposed to inhabit spacious rooms with spectacular views? Weren’t they supposed to have beautiful furniture and well-dressed secretaries and a drop-dead gorgeous receptionist waiting to offer him a cup of much-needed coffee? Instead, what Tom saw was an elderly Hispanic woman behind a strictly utilitarian desk in front of a dreary beige wall, a line of closed office doors stretching out behind her.
“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m here to see Alex Torres.” She’s probably his mother, Tom thought.
“I’m afraid Mr. Torres isn’t in today. Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Tom didn’t move.
“Oh. Well, then, perhaps I can find someone else to assist you.”
“Perhaps,” Tom repeated, with exaggerated politeness. Where’d she learn to speak that way? “I’m looking for Lainey Whitman.”
“Lane Whitman?”
“Lainey. Elaine,” Tom corrected. It would be just like Lainey to go all formal on him.
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name.”
“She doesn’t work here,” Tom corrected sharply. “She’s here seeing someone about a divorce.”
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“I saw her come into this building an hour ago.”
The woman grew flustered. She reached up, patted her gray-streaked, black hair, which was pulled into a high bun. “You realize there are many law firms in this building.”
“Twelve, to be exact,” Tom said. “Four per floor. You want me to name them?”
The receptionist reached for her phone. “If you’d like to sit down, I’ll see if I can find someone to help you.”
Dumb bitch, Tom thought, tempted to blow her head off, just for the fun of it. Instead he mumbled, “Don’t bother,” and walked out of the office. “Where are you, Lainey?” he muttered, deciding to return to the lobby, rather than risk another confrontation with some lawyer’s snooty grandmother, and wait for her there. Surely, wherever she was, she wouldn’t be there much longer.
But another half hour passed, and still she wasn’t back. What was she doing up there? What was she telling those legal dickheads? “He drinks; he plays around; he has a terrible temper; the children are afraid of him,” he could almost hear her recite.
“Wouldn’t mind a drink right about now,” he said out loud, staring at the greasy spoon across the street. He wondered if they served alcohol, then checked his watch. Just past eleven o’clock. A little early to be drinking, even for him. What the hell, he thought. Like the song said, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
“You got any beer?” he asked the young girl behind the counter minutes later, his eyes focused on the pink building across the street as he plopped down on a stool at the front of the old-fashioned diner.
“Just root beer,” the girl said. The name tag on her orange uniform identified her as Vicki Lynn. She was maybe eighteen, with chin-length, curly brown hair and bad skin she tried to cover up with too much makeup. She smiled, and Tom wondered if she was coming on to him.
“I’ll have a Coke,” he said.
“We just have Pepsi.”
“Then I’ll have Pepsi.”
“Diet or regular?”
“Diet’s not good for you. It’s got something in it that alters your brain waves,” Tom said. Lainey had told him that.
Vicki Lynn stared at him blankly.
“Regular,” Tom said.
“Small, medium, or large?”
“Are you shitting me?”
Vicki Lynn blinked once, twice, three times. “You want small, medium, or large?” she repeated, a blink for each option.
“Large.”
“Will that be everything?”
“I believe it will.” Tom glanced over his shoulder at the sparsely populated room. Vinyl-upholstered booths—only one of them occupied—lined the sides of both walls, a small jukebox sitting atop each Formica-topped table. The walls were decorated with old rock ’n’ roll memorabilia: music sheets and concert announcements, ancient photos of the Beatles and Janis and the Grateful Dead. Two posters of Elvis stared each other down from opposite sides of the room. In one, he was young, beautiful, and dressed from head to toe in black leather. In the other, he was older, bloated, and wearing a rhinestone-covered white jumpsuit, complete with matching cape.
Dead at forty-two, Tom thought. “Long live the King,” he toasted when Vicki Lynn returned with his drink.
Tom was just about to take a sip when he saw Lainey emerge from the pink building. He jumped off his stool, knocking over his drink, the sugary brown liquid splashing across the counter and dripping toward the floor. “Shit,” he said, vaulting toward the door.
“Hey, wait,” Vicki Lynn called after him. “That’s four dollars you owe me.”
“Four dollars for a Coke I didn’t even drink?”
“Pepsi,” Vicki Lynn corrected him.
“Four dollars,” Tom mumbled angrily, fishing around in his side pocket for some loose bills. “For a goddamn Pepsi.”
“You asked for large.”
“Shit,” he said, unable to find anything smaller than a ten-dollar bill. He pushed it at Vicki Lynn as he watched Lainey walk toward the parking lot at the end of the street, head high, a definite bounce to her step. What the hell was she looking so damn cheery about? He tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter, wondering if she’d notice his car, parked two rows behind hers. “Can you hurry up with that change?”
Vicki Lynn proceeded to the cash register as if she were wading through molasses.
“Look. I’m in a hurry.” He thought of shooting at her feet, the way they did in those old westerns he sometimes watched on TV. That would make her dance. Make her
move,
he thought, watching as she opened the register and meticulously began counting out the change. “Forget it,” he yelled in exasperation, exiting the diner and running down the street toward the parking lot, pushing his way through the heat as if it were a solid steel door. Lainey was probably halfway across the state by now.
Leave it to Lainey, he was thinking. He’d waited for her for how long? A goddamn hour and a half? And then, just when he decides to relax for a few minutes, have a Coke—a
Pepsi
—she decides to show her face. As if she knew he was there. As if she’d timed the whole damn thing.
He reached the parking lot, perspiration soaking through the back of his blue-striped shirt. Lainey’s white Civic was second in line at the checkout station. A woman in a red Mercedes was fishing around in her purse, gesticulating as if she’d lost her ticket. Whatever the reason for the holdup, Tom was grateful. It gave him a chance to sneak around to his car while keeping Lainey in his sights. Minutes later, he was on her tail, careful to stay several cars behind her. He was getting pretty good at this, he thought.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him it was almost lunchtime and he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. Maybe he could persuade Lainey to let him take her out to lunch, somewhere nice, maybe even expensive. Somewhere like the Purple Dolphin. Lainey loved seafood, and even if it wasn’t his favorite, they probably served hamburgers. And Kristin said they served the best piña coladas in town, although he didn’t think he’d tell Lainey that. She’d never been a big fan of Kristin. “There’s just something about her I don’t trust,” she’d said.