to hear it.” Carl gave me the slip. “I’ll be there Saturday to help you with that water heater.”
Stuffing the paper in my coat pocket, I picked up my food with a pert nod and went out to the truck. I needed to call my lawyer to check on the status of the divorce, since I now had the means to settle any unpaid bill. At the inn, I dialed information, wrote down the number, then called Vincent Voykowski, Esq. I had picked him out of the yellow pages several months earlier because his ad boasted cheap, fast service.
“Vinny Voykowski. Speak to me,” he answered.
“This is Sarah Graham. I’m calling about my divorce.”
“Where you been, Sarah. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’m at a new number. Let me give it to you.”
“Not gonna need it,” he said. “You’re finished with me. The divorce is done. The husband, ex-husband, I mean, signed the papers last week.”
Vinny’s words wriggled their way into my ear and lodged against the back of my skull. Mouth dry, I managed to ask, “What do I owe you?”
“Two thousand.”
I gave him Rich’s address. “Send the bill there.”
“Sure thing. Hope I don’t hear from you again soon.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I murmured, hanging up. Standing at the desk, thoughts churning like sweaty socks in an off-balance washer, I picked up the phone again, and dialed quickly.
Maybe he wouldn’t be home.
Two rings, then, “Hello.”
“David,” I forced out.
“What do you want?”
“Just to see how you’re doing.”
“Give it up, Sarah. I signed the papers, so leave me alone.”
Click. Buzz.
Good-bye.
chapter TWELVE
I found the Grange by driving around and around in the dark until I turned down a road lined with SUVs and pickups. A building at the end, windows long and orange, glowed like a four-eyed jack-o-lantern.
Pulling over, I sat in my truck, headlights off, engine idling. I couldn’t stay another moment in the cabin. David’s words continued to fester, no matter how loud I turned up the television to mask his voice that continued to roll around my head.
I had expected a flood of relief after the divorce, the bubbly tingle of freedom and a yearning to celebrate. Instead, cement filled the spaces between my ribs and I found it difficult to breathe. So, this was brokenheartedness, a phantom dial tone in my ear and not a single party hat in sight.
I didn’t know why I felt so miserable. I had never loved David, despite our to-have-and-to-hold promises in front of judge and family after three missed periods. And he didn’t—couldn’t—love me. The miscarriage, six years of failed monogamy, and a three-thousand-dollar retainer should have squelched any residual doubt. But here I was, fifty yards from a hoedown, wondering if I did the right thing.
Marriage, if nothing else, gave the illusion of love. And some deranged part of me wanted that fairy tale. I remembered reading the cards from my parents’ wedding. They were tucked in my grandmother’s attic, in a trunk with my mother’s baby clothes and training bra. The inscriptions, some written with large, looping letters, others in precise block print, varied on the same theme: I’ve never seen two people more in love . What a joke. That love left my mother bleeding on the new carpet, shot twice in a jealous rage.
It was well past seven when I finally ventured inside the hall. Children’s artwork and felt banners proclaiming Jesus is Lord and other religious niceties covered the water-stained plaster walls.
Tables of food wrapped around the room, cakes and brownies, ziti and other casseroles. The home cooking tempted me, but I’d had to lie on the floor to zip my jeans earlier, waistband cutting into my gut. Anyway, I didn’t know who prepared what, and looking at the unwashed clothes and grimy knuckles, I couldn’t be sure what might be baked into those pies.
I skirted the crowd. Music reverberated from a pair of battered speakers, some whiny country tune. People
Stuffing the paper in my coat pocket, I picked up my food with a pert nod and went out to the truck. I needed to call my lawyer to check on the status of the divorce, since I now had the means to settle any unpaid bill. At the inn, I dialed information, wrote down the number, then called Vincent Voykowski, Esq. I had picked him out of the yellow pages several months earlier because his ad boasted cheap, fast service.
“Vinny Voykowski. Speak to me,” he answered.
“This is Sarah Graham. I’m calling about my divorce.”
“Where you been, Sarah. I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’m at a new number. Let me give it to you.”
“Not gonna need it,” he said. “You’re finished with me. The divorce is done. The husband, ex-husband, I mean, signed the papers last week.”
Vinny’s words wriggled their way into my ear and lodged against the back of my skull. Mouth dry, I managed to ask, “What do I owe you?”
“Two thousand.”
I gave him Rich’s address. “Send the bill there.”
“Sure thing. Hope I don’t hear from you again soon.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I murmured, hanging up. Standing at the desk, thoughts churning like sweaty socks in an off-balance washer, I picked up the phone again, and dialed quickly.
Maybe he wouldn’t be home.
Two rings, then, “Hello.”
“David,” I forced out.
“What do you want?”
“Just to see how you’re doing.”
“Give it up, Sarah. I signed the papers, so leave me alone.”
Click. Buzz.
Good-bye.
chapter TWELVE
I found the Grange by driving around and around in the dark until I turned down a road lined with SUVs and pickups. A building at the end, windows long and orange, glowed like a four-eyed jack-o-lantern.
Pulling over, I sat in my truck, headlights off, engine idling. I couldn’t stay another moment in the cabin. David’s words continued to fester, no matter how loud I turned up the television to mask his voice that continued to roll around my head.
I had expected a flood of relief after the divorce, the bubbly tingle of freedom and a yearning to celebrate. Instead, cement filled the spaces between my ribs and I found it difficult to breathe. So, this was brokenheartedness, a phantom dial tone in my ear and not a single party hat in sight.
I didn’t know why I felt so miserable. I had never loved David, despite our to-have-and-to-hold promises in front of judge and family after three missed periods. And he didn’t—couldn’t—love me. The miscarriage, six years of failed monogamy, and a three-thousand-dollar retainer should have squelched any residual doubt. But here I was, fifty yards from a hoedown, wondering if I did the right thing.
Marriage, if nothing else, gave the illusion of love. And some deranged part of me wanted that fairy tale. I remembered reading the cards from my parents’ wedding. They were tucked in my grandmother’s attic, in a trunk with my mother’s baby clothes and training bra. The inscriptions, some written with large, looping letters, others in precise block print, varied on the same theme: I’ve never seen two people more in love . What a joke. That love left my mother bleeding on the new carpet, shot twice in a jealous rage.
It was well past seven when I finally ventured inside the hall. Children’s artwork and felt banners proclaiming Jesus is Lord and other religious niceties covered the water-stained plaster walls.
Tables of food wrapped around the room, cakes and brownies, ziti and other casseroles. The home cooking tempted me, but I’d had to lie on the floor to zip my jeans earlier, waistband cutting into my gut. Anyway, I didn’t know who prepared what, and looking at the unwashed clothes and grimy knuckles, I couldn’t be sure what might be baked into those pies.
I skirted the crowd. Music reverberated from a pair of battered speakers, some whiny country tune. People
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