The Cost of Happiness: A Contemporary Romance

by Braden, Magdalen

Dan’s assessment—that he was accompanying the loveliest woman at the Formal—remained unshaken throughout the cocktail hour. Wally beamed at them both, Anne van Oostrum made a point of introducing Dan and Meghan to various partners in Tax, Trusts and Estates, and the Transactional departments. Meghan charmed everyone they spoke to, often by knowing a little something about what everyone was working on.

  In a rare moment alone, Dan asked, “How do you know so much about what’s going on in the firm?”

  “I read the conflicts checks emails, the firm newsletter, the Legal Intelligencer, even that gossip site online. I figure you can’t get too much information about your own law firm.”

  He shook his head. “If I didn’t love you, I’d find you a bit disconcerting, maybe even too good to be true.”

  As they made their way to their table, he watched to see if Meghan would react to the L-word, but she didn’t, at least not visibly. Was that a good thing?

  They were seated at dinner with four other lawyers and their spouses. Dan knew none of the lawyers well, which was a relief as it made the conversation general. Meghan contributed quietly but intelligently. She rarely initiated a conversation, but she seemed to hit it off with a young woman associate from Trusts and Estates.

  As soon as dessert was served, the band began to play standards from Sinatra to Michael Jackson. Dan leaned down to whisper in Meghan’s ear. “Do you dance?”

  “A little.”

  “We’re evenly matched, then. Shall we?”

  There were showier dancers on the floor, but the majority of couples were content to shuffle their feet in an approximation of a box step. He led Meghan onto the dance floor, pulled her close and started to dance. He could feel the folds of her skirt, like thigh-high beach grass waving in the breeze. He could smell the pleasantly spicy perfume she had on. Not overwhelming, just right, perfect. Like all of her.

  He moved his right hand a little higher, just on the edge of her dress. His forefinger rested on her bare skin, moving gently back and forth in tiny increments. He could feel her shiver.

  They could talk but Dan didn’t feel like it. He was dancing with the loveliest girl in his arms. The only thing better would be dancing at their wedding reception, when he’d know he had the rest of his life to make her happy.

  A flash of color caught his eye—Vicky Womack’s red hair, white shoulders and strapless black dress. She was standing on the edge of the dance floor, alone, staring at him and Meghan. He remembered the gossip that she cared for a disabled mother. It made him wish she was happier. He also wished she wasn’t staring at him and Meghan like they were personally responsible for her unhappiness.

  Dan moved in the dance step, cutting off his sight line although he thought he saw Vicky walking toward the table where he and Meghan had been sitting.

  The song ended and a faster-tempo song took its place. “I don’t dance disco, do you?” He smiled at Meghan, who shook her head.

  They went back to their seats. Meghan excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, so Dan stood politely while she walked away.

  “Dan, let me congratulate you.” Wally came to slap him on the shoulder. “Lou Trioli called me back to say how amazed they are that the cell phone class action is going away. He had nothing but good things to say about you and Ms. Mattson. Where is she, by the way?”

  “Off to repair her lipstick, I believe.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I want you to meet Adrian Leveque, ProCell’s patent lawyer. I think we should make a play for a bit more of ProCell’s work, don’t you?”

  Dan looked around for Meghan, but she hadn’t returned. He actually had no idea how far away the ladies’ room might be. “Hold on.” He took out his business card and scribbled, “Networking w/ Wally. BRB” and left it at Meghan’s place.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Meghan had her lipstick out and halfway to her lips when Vicky walked in.

  Vicky’s smile was ugly. “Oh, I think you will be.”

  Meghan decided to ignore her and concentrate instead on remembering what Kassie had said about the correct way to apply lipstick.

  “You do know he’s married?” Vicky’s voice reeked of triumph.

  Meghan’s arms turned to ice. She met Vicky’s look in the mirror. “You don’t know him, so why should I listen to idle gossip?”

  “Because it’s not gossip.” Vicky unfolded a single piece of paper and laid it on the dark stone counter. Meghan glanced down. It was a copy of a page from Dan’s personnel file.

  “How many right-to-privacy laws did you have to violate to get this?” Meghan was horrified at the thought of Vicky pawing through Dan’s file.

  “Never mind that. Read where it says ‘Emergency Contact.’” A bloodred fingernail rested lightly next to the entry. Meghan could see it listed a Susan Wolfson as Dan’s contact. Next to that, “Relationship: Wife.”

  “So?” Meghan looked up at Vicky. It was like a horrible flashback to scenes from Meghan’s adolescence when she’d refuse to give Bianca the satisfaction of reacting to her cruelty. A calm face and no reaction—that was the key. Feeling like she’d turned into a block of the same stone as the counter, well, that helped too.

  “So he’s been lying to you.”

  “How do you know? Have you been violating wiretapping laws as well as invading his privacy?”

  Vicky narrowed her eyes. “I know him. He’s a serial charmer. He’ll tell you what you want to hear and never mention the awkward or inconvenient truths. And you’re so naive, you fall for that shit.”

  Meghan leaned against the counter and folded her arms. “You sound very bitter. Did someone do that to you?”

  For a second, Meghan thought Vicky was going to slap her. No one had hit her for over a decade and it was going to hurt.

  Don’t think about the hurt. Don’t think about Dan or his wife. Don’t think about the party going on out there. Just concentrate on staying ice-cold.

  Watching Vicky’s face was like watching the stormy sky over an Iowan corn field. Emotions scudded across her eyes—rage, fear, annoyance, anxiety and finally a curious sort of acceptance.

  “Clearly you don’t care about him. I was wrong about you. You’re even more of a cold bitch than I thought possible.” Vicky snatched up the photocopy and stalked out of the ladies’ room.

  Meghan tried to behave as though nothing had happened, but when she lifted her lipstick it was shaking uncontrollably. She rolled it back down and jammed the cap back on.

  She opened the red silk clutch to return the lipstick. Only now did it occur to her that Kassie must have stocked the bag. In addition to the lipstick, there was a tiny atomizer of perfume, a wad of tissues—don’t look at them, they’ll make you cry—a compact, her apartment keys, and…no wallet. Inside a zippered pocket was a twenty-dollar bill.

  Thank God. She wouldn’t have to walk home in a fancy dress and high heels.

  She was out of the ladies’ room and halfway back to their table before it dawned on her that she had no idea what to say to Dan. Assuming the page from his personnel file was accurate, what did that tell her? He didn’t live with his wife, the apartment was just what he’d said it was. Maybe they were recently separated. Maybe that was an old HR contact form—but no, he’d only just joined the firm so he was married six weeks ago—or…or maybe it was a mistake…or something.

  Whatever it was, Meghan couldn’t talk about it. Not with Dan, that was for sure. She couldn’t afford to let him see how hurt she was. They’d fight and break up and it would be ugly and make working together impossible. No, she had to tough this one out until she had a plan for getting out of the relationship without losing her job.

  But she couldn’t stay here. He’d dance with her again, do that thing with his hand on her back, he’d smell of sex and sheets and her heart would explode on the spot. She had to act as though the relationship spontaneously ended. Poof! Just another present she wasn’t allowed to keep.

  She slowed down as she approached their seats. She was sti
ll considering the relative merits of a fake stomach bug versus a bogus migraine when she saw he wasn’t there. She smiled at the two couples on the far side of the table, then noticed the business card on the tablecloth. She read it, then turned it over. Four square inches, approximately, for her to write a Dear John note that no one would recognize as such.

  She looked in the bag. No pen.

  “Excuse me. Might I borrow a pen?”

  The nice Environmental Law partner dug one out of her purse and handed it over to Meghan.

  She scribbled on the back of Dan’s card, “Cinderella has to flee the ball. Had a lovely time, but no happy ending for us. M.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  First things first.

  Meghan hung up the fairy-tale dress on its specially-constructed padded hanger, then wrapped a sheet around it. It had its own garment bag—snitched, Meghan assumed, from Kassie’s store—but that was over in Kassie’s apartment. No way could Meghan face her yet.

  Next, turn off the phone.

  Remove makeup, take off necklace, put away shoes and slip underwear into the hamper. Take a long, long shower. Supposedly to get the product out of her hair, but really just to hide while she cried. Once she left the bathroom, no more tears. In here, with the water running, no one could hear her or see her break down and end up curled up in a ball, her arms around her knees, her face pressed against her legs, tears sluicing down the drain.

  She couldn’t make sense of it. Who was Susan Wolfson? Why had Dan never mentioned her? His law school girlfriend, Shana—sure, he’d mentioned her a couple of times. But that had to have been ten years ago, at least. He’d had relationships since then, but to get married, stay married and list his wife on his personnel form as his emergency contact? That meant a personal relationship. A current personal relationship. He might not love his wife, but he still trusted her.

  Oh, God. He trusts her and doesn’t trust me.

  And there it was, the worm in the apple. He’d been selective in what he told the woman he was dating. Not sharing the name of the woman he lost his virginity with—that made sense. Not telling Meghan that he was still married to someone he’d never mentioned? That was dishonest.

  Could she have heard him wrong? Could he have talked about Shana only it was Susan? They didn’t sound at all alike, apart from the initial S. She just couldn’t see how it might be an honest mistake.

  Meghan leaned her temple against the edge of the tub. Hot water rained down on her, plastering her hair to her head. She wasn’t cold but she started to shiver, then her teeth began chattering. Reaction. She was in shock.

  No, she didn’t want to get out of the tub. Once she got out, she’d have to face it, face the job—oh, lord, she was going to have to quit her job. She was just barely able to make ends meet on her current salary. No way could she pay her law school loans, the restitution and rent on any less.

  Could she get a job with another firm? She didn’t think so but even if she could, did she want to go through all this again?

  Fast food. She’d get a job at minimum wage in fast food. Or maybe become a chambermaid at a hotel. That was good, honest work. Once the restitution was paid, she could find something else. Maybe train to be something, she wasn’t sure what, work for state government somewhere.

  Maybe she should move to someplace cheaper to live. Like Iowa? No, she wasn’t going back there. Tomorrow she’d go to the library and research where it would be cheapest to live.

  Okay. She had a plan. She stood up, turned off the water and reached for a towel. When she opened the bathroom door, she could hear the knocking.

  Better get this part over with. She pulled on a robe and wrapped her hair in a dry towel. When she opened the door, both Kassie and Dan were standing there. Kassie looked terrified, her eyes slightly pink from crying. Dan looked like he wanted to murder someone, but when he saw Meghan, his jaw softened.

  “You might as well both come in,” she told them. “I’ll boil water for tea.”

  “What happened? I left you a note.” Dan pulled his card out of his tuxedo jacket pocket.

  “And I left you a note,” Meghan said quietly. She turned the heat on under the kettle. “It’s on the back.”

  Kassie sat at the breakfast table. “When Dan came around, I freaked out. I was so sure you were in here, doing—doing something—oh, God, I don’t know. Pills. Something bad.” Kassie sniffled as the tears started again. Meghan handed her the kitchen box of tissues.

  Dan flicked at the business card with his forefinger, making it snap. “What does ‘no happy ending’ mean?”

  Meghan tugged the two sides of her robe together and tightened the sash. She willed the kettle to boil. When it finally did, she made a pot of herbal tea and carried it over to the breakfast table, along with three mugs, three spoons, the honey bear and the sugar bowl. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any lemon.”

  “Fuck the lemon,” Dan said. “Talk to me. Talk to us. Why did you rush off like that?”

  Meghan pointed to the other chrome-and-vinyl chair and motioned for Dan to sit there. Kassie blew her nose, twice, while Meghan pulled her desk chair over to the breakfast table. She stirred some sugar into her tea. That was good for shock, wasn’t it?

  Finally, when it was apparent they were both waiting for her, Meghan opened her mouth. Don’t cry. “Vicky showed me a page from your personnel file. Your emergency contact is Susan Wolfson, whose relationship is listed as wife.” She looked at Dan, who’d paled.

  “You’re married?” Kassie shrieked. She looked like she wanted to pour hot herbal tea over his head.

  Meghan put her hand on Kassie’s knee. “He’s not living with her, Kass. They’re separated or something.”

  “But why didn’t you tell Meghan?”

  “Oh, Christ.” Dan ran both his hands over his eyes and up into his hair. “I did tell you about Shana.”

  “Who’s Susan?” Meghan asked.

  “Her Hebrew name is Shana. It means pretty. It’s like a pet name that her family uses so I use it too. She goes by Susan professionally. She’s a junior partner at Bradford Wayne.” Dan looked exhausted, like he’d collapsed three feet short of the finish line. “How in the fuck did Vicky get my personnel file?”

  Meghan took a sip of her tea. “She broke in, or she’s got a friend in HR, or she made up some story about why she needed it. Who knows? And you can’t accuse her. She’d lie and say I did it.”

  “Fuck.”

  Kassie had been watching this like a tennis game, her eyes darting from Dan to Meghan and back again. “Who the hell is Vicky?” She held up a hand. “No, I take it back. I don’t want to know. What I want to know is why you didn’t tell Meghan you were married.”

  Dan’s shoulders slumped. “We dated in law school. Then we lived together. Her parents were excited about her marrying me even if I wasn’t Jewish. And my parents were thrilled with such a smart woman. And we looked good together. Somehow we got talked into having a wedding. I don’t think we even put up much of a fight. If it made our families happy, why should we argue? We kept our heads down at our Wall Street law firms, totally focused on our careers.”

  He played with his spoon. “So one July weekend, we got married in Scarsdale, New York. No honeymoon—we told ourselves we were too busy—so we just went back to work. We were both twenty-six.”

  Meghan could tell he’d looked at her but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. He went back to turning the spoon over and over.

  “Two years later, I got the job in the US Attorney’s office here. Shana got a job at Bradford. I think the first clue our marriage was over was when we couldn’t agree on where to live. I wanted a house, she wanted a Rittenhouse Square apartment, very expensive, very sleek. We didn’t fight, but we also couldn’t be bothered to work it out. We rented a place on Spruce. Six months later, she wanted to move. So did I. Just not to the same places.”

  Kassie leaned forward. “Wait. Your marriage ended because you couldn’t agree on where to liv
e?”

  Dan crossed his legs and played with the inseam on his tuxedo trousers. “No. Our marriage ended because it never began. We loved each other, we just had no business getting married.”

  “So why’s she still your wife? Why not divorce each other?” Kassie’s tone demanded answers.

  Meghan listened to Dan’s explanation—something about how the divorce lawyers got the paperwork wrong—but it wasn’t penetrating. It was just more stories, devised to quiet a whiny child.

  Meghan remembered sitting at the huge round oak table in Pops’ old-fashioned kitchen. Bianca—“Don’t call me ‘mommy,’ dear. It ages me so.”—would explain why the toys had to go back where they came from. She was always quick to point out that Meghan had gotten to play with them for a week. “You had fun, didn’t you?”

  If Bianca had just had depression, would that have been better? Never the mania? No presents, no lightness, no parties to plan? Was the week Meghan got to play with the dollhouse, or that amazing doll with the real hair, or the bicycle—was that time worth it?

  “Meghan?” Dan touched her hand and she flinched away. She looked at him, confused. Why was he here, and wearing a tuxedo? Oh, right. The Formal.

  “Sweetheart,” he tried again.

  “Hmm?”

  “Talk to me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that we’d been married, but it’s just an annoying clerical error, I swear.”

  “Clerical error. Right.” Meghan could see Bianca, pacing around the room, screaming that the stores had fucked up, gotten the prices wrong, overcharged her, billed her too soon, something. Didn’t matter. Pops would take the toys back.

  Meghan focused on Dan’s tuxedo, the crisp white shirt, the black bow tie, the smooth sheen on his jacket.

  Maybe Bianca’s aborted birthday parties would have been okay, except for Tobias. He was a panda bear with a red ribbon around his neck. He wasn’t the fanciest of the toys. He couldn’t have been that expensive. Only Meghan knew that she’d fallen in love with him. When he was returned, it broke her heart.