A Woman's Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you give Usher a retainer?”

  “No.”

  “Good. He isn’t a nice guy, Claire. The greatest thing he has going for him is name recognition. His clientele is mostly women. Helpless women. They go to him because they think he’s tough and they need someone tough. They don’t object when he demands a huge retainer because they think that’ll guarantee his attentiveness. Then they go home and assume he’s working on their cases, only he isn’t. He’s taking them for a ride. They find that out when things don’t happen. When they complain, he acts insulted and pawns them off on associates. By then, they’ve invested too much time and money and are feeling too vulnerable to start over again with someone new.”

  I could identify with those women, with the helplessness, the vulnerability. I wanted someone tough, too, and had gone for reputation, with little knowledge of substance—not that I would have conducted my business like that in a million years. But the circumstances were extenuating.

  “His was the only name I had. I need someone fast. I have to be in court on Monday to answer this charge.”

  “You don’t want to work with Lloyd Usher.”

  I looked up at him, feeling a twinge of hysteria. “Who do I want to work with?”

  “Carmen Niko.”

  The hysteria stalled. Here was a name. I had heard it before, but not in the context of law. “Is that a man or a woman?”

  “A woman. She’s about your age—thirty-nine, forty—very smart, passionate about her work.”

  I was trying to place the name. “Have I ever met her? Is she a customer?”

  “I dated her.”

  “Oh God, I do remember. That was a long time ago.” But hot and heavy for a time, if memory served, though I wasn’t sure how I knew that. It wouldn’t have been from Brody. His love life was one of the few things that was off limits between us. While he might mention in passing that he was taking someone to a particular restaurant or show, I learned more from Hillary Howard’s column in the local weekly. Hillary kept track of North Shore movers and shakers. She had a vivid imagination and a weakness for gossip. Brody, who was often out and about, was fair game. Hillary had always had her eye on him. She still did, and she wasn’t alone. He could deny it all he wanted, but women looked when he passed.

  I knew. I traveled with him.

  He was currently seeing a woman named Ellen McKenzie. She was an artist with a loft in Boston’s South End and was a knock-out in an unconventional way, if the picture of them Hillary had run several months back was anything to go by. He didn’t see her every week. I doubted he had long-term designs on her. The sex was probably great. Brody was virile.

  But we weren’t talking about Ellen McKenzie. We were talking about Carmen Niko. “How did it end?” I asked, because if there had been angst, and if Carmen associated me with Brody, there might be trouble.

  But he said, “Amicably. I was working with Dennis at the time, and things were hairy there. Carmen’s career was taking off, one case coming in after another. We were both preoccupied. It got so the relationship was more trouble than it was worth. We’re better friends than lovers. She may not have the name recognition of Lloyd Usher, but she’s a better lawyer any day.”

  That was enough of a recommendation for me. “How do I reach her?”

  Brody pulled free, crossed to the phone, and dialed the number. After a minute, he said, “Carmen? It’s Brody. I need to talk with you. If you’re there, pick up the phone.”

  I held my breath. It was nearly nine. I didn’t expect a lawyer to meet with me at this hour, but I had to see someone tomorrow. If Carmen Niko was on trial, out of town, or otherwise indisposed, I was back to square one.

  “Carmen,” Brody chanted, “come on, Carmen. This is a professional call. A great case.”

  I must have looked like I was dying inside, because he came back to me, phone and all. He took my hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it—all of which made me feel cared for and loved, which was what I desperately needed after Dennis and Lloyd Usher—but what really helped was when he said, in response to what I assumed was a dry greeting from Carmen, “It is a great case. Right down your alley. Successful woman being sued for divorce by a less-successful man, who wants to boost his ego by milking her dry. We’re talking money, possessions, and two young kids who love her to bits and, p.s., have spent far more time with her than with him. She got back a few hours ago from Cleveland, where she was visiting her mother, who’s dying, and he had her served with an Order to Vacate. She has until Monday to answer it. So she needs to see someone fast. I told her you were the best.”

  He paused, listening, still holding my hand, for which I was grateful. This was foreign ground for me. If someone had told me, twenty-four hours ago, that I would be embroiled in a custody suit, much less a cold-turkey divorce, I would have laughed and said, “Me? No way. My husband would never do anything like that.”

  How little I knew him after fifteen years. That was as jarring a thought as the others.

  “Eight-thirty tomorrow morning?” Brody asked me.

  I nodded vigorously.

  “She’ll be there,” he said into the phone. “Her name is Claire Raphael.”

  “Can I call the kids?” I whispered.

  He related the question, listened to Carmen’s answer, nodded to me. “Anything else tonight?” he asked me.

  Oh, yes. There certainly was. I reached for the phone.

  “Hold on, Carmen. Here’s Claire.”

  “Hi,” I said. “I am really, really grateful for this. Brody says you’re the best.”

  The voice that came back to me was throaty and amused. “Brody is biased. But your case sounds interesting.”

  “I want it to go away. I wasn’t expecting any of this.”

  “The good guys never are. It’s the bad guys who scheme.”

  “Can he win?”

  “I won’t know that until I know more about the case.”

  “Can we get a reversal of the Order to Vacate on Monday?”

  “Same answer.”

  “You said I can call the kids, but can I see them, too? My son has a football game on Saturday. I want to watch. My daughter will be there. She had an allergy attack while I was gone that I knew nothing about until today. I want to talk to her and make sure she’s all right.”

  “What do your kids know about the situation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out, if you can. You don’t want to upset them. Phone calls are easy. The kids don’t have to know where you’re calling from. But if you show up at a football game and then don’t go home with them afterward, there’s more to answer for.”

  “Is there any way to reverse this order before Monday? Can we go to court tomorrow to get an emergency order of our own?”

  “Only if your husband suddenly does something to put the children in danger. Will he?”

  I wanted to say yes. He claimed I was a distracted parent, but if so, I learned it from him. Dennis was a master of evasion. Without blinking an eye, he could manufacture scheduling conflicts, I swear had a list of excuses ready for why he couldn’t do this or that. He had missed Johnny’s games and Kikit’s recitals. He had missed back-to-school nights. He had missed a few birthday parties, and more dinners than I had by a long shot.

  But would he put the children in danger? I sighed. “I don’t think so.”

  “Then be patient. Come see me tomorrow. We’ll strategize then.”

  Howard and Elizabeth Raphael were in their late sixties. They had their wits, their health, and the luxury of a retirement fund amassed during Howard’s forty years as a regional manager for Granite Savings and Trust. While Elizabeth could be flighty, Howard was solid. He would have been the one to insist that the bank manage his retirement account, rather than handing it over to Dennis, and a good thing that was. As a venture capitalist, Dennis was like his mother, zealous in his causes but too easily taken in.

  The
Raphaels liked me. I had often suspected they trusted my career more than Dennis’s. Even if they felt guilty for that, even if they felt it was time to be more loyal to their son, they knew what I felt for and meant to my kids. I didn’t know what Dennis had told them about our separation, but I refused to believe they would hang up on me.

  As it happened, they didn’t have a chance. The voice answering the phone belonged to my baby. “Hello?”

  My heart beat up a storm, eyes filled with tears. The sound of her was heaven. “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Mommy,” she squealed, then her voice left the mouthpiece to yell, “It’s Mommy, Grammy Bess. I told you she’d call. Where are you, Mommy? Daddy said you had to go places after you saw Grandma, but you didn’t tell me about it. Mommy, I had the worst allergy attack the other night, but I don’t know what I ate. Daddy said it was something in the casserole, but I always eat that casserole. He had to take me to the hospital. Johnny kept saying we should call you, but Daddy said he wasn’t leaving me alone to go do it, and by the time we got home and he tried, he couldn’t get through, and then I fell asleep. Where was my medicine, Mommy?”

  I brushed at tears with the heel of my hand, then took the tissue Brody handed me. I tried not to sniffle. “I don’t know, baby. I’m sure I put the kit in your bag when I packed you up to leave Cleveland, and there was extra stuff in the basement fridge. I don’t know what made you sick, either. There was nothing new in the casserole. Did Mrs. Beckwith give you anything to eat in the car when she picked up you and Jenny at school that afternoon?” Something as simple as walnuts, chopped and buried in a brownie where Kikit couldn’t see them, would have done it.

  “She didn’t give us anything. She doesn’t bring snacks like you do. We were starved! Daddy was mad when I got sick.”

  “Not mad. Upset. He knows it wasn’t your fault. Are you feeling okay now?”

  “Well, I’m not really hungry. Where are you?”

  “You have to eat, sweetie. If you’re scared, eat pure things, like bananas and eggs. And turkey. I froze packets of it. Tell Daddy to take them out of the freezer.”

  “Where are you?”

  Once, I could ignore. A second time, I couldn’t. But I had been Kikit’s parent long enough to know that given the slightest push she would fill in the blanks. “Where do you think I am?”

  “Daddy said you’re in Santa Fe, but we told him you didn’t have a store there, so he said you were opening one. You didn’t tell me about it.” I heard Elizabeth’s voice in the background, then Kikit’s averted, “But I want to talk to Mommy, can’t I talk to her a little more, just a little more?”

  “Kikit?” I rushed out before Elizabeth could take her away from me, “Was there itching this time?”

  “Yup. I need a gift for Stacey’s party, Mommy. When are you coming home?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. Does your chest feel okay?”

  “Yeah. Daddy stayed with me the whole day I had to miss school.”

  That was something, at least. Dennis usually headed in the opposite direction when the children were sick. He claimed he didn’t want to get in the way.

  “How is school, sweetie?”

  “Okay. I didn’t get to give my butterfly report yet, because Sammy Hayes took too long giving his one on stars, so I’m giving mine tomorrow. Johnny wants to talk. He got an A on his math test.” The voice turned away and yelled, “I do not have a big mouth, she knew it anyway, you always get As in math—no, I want to talk more, I’m not done—”

  “Hi, Mom,” Johnny said and my throat knotted up again.

  I swallowed hard, pressed the tissue to my eyes. “Hey, congratulations. Another A? That’s terrific! When did Ms. Anders hand back the test?”

  “Yesterday. I would have called you last night, only Dad said the cell phone wasn’t working and he didn’t know your hotel. Why didn’t you call us?”

  I wanted to answer honestly, but didn’t know how I could. I hated Dennis for making me lie. “It was too late. There’s a time difference.”

  “What’s Santa Fe like?”

  I had never been to Santa Fe in my life—but then, neither had Johnny. “Uh, nice,” I supposed. “Warm. Dry. Did you finish your book on Paul Revere?”

  “Yeah. There’s a field trip to Boston to see the one-if-by-sea church. Someone has to sign my permission slip. I have to bring it back tomorrow.”

  “Daddy’ll sign it.”

  “But I have to bring in six dollars and eighty-five cents for the bus and stuff.”

  “Daddy’ll give you the money.”

  “I need exact change. He never has exact change.”

  “Grandma does. She’ll give it to you. I’ll ask as soon as we get done. Did Grandma cook dinner?”

  “No. We went to Bertucci’s. Are you okay? You sound like you have a cold.”

  Tears had a way of doing that. “No cold. I’m just missing you and Kikit.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I’m trying to figure that out. I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

  “Here’s Grandma.”

  “I love you, Johnny,” I rushed out to catch him before he passed on the phone.

  A chipper Elizabeth came on the line. “Well, hello, Claire. How are you? You missed a good supper. The children had pizza, and Howard and I had pasta. Bertucci’s is a national chain, I believe. Have you seen one in Santa Fe? How lucky you are to be there. Everyone I know who goes there loves it. There can’t be any better place to open a new store.”

  “Claire?” came Howard’s voice. “I’m in my den, Claire. Elizabeth, hang up the phone.”

  “I will. Oh dear.” There was a ruckus in the background. “Wait, wait, wait.”

  Kikit came back on. “We were singing last night—‘Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog’—and Daddy was so funny when he croaked, only it wasn’t the same without you. I miss you, Mommy. When are you coming home?”

  My breath went short again. Singing was a Raphael thing. Dennis and I had shared a single year in the same a capella group in college, his senior year, my freshman year. We had met singing, had dated singing. Some of the kids’ earliest memories were of our singing together. Bedtime, car time, holidays—perfect for harmonizing, for feeling close without saying the words. When the kids were infants, most anything with a soothing lilt worked. The lyrics came to matter more as they grew and joined in. Both loved singing. Both could hold a tune. Johnny was at the stage where he was wanting to deepen his voice—it was priceless to watch him with his chin on his chest and his brow furrowed—so the harmony suffered at times. Still, singing together was special.

  We hadn’t done it as much lately as we used to. Either Dennis was away, or I was away, or one of the kids was out doing something else. Sometimes, three of us improvised when the fourth wasn’t there. But this was different. This time Dennis had sung with the kids, knowing that he was about to boot their mother out of the house.

  When was I coming home? I only wished I knew. “As soon as I can, baby, as soon as I can. I’ll talk with you soon, okay, sweetie?”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  The pain was excruciating. Fresh tears flowed. It was all I could do not to let her hear them. “I love you, too, baby.”

  Brody paused from wiping his neck with a towel to touch my face. He looked as tortured as I felt.

  Elizabeth returned. “You have a good trip now, Claire. Yes, Johnny, I do have change. I have all kinds of change. Come, you’ll count it out. Take care, Claire.”

  There was a click, then only the faint rattle of Howard’s breathing. He was clearly out of earshot of the kids. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not,” I wailed and took a minute to recompose myself. “I’m sick about this. Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Dennis wants a divorce.”

  “Did he tell you about the Order to Vacate?”

  There was a pause, then a reluctant, “Yes. Look, Claire, I don’t care for the method he’s chosen
, but Dennis is like this when he takes up a cause. He dives into it headfirst.”

  “I know. I’ve watched him do it and seen him fail. This time the stakes are higher. I’m worried about the kids.” But I was reassured having talked with them. They sounded all right. I was glad I had called. “Kikit sounds all right. Is she clingy?”

  “A little, but you know Elizabeth and me. We never mind that.”

  “Is she sleeping all right?”

  “Dennis says they are.”

  “Do they know any of what he’s doing?”

  “No.”

  “Suspect anything?”

  “No. He’s been good about that, I have to say. He’s waiting to tell them until after the hearing on Monday. I’m hoping he’ll soften some before then, but his lawyer sounds tough.”

  “Who is the lawyer?” When Howard didn’t answer, I said, “It’s a matter of public record. Someone stood there in court with Dennis and convinced a judge to issue this order. My lawyer will be able to find out in a single call. You won’t be telling me anything I won’t learn anyway.”

  “Arthur Heuber,” he mumbled, then raised his voice. “Dennis will be coming back here soon. I should hang up. He’ll be angry if he thinks I’m telling you things.”

  “But don’t you agree that this is insane?”

  “Don’t put me in the middle. Don’t make me take sides.”

  “Will you talk to him, at least?”

  “I did. He says what he’s doing is right. He won’t budge.”

  “But how can he want custody of the kids? He’s never been a full-time father. There were always too many other things he liked doing. Does he have any idea how full-time parenting will cramp his style? Or is he counting on you and Elizabeth baby-sitting? Where is he now? If he left the house when I did, he should have been with his children two hours ago.” Howard didn’t answer. More tentatively, I asked, “Did he tell you the charges against me? Did he list my crimes?”

  “Claire.”

  “They aren’t true, Howard. You know me. You know I adore my kids.”

  “It’s been hard for you, worrying about your mother and all.”