by Anne Marsh
“Our appointment is in five minutes,” he announces, as if I couldn’t have guessed. First of all, he told me. Second, he added the time and date to my phone. Third? Of course we’re here with time to spare. With Ro running a SEAL team, I’m amazed that there are any enemy insurgents left in the Middle East. It just goes to show you that planning and good intentions can’t solve everything.
His hand cups my elbow as we go up the stairs. I’d like to tell you that I jerk away, because I’m a modern woman. I don’t. While I can certainly climb a few steps on my own, I’m pretending. His hand is warm and solid. As long as he’s touching me, nothing bad happens in the Hindi-verse. I’m safe and loved and he’s always going to be right there.
He slips his hand away to open the door and I step inside. Playtime’s over. The office is as tasteful—and well-guarded—as you would expect. There is plenty of island-style dark rattan furniture and historical prints of the Florida Keys. Everything that’s not brown or white is green. I think I read somewhere that green is a soothing color, and I’ll bet Ava Hays, JD, has delivered plenty of unhappy news. Family practice is really code for demolitions expert, and she specializes in blowing relationships apart, in bringing them down with well-engineered precision. Just in case the color scheme fails to calm any rampaging beasts in her waiting room, she maintains her own personal Cerberus, a frighteningly put-together middle-aged man wearing a linen suit and expensive dress shoes. After he makes a discreet call to check on Ava’s availability—as if the woman we’ve come to see is the Great and Terrible Oz—he leads us into the inner sanctum.
There should be a paint color called Highly Successful. It’s a tasteful, elegant silver-gray, and that color covers the wall and is echoed in the expensive rug on the floor. The first surprise is the collection of action figures perched on top of the law books on the shelves. They’re a splash of welcome color in all the serious.
The second surprise? The lawyer herself. Ava comes across the room to meet us. She’s built like a model, all sleek, polished lines and cheekbones. A sheet of dark red hair falls around her immaculately made-up face and pools on her shoulders. Naturally, she’s gorgeous. I wonder if that’s an asset or a liability in her line of work. I mean, if someone’s sitting across from her, listening as she explains exactly how their life is about to implode, do they hate her because she’s beautiful? Or are they just grateful that she’s on their side?
Huh. I contemplate that while she greets Ro with a hug. Nope. I don’t have an easy answer. I’m still drawing a blank as she organizes us into the duet of chairs parked in front of her desk, then sinks back into the seat of honor. It’s really more like a throne and I mentally park a crown on her head. From there it’s a short leap to shooting a new lingerie line with a royalty theme. I’m debating between a little tiara and a great big honking crown trimmed with ermine when Ro passes his hand in front of my eyes.
“Focus,” he growls.
“You’re no fun,” I sigh, rummaging in my bag for a pad and pencil.
“News flash,” he says. “You’re the fun one in this relationship. I’m more the Grim Reaper.”
Well. Fuck me. Usually, I’d tease him to explain, because I know firsthand that Ro has a fun side, but he’s looking grim and closed off, so I let it go. For now. As he makes the introduction, I sketch frantically on the piece of paper I fished out of my bag. I’m not losing this idea, not now, and Lawyer Woman’s name is written on a little bronze placard if I’m really not paying attention.
Ava crosses her arms on the pristine surface and surveys us. I’m pretty sure she could not only give a police sketch artist all of our pertinent details, but she could draw the picture as well. She’s just that kind of person. Then she gives me a big genuine smile, damn it. I really don’t want to like her.
“Give me just a moment to enjoy this,” she tells me. “Mr. Perfect isn’t quite so perfect.”
“Take all the time you want.” This is a lie, because I’m already itching to leave. Ro slides my drawing away from me. “And that’s mine.”
He gives me a level look. “Time to focus, sunshine. Besides, I’m pretty sure Ava here is about to tell you that I own half of your stuff, which makes this part mine.”
Uh, no. “What are you, Solomon with the sword and the baby? You can’t cut a drawing in half,” I bitch.
“Watch me,” he says, and I think he might do it. I look at Ava, hoping she’ll be Team Hindi or at least anti-destruction.
Ava just pinches her nose, gives her head a little shake, and then snaps into hyper-focused business mode. It’s both scary and impressive. There’s no doubt at all in my mind that she killed it on her law exams. I take advantage of her show to pry my drawing out of Ro’s hand. I can probably recreate it, but why take chances?
“Ro tells me the two of you got married six years ago here on Angel Cay.”
I think about it, running dates. “Yeah. Sure. We did.”
She nods. “And you used a local justice of the peace.” She rattled off a name. “He returned your marriage license to the county Clerk of Court, who filed and recorded it. I’ve obtained a copy. Step one is proving that your marriage exists.”
She produces a piece of paper from a folder on her desk. Wow. It’s kind of impressive that we already have a file. Instinctively, I lean forward to look at the document in her hand. What I remember is the romance of it all, of standing there on the beach beside Ro, my hand in his, as we made promises to each other. I mean, I understood that marriage was a contract—but now it seems terribly black and white. Ava’s not done with us yet, though. She removes a second, larger set of papers from the folder.
“And my understanding is that both of you want to dissolve your marriage?”
“As quickly and quietly as possibly,” I lie. The quick part is certainly true, but quiet? Yeah. Not so much. A loud, messy divorce could be exactly the sideshow that the network embraces—and extends my contract for.
Ro makes a rough sound next to me.
I turn to look at him. He stares back at me impassively. “What? You disagree?”
“There’s nothing quiet about you.” He states this matter-of-factly.
“I can be quiet,” I argue. Probably a little too loudly, because Ava sighs. Loudly.
“Okay, children. Let’s focus on what we need to do. We prove that your marriage exists.” She taps the first, smaller stack of paper on her desk. “Then you prove that your marriage is irretrievably broken. One of you also has to have been a resident of Florida for the six months prior to the filing of your dissolution petition, and then you file.”
“We’re broken.” I nudge Ro in the side, harder than necessary. He grunts something that Ava and I decide is an affirmative.
Ava looks at me. “What are you requesting from Rohan in this divorce?”
Other than his absence? “Nothing.”
Ava just shakes her head. “Both of you need to think about this. You’ve been separated for almost six years, so you can make a case for separate property, although in many instances, the fine state of Florida requires an equitable distribution of assets.”
Ava runs down the list of shit we can fight over and I get it. Rohan’s been busy building a life here, and we can put a dollar value on it. Hello. I’m doing fine—I don’t need to take his stuff and I say so. Ava sighs, like she’s this close to lecturing me about the proper way to clean out your ex in a divorce. But Rohan and I aren’t fighting. This doesn’t have to be a war. The only thing I want is a few juicy pictures.
“Rohan?” Ava turns to him. Yep. He feels the same way, because he pokers right up when it’s his turn.
“What?”
“You need to decide if there are assets you want.”
“I’m not taking her money.” He doesn’t hesitate. Probably irritates the hell out of him that he has to say even that much. That it’s not crystal clear he supports his wife and not the other way around. He’s built something amazing down here with Search and SEALs, but the s
mall petty part of me wonders who has more cash sitting in the bank.
“Okay.” Ava examines both of us, before nodding. “You want to split your assets based on who brought what to your marriage. Anything earned or acquired after your separation remains with the earning spouse. We’ll hammer that out in the financials, but the last question for today is who’s filing for the dissolution. Since it’s been almost six years and you filed in New York previously, we’re starting over here. One of you files—the other responds.”
Ro stretches out his legs, the heels of his boots hitting Ava’s pretty hardwood floors with a determined thunk. “Hindi here started it—she finishes it.”
What are we? Five? Still, I nod reluctantly, because Mountain Man is clearly not budging and I have to pick my battle.
Ava makes a note on her tablet. I can’t tell if she’s on Ro’s side because she knows him from somewhere or if she’s just glad we’re getting on with the business. Since I’m guessing she bills by the hour, I can’t see how she’s motivated to speed our shit up.
Then she drops her bombshell. “So Rohan has twenty days after you file to respond.”
“Wait. What? We just agreed on everything.”
Ava looks from Ro to me and back again. “He can respond faster, but it’s up to him.”
“I want to do this quickly,” I argue. “Not camp out in Florida for three weeks.”
Ava gives me a calm-down smile. “Because Rohan is the Florida resident, you don’t have to stay here. You will have documents to sign, and you’ll also have forty-five days to provide certain financial documents and affidavits. There are some additional steps after than, so you’re looking at a minimum of three months.”
How could it be so easy and simple to get married—and infinitely more complicated to end it?
“We’ve never even lived together,” I say, and yes, I sound desperate. Overnight sleepovers and flying visits don’t count, do they?
Ro grunts something. Why is this so hard? Why can’t he use words—entire sentences—like a normal person? Oh, wait. Because he’s male. He seems completely and deeply disinterested in untangling our marriage, which can’t be right. I mean, it’s not like he can possibly want to stay married to me. He should be begging Ava to speed things up. Maybe offering to bribe a judge, sleep with a judge—whatever it takes.
And then just like that, before we’ve got anything really and truly settled, he stands up. Is he done? Because he’s my ride here and I have no idea where he’s going.
“Hey.” I reach out and catch the edge of his shirt. No, it’s not dignified, but it is effective. He pauses, his eyes going to my fingers twisted in the cotton. “Where are you going?”
He shrugs out of my grip. If I held on tighter, would he strip right here? No. Not going there. “I’m done here. We know our next steps.”
“But you haven’t done anything yet,” I protest. Right now, our marriage is like a bad plumbing disaster. We’ve got the service guy standing right there, and he’s just agreed that we’re absolutely, totally fucked and that we need the mother of all repair jobs. But that’s as far as it’s got. No checks have exchanged hands. No dirt’s been dug. We’re still broken as fuck—it’s just that we agree on it now.
Ro gives me a level look. I have a bad feeling he just handed me a shovel. “Ball’s in your court, sweetheart. You want this divorce, you file that motion.”
Rohan
Pennekamp is huge for a park that has to fit on one of the Florida Keys. Of course, since it’s also the first undersea park in the US, it includes almost two hundred nautical miles of coral reefs, seagrass beds, and mangrove swamps. Hopefully, though, we’re sticking to the sandy bits—and there are lots of sandy bits. Finn and I pull off the Overseas Highway and drive through the thick stands of tamarinds to Canon Beach. Our meet up point is just beyond the concessions.
Search and SEALs’ role today is assisting the local fire department. They don’t have a canine unit, and when their EMTs showed up for a medical call, they discovered that the victim had wandered off. They reached out to us, and now we’re on the ground, ready to roll. Jack’s excited, eager to put that nose of his to work to find our missing person. Laurie Jackson wandered off from the family campsite approximately two hours ago. As we look over the photo of an elderly woman in one of those sack-like house dresses that zips up the front and a mega-wattage smile, her tearful daughter explains that her mother suffers from Alzheimer’s. When she disappeared, she was wearing loose cotton pants, a navy blue T-shirt, and a pair of white sneakers.
Jack knows the difference between members of the search team and civilians. He’s trained to find anyone inside his search zone, though, so we’re hoping the area is as visitor-free as park officials claim. Since John Q Public lives to break rules and climb, swim, fish, and generally trespass anywhere that’s off-limits, I’m not entirely optimistic.
We show Jack Mrs. Jackson’s sweater. He doesn’t need a scent article to find her, but it will help him to distinguish between her and other searchers or park visitors, and we don’t have any time to lose. There are literally thousands of places for her to stumble and fall. Mangrove roots, brackish water, ocean water, unsafe sea conditions, poisonous trees—any misstep could spell bad news. But Search and SEALs is one of the most elite search teams in the US and we’re not leaving an old woman alone in the park. We step up when it counts and we demonstrate on a regular basis just why we’re the best at what we do.
It’s not that I have some sort of Superman complex. Comic book heroes make it easy with all that effortless leaping of tall buildings and graceful soaring through cloudless skies. They don’t have to deal with thunderstorms, rain clouds, or air traffic. Search and SEALs thrives under adverse conditions. Sure, we don’t mind a sunny day or six, but when you get lost, we’ll find you even if there’s a fucking tornado chewing up the entire goddamned town. We’ll find you—and bring you home.
Jack sweeps back and forth, scenting the air. He can switch between scenting and trailing, but right now scenting has the highest POD. That’s Probability of Detection and Mrs. Jackson’s ticket out of the mangroves and back into the arms of her family. He moves out, straining against the leash I hold, and Finn follows us. We’re moving against the wind and it’s getting on toward sunset. The birds are whooping it up in the trees, competing with nineteen different kinds of cicadas to be heard. If Mrs. Jackson had to wander off, she’s picked one of the best times of day to do it. Scents are strongest in the early morning and evening.
We’re fifteen minutes into our search when Jack stops ranging back and forth and heads left and off the boardwalk. We splash along behind him, picking our way over mangrove roots. I’m hoping like hell that Mrs. Jackson didn’t take a header off the trail and into the brackish water when Jack barks.
He’s found someone.
“Mrs. Jackson?” Finn and I take turns calling her name. It’s always best when the missing person can answer—and I don’t think I have to tell you why. We’re no fairy godmother, but we do prefer happy endings.
Jack barks again, taking a sharp right, and then, thank fuck, I hear a feeble “yes?” We round the tree and discover Mrs. Jackson perched on a particularly large root.
“Hey.” I crouch down in front of her, doing a quick visual assessment. She’s upright, aware, and doesn’t look too much the worse for wear. Lots of mud, visible bug bites, and plenty wet and scratched, but I spot no blood. “We stopped by to give you a lift out of here.”
Finn moves in, handing over the radio, talking to Mrs. Jackson in low tones. She agrees to let him check for broken bones and wrap a Mylar blanket around her shoulders. While he examines her, I call in the find on the portable radio. Behind me, Mrs. Jackson’s inviting Finn to the family barbecue, which she seems to think is “just over there.” She has no idea how she ended up hanging out in the middle of the mangroves, but she’s safe. That’s what matters. Ten minutes later, the EMTs join us, and that’s our cue to fallback. Job well done.<
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I head back to the Jeep with Jack and Finn. Jack’s chewing on the red rubber bone for all he’s worth. I know how he feels. Some shit’s worth hanging onto, and some you just enjoy in the moment. Not sure which category the bone falls into in his doggy head, but he’s earned his treat, so I pat him on the head, giving him the words. Fucking crooning how goddamned awesome he is because Mrs. Jackson is going home in one piece and the Jackson family gets to have grandma at their next Thanksgiving dinner.
Finn swings into the passenger-side seat. Yes, I always drive. “You see Ava today?”
“Uh-huh.” I lift a hand in greeting as the local cop waves us out of the parking lot. That poor bastard’s gonna be working until the wee hours, managing the scene and processing paperwork. My job’s way fucking simpler. All I have to do is find the victim. Once he or she has been located, my job’s done. Someone else provides the aftercare and does the mopping up. In. Out. Fucking perfect, right?
Finn drums his hands on the dashboard, picking out some song only he can hear. “So are you divorced now?”
I snort. “It’s gonna take some time. It’s not like waiting for the Tooth Fairy to show up while you’re sleeping.”
“Bet it costs more than a buck, too. Sorry, man.” Finn slaps his hands against the dashboard harder, faster. Jesus. I’d like to duct-tape them to his seat, but that’s way too unfriendly, so I try for a distraction and replay the appointment with Ava. It went fine up until we discussed the timeline. Hindi practically shit a brick over that timing. I can’t figure her out, but I didn’t miss the hint of desperation in her voice. I knew it from the way her fingers tightened on her pencil and the way her voice thinned out just a little when she was asking her questions. I don’t think it was the possibility of being stuck with me for a few more weeks, either. Yeah, call me arrogant, but I haven’t been that bad of a husband. More like absent as fuck, which means that at least I haven’t been hanging around driving her crazy.
Only, that means Hindi still has a problem.
