The Love Wars by L. Alison Heller Read Free Book Online Page B

Corleone—equal parts proud and possessive. “You’ll figure it out, I know.”
    She picks up her phone and starts dialing, my cue to leave. “Oh, Molly—”
    I turn, hoping for one last pearl of wisdom.
    “I forgot to tell you. I’m having a night for us, just my girls. We’ll have drinks before the firm holiday party on the seventeenth.”
    I’m not sure who her girls are, but I’m glad to be one of them.

6
    ____
fern walker
    I had anticipated an hour of hostility and blame, and I wouldn’t have thought any less of Fern Walker if that’s what she had delivered. Fern is extremely gracious about the bait and switch, though. She understands, she understands. Lillian must be so busy. This must happen all the time (never, that I know of, actually). And she has been through a divorce, so she knows that associates are very much the muscle of the operation. She is just so grateful that I can take the time to listen to her. Yes, Fern Walker seems downright lovely, no easy feat for anyone consulting with a divorce attorney, let alone someone who spent years with that tyrant I heard on the phone.
    I watch her as she fidgets with the string of a lemon-ginger tea bag, steeping in her mug. She has delicate features and the kind of proportional tiny figure that men love. Her hair, shoulder length and prematurely gray, hangs over her dark eyes in sharply pointed bangs.
    Fern could probably be very attractive if she spent one-quarter of the time on her appearance that the rest of our clients do. Now, though, she looks like it’s all too much—her delicate features have been colonized by her bone-tired expression and puffy eyes; her hair is tangled into a half-completed ponytail. The two plastic drugstore bags that she’s schlepped into the meeting evoke what I think of as subway New York, the city in which real people liveand get the stuffing beaten out of them by attempting the basic acts of daily life: getting their laundry done, going to the post office, commuting. And though her appearance is downright disheveled by Bacon Payne client standards, I have a sense of déjà vu. “You look familiar. Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”
    She nods, as though this is a perfectly reasonable way to begin. “Pittsburgh. You?”
    “North Carolina.”
    There’s a moment of silence during which Fern stares into space. I lean forward. “Why don’t you just start by telling me why you’re here?” I tell myself this is a fine start, professionally appropriate, even as I sense that Fern is too distracted to realize that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.
    “Bob and I got divorced two years ago. We have two kids. Anna is six and Connor is three. I’m here about them.”
    “How long were you married for?”
    “Nine years.”
    “Was it a messy divorce?”
    “It was pretty simple actually. We had a prenup.” She smiles weakly. “I mean Bob Walker without a prenup—would never happen. So everything was pretty set—I made a copy of the agreement for you.” She reaches into her canvas tote bag, pulls out a yellow file folder and hands me a neatly clipped stack of papers from the top of the pile. “The thing is, I wasn’t myself at the time.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I was still sort of shell-shocked and not coping all that well when we finalized things. After Connor was born, I had postpartum depression for a little over a year.”
    “That sounds rough.”
    “I spent a lot of time in bed, unable to handle any of the things I used to do.”
    “Like what?”
    “Being organized and on top of things is—well, used to be—mything. Before Connor, I was in charge of running the house, you know? Bob used to call me CEO of Home, Inc.”
    “How romantic.” I say it without thinking, but before I can apologize, Fern’s lips purse in the ghost of a smile.
    “It really was a full-time job, with everything Bob has going on: signing up Anna for classes, buying her clothing, furnishing the houses, interviewing