“So you wouldn’t be able to get the half you’re entitled to.”
At that, May’s legs seemed to give out on her. She crumpled into her chair. The cup and saucer hit the table with a clatter. Coffee burped over the porcelain rim and puddled on the wood. May immediately started dabbing the mess with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”
Meghann touched her client’s wrist. “Don’t be.” She got up, grabbed some napkins, and blotted the spill. “I’m the one who’s sorry, May. No matter how often I see this sort of behavior, it still sickens me.” She touched May’s shoulder and let the woman have time to think.
“Do any of those documents say why he did this to me?”
Meghann wished she didn’t have an answer to that. A question was sometimes preferable to an answer. She reached into the file and pulled out a black-and-white photograph. Very gently, as if it were printed on a sheet of plastique explosives instead of glossy paper, she pushed it toward May. “Her name is Ashleigh.”
“Ashleigh Stoker. I guess I know why he always offered to pick Sarah up from piano lessons.”
Meghann nodded. It was always worse when the wife knew the mistress, even in passing. “Washington is a no-fault state; we don’t need grounds for a divorce, so his affair doesn’t matter.”
May looked up. She wore the vague, glassy-eyed expression of an accident victim. “It doesn’t matter?” She closed her eyes. “I’m an idiot.” The words were more breath than sound.
“No. You’re an honest, trustworthy woman who put a selfish prick through ten years of college so he could have a better life.”
“It was supposed to be our better life.”
“Of course it was.”
Meg reached out, touched May’s hand. “You trusted a man who told you he loved you. Now he’s counting on you to be good ole accommodating May, the woman who puts her family first and makes life easy for Dr. Dale Monroe.”
May looked confused by that, maybe even a little frightened. Meghann understood; women like May had forgotten a long time ago how to make waves.
That was fine. It was her lawyer’s job anyway.
“What should we do? I don’t want to hurt the children.”
“He’s the one who’s hurt the children, May. He’s stolen money from them. And from you.”
“But he’s a good father.”
“Then he’ll want to see that they’re provided for. If he’s got a shred of decency in him, he’ll hand over half of the assets without a fight. If he does that, it’ll be a cakewalk.”
May knew the truth that Meghann had already surmised. A man like this didn’t share well. “And if he doesn’t?”
“Then, we’ll make him.”
“He’ll be angry.”
Meghann leaned forward. “You’re the one who should be angry, May. This man lied to you, cheated on you, and stole from you.”
“He also fathered my children,” May answered with a calm that Meghann found exasperating. “I don’t want this to get ugly. I want him … to know he can come home.”
Oh, May.
Meghann chose her words carefully. “We’re simply going to be fair, May. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but you damn sure aren’t going to be screwed over and left destitute by this man. Period. He’s a very, very wealthy orthodontist. You should be wearing Armani and driving a Porsche.”
“I’ve never wanted to wear Armani.”
“And maybe you never will, but it’s my job to make sure you have every option. I know it seems cold and harsh right now, May, but believe me, when you’re exhausted from raising those two children by yourself and Dr. Smiles is driving around town in a new Porsche and dancing the night away with his twenty-six-year-old piano teacher, you’ll be glad you can afford to do whatever you want. Trust me on this.”
May looked at her. A tiny, heartbreaking frown tugged at her mouth. “Okay.”
“I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”
“You think a few rounds of paperwork and a pile of money in the bank will protect me from that?” She sighed. “Go ahead, Ms. Dontess, do what you need to do to protect my children’s future. But let’s not pretend you can make it painless, okay? It already hurts so much I can barely breathe, and it has just begun.”
Across the blistered expanse of prairie grass, a row of windmills dotted the cloudless horizon. Their thick metal blades turned in a slow and steady rhythm. Sometimes, when the weather was just right, you could hear the creaking thwop-thwop-thwop of each rotation.
Today, it was too damn hot to hear anything except the beating of your own heart.
Joe Wyatt stood on the poured-concrete slab that served as the warehouse’s front porch, holding a now-warm can of Coke, all that was left of his lunch.