Then he let it pass. “Any changes in the property settlement?”
She took another sip and said, “I don’t think so. You?”
“No.” They had never disagreed on the terms of the divorce. Joint custody of the children, with them remaining in their home, in their bedrooms, with their mother sleeping right where she was supposed to sleep. Simon would come and go as he pleased, but with no surprise visits. He planned to miss no games, recitals, school plays, graduations. Life would go on as usual. His interest in the house was to be deeded to Paula and he would keep paying the mortgage. No alimony but generous child support. Simon would continue to live somewhere else. It would be as neat and painless as possible, though Simon was fully aware of how many ways things could go wrong. Now that they had the green light to start dating again, it was only a matter of time before one of them fell in love.
He despised himself for allowing the next thought to enter his jumbled mind. He thought of Netty, her new will, and her money. If things went as planned, and he freely admitted to himself that much could go wrong, he would be, in the not so distant future, raking in some substantial fees as the attorney and trustee for her estate. If she really had $20 million in assets — and he had convinced himself that she wasn’t exaggerating — it would not be excessive or unusual for the attorney to clip the estate for about 10 percent, over a period of a few years. Not exactly retirement money, but certainly enough to take the pressure off a small-town law practice that was going nowhere.
It was imperative to keep these hypothetical, even fanciful, fees away from Paula.
He managed to shove his dear Netty away for a while. He told himself to savor the moment. He and Paula were taking giant steps to purge each other from their life together, a separation that was long overdue. The kids would suffer but they were also resilient. Hopefully, there would be no permanent damage. Virtually all of their friends were victims of divorce and seemed to be unscarred.
He rattled his cubes again and asked, “Is this conversation over?”
“It is. I’m going to sleep.”
“Mind if I get one for the road?”
“I don’t care what you do. I really don’t.”
Simon poured the stiffest one yet, turned off the bathroom light, and left their bedroom.
On the sofa, he had trouble sleeping for the excitement. He felt like a frat boy again, dreaming of all the pretty coeds. He started with the single women he knew and explored his chances with each, then, before long, moved on to the married ladies, but only those in unhappy marriages. That route grew complicated and he quickly returned to the singles.
The third scotch finally did the trick and he drifted away. He slept a few hours, woke up feeling great, and single, and rearranged the pillows on the sofa. He went to the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and enjoyed the first cup as he watched the dawn break over the trees in the backyard. At seven, Paula finally emerged from the dark hallway and entered the kitchen. He poured her a cup, and said, “I’m thinking about making pancakes with sausage this morning.”
“You’ll have to go to the store.”
“All right. You need anything?”
“Just a few quiet moments to enjoy my coffee.”
“Okay. I don’t want to tell the children today.”
“Why not?”
“Because this might be one of the few days we are together as a family. We might even have some fun today. Let’s wait another week or so.”
“Whatever.”
She turned and took her coffee back to her bedroom.
Chapter 10
Monday morning, Simon stumbled out of The Closet, in his gym shorts and a T-shirt, went downstairs, and sat at his desk. It was not yet seven, so he had a full hour before Matilda arrived and started planning his week. He needed more than an hour. He needed to be in a tiki bar on a beach somewhere, sipping a tall iced drink and watching the waves roll in while his mind went numb with meaningless thoughts.
Aside from having fun with his kids, the weekend had been a tough one. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that his wife was now on the prowl, and he was making progress on that front. The real trouble was the tournament. He was getting wiped out. In the family pool, Janie, sticking with her mascot selections, had won ten games and lost only two. Paula, still picking the best-dressed coaches, was nine and three. Buck and Danny were even. Simon, the serious gambler and true expert, had won four games and lost eight. Last place.
But the five dollars he’d lost at home was nothing compared to the shellacking over at Chub’s, where he was down $7,000, a personal record. He was certain he would get it back with the Final Four, but his confidence was wavering.
He sipped strong coffee and checked in with several online gambling gurus who blathered on with piercing analyses while covering their butts — one picked Duke, another picked Kentucky, another Wisconsin. What was a desperate gambler to do? He looked at his daily calendar and saw nothing but the same slog. In fact, for the entire week he could not see potential fees of more than $2,000.
The Final Four. Only three games left in the tournament, the season. At one point, way back in early January, he was up $4,500. He bounced around during conference play and finished the regular season up $3,000. When he was winning he wanted to play more, and when he was losing he wanted to play even more to catch up. But, as always, he kept his focus and knew his limits. At least he kept telling himself that.
The Final Four. Wisconsin, Duke, Michigan State, and Kentucky. None of which he’d chosen two weeks earlier during bracket mania when every single fan was so much smarter. He stopped fretting and stepped back into The Closet where he managed another shower in a cheap glass tube a client had installed for $500. The water was almost warm and barely dripped from a head that was gathering some ominous form of mold. He banged his elbows on the rickety glass panels and was finished in under a minute. He dressed quickly in khakis, a white shirt and a tie, and went downstairs to the office kitchen for more coffee. The Closet was not equipped with a real kitchen.
In the fridge he noticed a new collection of cartons of diet drinks lined up in a neat row on Tillie’s side. Seltzers flavored with asparagus and other green vegetables. Weight loss practically guaranteed. Simon smiled and shook his head and almost felt sorry for the poor girl as she battled the bulge.
Promptly at 8 A.M., she was not there. Simon listened for the front door to open and the other familiar sounds of his secretary arriving for work. She was rarely late. At 8:15, he thought about calling her, certain that there was a problem. But he waited, and at 8:30, he heard her noises. She always tapped on his door and said “Good morning, Simon.” When she did, at 8:30, he was buried in a document, as if too busy to be concerned with her tardiness.
She walked in and said, “Hey, I know it’s eight-thirty, but I have a new schedule. I’ll come in at this time from now on and leave at five-thirty.”
To make such a decision without asking him was irritating, but he acted nonchalant, as if he didn’t care when she came and went. Same with his wife. He was plotting to get rid of both of them. “And the reason is?”
“I’ve joined a new gym and my class runs from six-thirty to seven-thirty. I need time to run home and shower and such.”
In her desperate search for a toned and pliant body, she had changed gyms several times, with no success. “Okay, we’ll give it a try,” he said without agreeing or disagreeing. For a second she wanted to assert herself and establish her own boundaries, but it was Monday morning, not the best time for a quarrel. She bit her tongue and managed a fake smile, then turned and left his office. As she was leaving, Simon, out of habit, checked her out. Was the asparagus juice working? The new gym? Was it his imagination, or was Tillie actually shedding a few pounds? Or was it that, since he now had the green light from home, he would quite naturally look at women with a different eye.