by Robyn Carr
These were the kind of truths they shared. Lauren wondered what kind of deeply personal things Beau was keeping to himself because she was barely scratching the surface when sharing with him. She was telling her new friend only those things she was comfortable making public.
Lauren was seeing that divorce was an emotional mine field. Brad was calling and texting her several times a day, alternating between harassing her, sweetly cajoling her to stop this madness or demanding she take care of his errands. She stopped responding but his messages and texts were well preserved on her phone.
She went back to work the following week and told her supervisor and most of her colleagues how the move had gone and that she was living not too far from the plant. She was surprised by the kind reception. She hadn’t expected them to be sympathetic. Bea, the division director and her immediate supervisor, asked her if she had a good lawyer and said, “If there’s anything I can do to support you, let me know.”
She thought it would be a good idea to contact Sylvie Emerson. They planned for a Sunday brunch, just the two of them, at Sylvie’s beautiful home on Nob Hill. “Andy will be playing golf, so he won’t bother us!”
Lauren hoped he wasn’t playing with Brad.
She took a leafy red geranium in a pretty pot and she settled with Sylvie at a table on the patio, surrounded by plants, shrubs and flowers. It wasn’t a large yard, it being a city home, but it was beautifully landscaped with lots of outdoor furniture and a brick fireplace. Lauren assumed they did quite a bit of entertaining here.
After a cup of coffee and a little fruit cup, Lauren broke it to her. “I have something to tell you,” she said. “It’s official now. Brad and I will be divorcing.”
Startled, Sylvie gasped. “Oh my God,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Lauren said. “Sylvie, I was the one to file for divorce. I have to be honest with you—this is not premature. But I understand that Andy and Brad are good friends and if that means you wouldn’t be comfortable as my friend, I completely understand. I would never put you in the middle of it. It’s messy.”
“Not be my friend because of a messy divorce? Bullshit. I’ve known Brad for fifteen years and I consider him more of a business associate of Andy’s than a close friend. He’s been helpful with medical matters. Brad would move mountains to get any of our family or friends a speedy appointment or referral and we appreciate that. Of course, we’re grateful for anything he’ll do for the foundation. But Lauren, we’re not friends. Brad does favors for Andy, Andy takes Brad to his club or includes him with a group of friends when they take the boat out. It’s a business relationship. Not like our relationship, which is not business. This is personal. If you need anything at all, anything, I hope you’ll come to me at once! And I didn’t get where I am today being afraid of a mess here and there.”
“You are incredible,” Lauren told her.
“You and I are going to get together more often,” Sylvie said. Then she smiled. “I imagine it will drive Brad out of his mind.”
“Brad is very fond of Andy. And you,” Lauren said with a touch of nervousness.
Sylvie lifted the silver top off a serving platter. There was a beautiful, cheesy omelet, just a few slices of bacon and toast points on the side. She reached for Lauren’s plate and began to serve the food. “Darling, I know a lot of men like Brad. He’s pretty obvious...”
“Oh?” Lauren asked.
“I think Brad likes attaching himself to people he thinks are important. He practically drools when he is introduced to someone he thinks might be important. Or maybe that’s too judgmental of me. Maybe he likes being associated with men like Andy because Andy does so much for the community. But there is no hiding the fact—Brad is not an easy man.”
“How would you know that?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Sylvie handed her the plate and began to serve her own. “I’ll be honest with you, if I can trust you to keep it to yourself.”
“Oh, believe me—I’m not talking to Brad! And I’d never say anything that might betray you.”
“Well then. It’s very easy. I’ve known him for fifteen years and I knew immediately. He’s not gracious to anyone he perceives as beneath him. He’s impatient with servers, valets, groundskeepers, bartenders, laborers. Andy put himself through college working at the docks. He started his first company on government grants. I don’t think Brad would have paid him much notice then. Do you?”
“Brad’s family was wealthy,” Lauren said. “He had a lot of advantages...”
“Neither of us came from money. I worked as a waitress, then eventually a teacher. We worked hard. Our kids had jobs in high school. It’s true, we’ve been very fortunate lately, but it’s still fresh to us. Which explains Andy’s interest in the less fortunate.”
Lately? Lauren thought. She couldn’t remember a time the Emersons weren’t extremely influential in San Francisco society. But then, they were now in their seventies. They had a son nearly as old as Lauren.
“Always remember this, darling—people will be judged by how they treat the most important person in the room and the least important. That will tell you everything you need to know about a person.”
For a while as they ate, Sylvie talked about the early years of her marriage, when the children were small, and times were lean and sometimes terrifying. One of the kids would get sick and they worried about medical costs, not to mention the difficulty of working out childcare so they could both work. It was a struggle to even find family time. But eventually, when the kids were in their twenties, Andy’s company was doing well and they took it public in a big stock offering that shocked their wildest dreams. After that, Andy sold and started a new company, also a success. But the years of struggle were not only remembered clearly by Sylvie and Andy, but also by their children.
Lauren talked a little about her young years and how amazing she thought it that a successful young surgeon would want to marry her. But those early years of marriage with two babies were not easy; Brad was always busy, always on call, leaving early, coming home late. He was high-maintenance from the first day, but she hadn’t expected life with a doctor to be a paid vacation.
Their brunch lasted over two hours. Then Lauren said she’d better get out of Sylvie’s hair.
“I want us to schedule another brunch or a lunch right now,” Sylvie said. “Do you have your calendar?”
“I do,” she said, pulling out her phone.
“Two weeks? Three? And are Sundays good for you? They are for me. If the family’s coming over, they don’t pester me in the morning.”
“I would love it, but Sylvie...how are you so sure you can believe me? Trust me?”
“I’ve known Brad for a long time,” she said. “And I’ve also known you. I think I’m right about you. And when all your friends run and hide, you’ve got me. So—two weeks?”
“Perfect,” she said, smiling.
* * *
In the third week of separation, she had a couple of decorator shelves she wanted mounted onto a wall and she confidently leaned them against that wall in anticipation of Beau stopping by. He texted on Thursday afternoon and asked if he could either stop by or meet her down the street for a glass of wine. She countered by asking if he would hang her shelves, and for that she would happily treat him to the wine.
She’d met him in March. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Beth, that there was a new friend in her life and he was male. She could admit to herself that she was afraid of how it might look, as if she relished the end of her marriage so she could find a better man. People might assume that, especially if they met Beau.
It was almost August and so far the split hadn’t been too traumatic. It seemed as though she was thoroughly prepared for everything Brad would do. He was dragging his feet on providing support payments while they were separated. He had steadfastly refused to help Cas
sie with law school and she had bravely said, “Don’t worry, Mama. I’ll get loans while we figure things out. Most law students are up to their eyebrows in loans anyway.” Lacey was still angry with her and while it made Lauren sad, she was doing pretty well at letting that be Lacey’s prerogative.
She did not cry late at night. Instead she sometimes shuddered to think what her life would be had she stayed any longer.
After he hung the shelves, she and Beau decided to walk down to a local restaurant for drinks and sliders, which would be a great dinner for both of them. They talked about their work weeks, their kids, their divorces. Michael was slowly coming around, Beau said. Pamela was spending a little more time with her sons these days. “I’m so jaded, I think it’s all about stopping this divorce because she doesn’t have anything better going on. I wish I wasn’t that way. I want to believe it’s genuine love for the boys...”
“And Lacey said she might move home—she’s thinking about it. Probably to comfort her poor father from the evil witch who left him and will rob him blind. You’re not the only jaded one.”
It seemed they couldn’t avoid the topic of divorce for long but that wasn’t the only thing that came up. They talked about their childhoods, high school and college. They both grew up without luxuries, but they had friends and good times.
“Except, I grew up without a father. My grandparents were alive then, so I did have family,” Lauren said.
“I don’t know what I would have done without my dad,” Beau said. “Four kids. Two boys and two girls and we lived in two and a half bedrooms. My dad worked all the time, job after job. When we weren’t in school, my brother and I went with him. My mother cleaned houses and my sisters helped her when they could, but you know what? My parents were always good-natured, always. They have always had this deep sense of gratitude for what they did have. They were grateful for health, for family, for the energy to work. God, did they work.”
“That explains you,” she said.
“How do you figure?”
“The way you’ve managed to keep your boys out of the conflict, keep your home and family together even when your wife left you. And left you and left you...”
“What about you? Where do you get your stamina? What drives you?”
“Well, undeniably my daughters. I’m sure I follow in my mother’s footsteps, if a little awkwardly.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“My mom was abandoned by her husband. She never heard from him again, didn’t know if he was dead or alive and didn’t care. Holding body and soul together was a constant challenge for her. But even as hard as it was for her to be a single mother, she never would have put up with Brad’s meanness and she was very vocal about that. My mother was pretty and poised and strong and smart. She was killed in a car accident two years ago—she was seventy-one and vivacious. Compared to my mother and sister, I’m a wimp. I’m not proud of the fact that I let myself be bullied for so many years.”
“Listen, we do our best,” Beau said. “I’m strong and like to think I’m smart, but I was bullied, too, by Pam. I didn’t fight back and used the excuse that we don’t fight girls.”
They talked about what their favorite college courses had been, what they planned to do with their new lives. “Breathe,” Lauren said. “Walk down the street for breakfast, sometimes for dinner. Have a book club again. I belonged to a book club years ago and I loved it, loved the women in it, but it became too much for my schedule and I had to give it up.”
Beau told her about his real history with Tim, going back to grade school, and some of the trouble they got into when they were on the loose. They both went to Catholic school, of course, but Beau was on a scholarship. They put a frog in Sister Theresa’s desk only to find out she could handle frogs like a pro. “Be glad I don’t make you dissect this little guy for science class,” she’d said. Tim got caught shoplifting once and was forced to go apologize to the shop owner. He also cut class a lot when they were in high school.
“He’s much too handsome to be a priest,” she said.
“If you’d seen him with the girls in high school, you’d be shocked they let him in the priesthood. No one knew his secret, that he intended to end up a priest all along. That didn’t stop him from finding out what he’d be giving up.”
“Oh yeah?” she asked, grinning.
“Oh yeah. He found out before I did,” Beau said.
By the time Beau was walking her home, they were laughing and enjoying the summer evening. It was still light when she said good-night and let herself into her house and he drove away.
She leaned back against the front door and sighed. “I hope this is what I’ll be doing with my new life,” she said aloud. She made a decision right then—she wasn’t going to breathe a word about Beau to anyone until all this divorce business was behind her, behind both of them. She hoped it wouldn’t take too long. She pushed herself off the door and headed to the kitchen, putting her purse on the counter and getting a glass of cold water from the refrigerator.
The chime on her phone alerted her of motion on her front step. Had he come back? So soon?
She started for the door but then thinking better of it, she stopped and took her phone out of her purse. It had two chimes—one for motion and the other for when the doorbell rang. The doorbell rang. She hadn’t locked the door yet. The sun was just going down and it wasn’t dark. It must be Beau, she thought. Perhaps he forgot something. She looked at her phone.
She saw it was Brad. He had found her. He was fidgeting impatiently. She put her phone down and crept closer to the door. “What do you want, Brad?” she asked.
He pounded on the door. “Open the damn door, Lauren.”
“This isn’t a good time,” she yelled.
As she reached for the lock he opened the door and stormed in. “So that’s how it is,” he said, scowling. “It’s not about our marriage. It’s about a man.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I saw you,” he said. “You were with a man!”
Poor Brad. He was so completely self-absorbed he didn’t even recognize Beau, whom he had met. She frowned and backed away. “He’s a neighbor, Brad. He hung some shelves for me and I bought him a beer and sliders at the pub down the street.”
“It looked pretty cozy to be just a neighbor,” he said, approaching her rapidly.
“You’re crazy. It wasn’t cozy at all. It was—”
Lightning fast, he reached out and pinched her upper arm.
“Ouch! Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. But he pinched the other arm. “Stop it!” she shouted and she tried pushing his hands away.
He grabbed her wrists. “The most stupid thing you can do right now is lie to me!”
“Get out,” she said. “Get out right now or I’ll call the police!”
He laughed at her. “And what hand are you going to use to do that, Lauren? Huh? You know no one ever believes you because you’re a liar and a lunatic and sometimes you’re delusional.”
“You’re hurting me! Let go of me!”
With just the powerful grip of his hands around her wrists, he shook her. “You’ll be sorry,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you’re sorry.” He let go of one wrist to slap her, first the left cheek and then the right. And then to her shock, he curled up his fist and cold-cocked her, right in the cheek and eye. She hit her head on the breakfast bar on the way down. When she was down he said, “You’re just a stupid whore.” And he kicked her in the face. She managed to draw her hands over her face to protect herself somewhat but she felt it in her teeth. Then she felt herself fade out.
She was only out for a moment, she thought. She opened one eye and saw that the front door was standing open. She looked at her hands; they’d been trying to cover her face and now were covered with blood. She could hear birds, unless that was ringing in her ears. She
could see the slant of the setting sun. She pulled herself to her feet. Everything hurt. Her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and she could taste blood in her mouth.
She grabbed her phone and the hand towel from the counter and slowly moved to the couch. The new couch. She mustn’t get blood on the new couch, but she had to sit down. He’d never done that before. He had pinched her, embarrassed her, shoved her, tripped her, verbally abused her, but he’d never slugged her or kicked her. But then, as Cassie made her see, she’d been in denial about what physical abuse really was. How much of that is too much?
She dialed 911.
“Emergency,” the operator said.
“Help,” she said, spitting blood. “I’ve been assaulted.” She gave the address three times because her words were garbled.
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“I don’t know. I need the police. Maybe medical assistance...”
“Is the assailant still in the house?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I might’ve lost consciousness. He kicked me in the face. In the mouth. I can feel it in my teeth...”
“Help is on the way, ma’am. Stay on the line with me until they get there...”
“Do you think he was going to kill me? He was going to kill me, I think...”
“Stay with me...”
“I’m passing out, I think...”
“Hang in there. You’ll hear sirens in a moment. Tell me when you hear sirens...”
* * *
The police and medical arrived at almost the same time. She tried to imagine all the flashing lights on her quiet little street. While paramedics assisted her, did a cursory medical exam and provided an ice pack, one of two police officers asked her if she knew who the assailant was.