The View from Alameda Island

by Robyn Carr

  “Of course,” he said. “Listen, take care of yourself, Tim. I’m good. I want you to be happy. You didn’t sound happy just then...”

  “God didn’t put me here to be happy,” Tim said. “He put me here to be useful. That’s happiness right there. So you see, in the end it’s entirely selfish. It makes me happy to dig my heels in and work alongside the poor and disenfranchised.”

  “You should have skipped the seminary and the vows and just hired out as a missionary. I can think of a hundred nonprofits who would kill to have someone like you, someone willing to break his back for a bowl of soup.”

  “Tempting,” Tim said, causing Beau to look at him with amused surprise.

  Beau shook his head. “You’re one of a kind, you know that.”

  * * *

  Lauren had tried not to think too much about the upcoming holidays, but the truth was it popped into her mind often and it worried her. She would bring it up to Cassie first. She was the most loyal and reasonable. Then she would talk to her sister; she would offer all the cooking and hosting she was able to. Maybe Beth would have no interest in having a holiday meal at Lauren’s new house, which was perfectly all right. She would go anywhere that seemed agreeable. She even had passing thoughts of going to Boston, though she was sure Jeremy’s family would invite them home and Lauren suspected they would include her.

  But who would rear an ugly head this holiday season? Would it be Lacey, angry that the family she had known was splitting apart? Would it be Brad, furious that the holiday he had designed was not to be? Would the holiday spirit throw him into a rage?

  Brad loved the Christmas season particularly. He liked attending parties; he liked throwing parties. Though he played host and had specific ideas about what should be done, he didn’t do any of the work. He liked showing off at all of the parties, but he wouldn’t like it while going through a divorce. Adele had never joined them at Beth’s house. Instead, whether Thanksgiving or Christmas, he would make a run by his mother’s house and have dessert with her, dragging Lauren along. But while he paid homage to Adele by having a holiday meal with her now and then, he didn’t much enjoy it. He didn’t stay long and his mood was usually dark when it was over. What he liked was hosting a lavish celebration at his house, whether it was for his friends or even Lauren’s family. That’s where he was comfortable—the king and his subjects. Whether Thanksgiving or Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, he liked it when people gathered at his house.

  That would never happen again. The only way he could do it without Lauren was to have it catered the way Adele did, without his queen to oversee the details and do the work.

  But perhaps he was working on his next wife, she thought cheerfully. That would eliminate a number of problems, if she could just pass him off to the next woman. That she pitied her successor went without saying, but she couldn’t help the mysterious her.

  But would he snap? That was her real worry. When the holidays didn’t go the way he’d like them to go, would anger overwhelm him? Would that restraining order keep her safe from him?

  Erica called her. It was the second week of October. The leaves were turning. It was still warm in most of the Bay Area while the coast was still cool and damp. The harvest was almost over. “Dr. Delaney would like to have a face-to-face conference with you. He termed it a renegotiation,” Erica said.

  “A what?”

  “I have no idea what he means by that,” she said. “Given your history with the man, I suggest we just say you’re not interested in a meeting.”

  “What does he want?” Lauren asked. “Sorry, I’m thinking aloud. You just said you have no idea what that’s about.”

  “Think about your experience with him,” Erica said. “What does he do?”

  “He lies and manipulates and here’s the hook—I get sucked in because I wonder what he’s going to say. I wonder so passionately that I can’t wait to hear what he wants now. But you’re right. Please tell his lawyer that I don’t want to meet with him. He can talk to you.”

  Erica sighed deeply. “I’ll listen to any offer, present it to you, and we’ll go from there.”

  “And here I was just thinking how well things are going—he hasn’t bothered me, nagged or intruded on me, and I’m getting a stipend to help with finances. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it?”

  “We don’t know yet,” she said. “His attorney says his request is very sincere. Of course, that’s exactly what I would say. I’ll be in touch.”

  Three days later Erica called again, this time asking Lauren to stop by the office. Erica Slade kept offices in a chic Victorian building that housed several lawyers, paralegals and clerical staff. She was located on a fashionable San Francisco street that also had residences—very upscale, as were Erica Slade’s fees.

  “I gave him a couple of hours of my time, which he will pay for, just as he will pay for the time I’m presently giving you. I wanted to see your face when I tell you this. I have accustomed myself to surprises but I’ve never grown to like them.”

  “Oh dear,” she said weakly.

  “He is willing to make a substantial cash payment to you with a few stipulations. He would give you five million in cash, transferable bonds and stocks if you will give the marriage another go. He would agree to a post-nuptial agreement that would keep the settlement from being a part of your future community property if your attempt at reconciliation fails. He wants you to agree to six months effort for the transfer of funds. And—”

  Lauren shook her head. “You really don’t have to go any further. There is no possibility for reconciliation.”

  “You don’t want to hear the rest?”

  “Is it even interesting?” Lauren asked.

  “Well, yes. At least informative. If you move home for what he considers to be a substantial reward, he will be responsible for your daughters’ post-graduate studies. Harvard Law is pricey, to say the least. If you won’t try again, he will refuse to help them with their educational costs. We can make it part of our negotiation, but...”

  Lauren pinched her eyes closed and a little moisture gathered on the lashes.

  “What did that trigger?” Erica asked.

  “They’re his daughters, too,” she said in a whisper. “How can he be so uncaring? So selfish? Is everything a negotiation with him?”

  “You know him better than I do,” Erica said rather coldly. “One more thing. If you find these terms unacceptable, he’d like to take this matter of property settlement to mediation.”

  That brought a bitter laugh out of Lauren. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said. “If you could see the way he brought marriage counselors to their knees... I should go to court and have a jury!”

  “You won’t get a jury. You could draw a family court judge and bear the same risk as with a mediator. However, I can exercise some small bit of control with a mediator. I’ve worked with quite a few, as has my opposing counsel. We can strike a deal for joint approval of the mediator. I cannot choose a judge, however.”

  “He really knows how to turn on the charm—he knows how to get what he wants.”

  “Lauren—you’re not going to exit this marriage broke, I can guarantee that. But listen to me—those of us who have been working in the divorce business for a number of years are understandably jaded. Cynical. We have a hard time believing anything we can’t see, touch, hear, smell or count. I don’t trust anyone. And most of my colleagues are the same way, mediators included.”

  “Me?” Lauren asked. “You don’t trust me?”

  “You’re a nice lady. I think you’ve been treated badly. I think your decision to divorce is sensible and I like you. But there are always two sides. I think you’d be okay with a mediator and it might speed things up. In any case, we should bring a motion before the family court to issue a deadline for this proceeding. And I’m still waiting for that forensic audit. That’s one of my hol
douts—we don’t do anything without that audit. We have to know his net worth. His real net worth.”

  “Can I think about it?” she asked.

  “Think about going back to him?” Erica asked.

  “Oh God, no! About a mediator versus a judge versus a settlement for less than is fair. I just want to think it through.”

  “By all means.”

  Lauren’s resources with people who had been down this path were limited. She had only Beau. She asked him if she could buy him dinner at the pub in exchange for a little advice, for a sounding board. He agreed immediately. Once he had a cold beer, she had her glass of wine and their food was on order, she told him about the offer.

  “I’m reluctant to weigh in on this,” he said. “I have a vested interest. I want you to be single.”

  “I want to be single, too,” she said. “I don’t think for the same reason. I just want my life back. It’s been so long, I’m not sure I’ll recognize myself. I just want to be friends, Beau. I’m not ready to think about another—”

  “Oh God, I know,” he said. “I hear you loud and clear. I’m in the same boat, Lauren. But while there are these crazy spouses stirring things up at every turn, we can’t even look at our friendship without it being confused. Here’s all I know—I have a cousin who was married to a jerk and she needed a divorce. She said all she wanted was to get out so she didn’t get a lawyer, didn’t fight for what was fair. He got away with no alimony or child support, he left her with a little furniture and the clothes on her back. She got her divorce, two little kids, no car, and the struggle was long and hard. The second she was on her feet she said she wished she’d been smarter. A little tougher and more patient. But at the time she was so worn down. So all I have to say is—don’t make any decisions from a position of weakness. Take your lawyer’s advice. I know you’re not greedy and the most important thing is getting your life back, but don’t let him trick you.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Trying to fight back and be patient?”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “Lauren, my ex-wife wants everything. My house, my business, my boys, my soul. She’s made similar offers—if I just let her come home, she’ll promise to leave the business alone. But I know she doesn’t keep promises. And let’s be honest, that ship has sailed. No way I’m going to live with her again.”

  “I completely understand that,” she said.

  “There’s only one problem in my life at the moment,” he said. “I get lonely.” He reached across the small table and took her hand. “I never thought that would be a problem. Then I met you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Tim left an unpleasant meeting with the archbishop of the diocese; His Excellence was understandably disappointed. He had plans for Father Tim, but Father Tim had plans of his own. He had already begun transitioning out of the priesthood. He felt a rush of fear and grief at the prospect, but there was no question in his mind it was the right thing to do. It was not a question of faith; his faith was deep and strong and he would find a way to do the Lord’s work as a civilian. But his political disagreements with doctrine were too strong.

  The archbishop might be disappointed in his decision but he found a great deal of support within the diocese from other priests and a great deal of compassion and understanding from one of the bishops. His Grace, Bishop Michael Hayden had been ordained forty years ago and Tim would have expected him to think of Tim as just another flaky young priest with doubts and worries and selfish whims to break through the barriers that bound him, but instead they talked it over and the bishop was kind and sympathetic. He reflected that when he’d only been a priest for a dozen years, he’d spent a lot of time praying over his own commitment. “We’re not a vague lot,” the bishop said. “We wouldn’t be here without tremendous passion and a powerful urge to be of service. That alone comes with a price. But what will you do?”

  “I’m not concerned about finding a place to be useful,” Tim said. “We’re surrounded by need. More than I can ever remember. I’ve been a priest for twenty years.”

  “Of course I’ll pray for you,” he said. “You’ve been a good priest. The Lord will light the way.”

  His kindness softened the unhappy words of the archbishop. It was not a good priest who screwed with the political plans of an archbishop. His Excellence had wanted Tim to serve as his assistant while he was en route to the hierarchy of Rome. And Tim was not on board with that whole scene. He never had been.

  To lighten his mood, to feel more human, he headed for Angela’s Pantry in Oakland. His trunk was full of the last of the produce from the vegetable garden at the church. His volunteer board selected the pantry for the third year in a row. It was a charity outpost of free food, open only twice a week in a crummy old warehouse on the north side of the airport. There were a lot of homeless people in the area and further inland there were a lot of run-down neighborhoods. There were also a great many rich and well-tended neighborhoods, not to mention aristocratic homes speckled around the Bay Area. Angela Velasquez had started the food pantry five years before out of a rented storage unit about the size of a two-car garage. She was burglarized several times while she applied herself to writing grant applications and searching for a larger, more secure facility. It wasn’t long before her pantry was absorbed by a larger nonprofit that operated a number of facilities from soup kitchens to food pantries in Bay Area neighborhoods. That allowed Angela to move to a safer warehouse, draw a modest salary and retain a number of dependable volunteers.

  Angela was young and so beautiful. She must be thirty, but to Tim she looked like a mere girl of twenty. She had been raised mostly in the central valley, the daughter of a migrant farm worker, but had somehow managed an education and citizenship. Her family was large and all were in the States now, most of them married, all of them pursuing education and careers.

  He’d seen her frequently over the summer, bringing her fruits and vegetables as frequently as he could. He’d been doing so for years now. Honestly, she stirred something in him. He had not stopped being a man when he took his vows. But it was more than that. She made him buzz with happiness. It was probably no secret—he had a crush on her. But if she knew, she never let on.

  “Well, Father, I didn’t expect to see you again this year,” she said, flashing him that beautiful smile. “That has to be the last of your garden.”

  “I might have one more visit in me, if the garden holds up,” he said. “Most of it is picked clean and I should save the pumpkins for the kids, but there are still a few things hanging on. Some squash, some melons, even some tired-looking peppers and intrepid artichokes. We are one freezing night away from ending the days of the lettuces, but I have a nice laundry basket full for you.”

  “Great! My friends need the greens in their diets. You didn’t by any chance grow any disposable diapers or formula?”

  “I scraped together some donations and bought them,” he said. “I know how badly they’re needed.”

  “Oh, bless you, Father! There are never enough. I tell the families not to ration them, not to let the little ones get a rash or infection. I have a list of places they can get those items. Let me help you get these things shelved. Let’s clear the way. I have a couple of trucks coming in today and we’re open for business first thing in the morning.”

  “I was hoping you had a minute for a conversation,” he said.

  “Always,” she replied, grabbing a box of vegetables from the church van. “Shoot.”

  “For this, I want your full attention,” he said. “I can wait until you’re free.”

  She put the box on the ground. “Let’s not wait if you have something on your mind.” She focused on his eyes. “It’s okay. It will all get done.”

  It made him smile with true joy. Angela was accustomed to helping people in trouble; people who were needy and hungry and frightened. She was focused. Half the time just having someone bei
ng attentive and listening was as much help as people really needed. “I would like to speak in confidence.”

  She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Isn’t it usually the other way around? A person asking the priest for confidentiality? But of course, Father. I owe you more than that.”

  “You owe me nothing,” he said. “Your work is a godsend and I think you are an angel.”

  “My father named me for the angels, but I’m sure I’ve fallen short. What’s on your mind?”

  “I haven’t talked to many people about this. My parishioners don’t know yet. I’ll be leaving the priesthood after Christmas. Christmas can be a stressful time for people. I won’t add to that by leaving them without their priest. Father Damien will assume my position. More and more of my duties are falling to Father Damien and the lay pastors, but there are still those who rely on me. And I know you’re incredibly busy this time of year, but I was hoping... I don’t know how to put this. You’ve been in service to the community your entire adult life.” He laughed lamely. “I don’t even know how old you are, Angela.”

  “Thirty-four, Father. I never told you, I considered the convent at one time, but that would have been a bad idea. It was a brief consideration. Besides, I was a child. Why, Father? Why leave the priesthood now?”

  “It’s nothing concrete. It’s not a crisis of faith or dissatisfaction with my work or unhappiness about celibacy or loneliness. But as the places I can go become more bureaucratic, I become less so. I have found myself in a selection pool I didn’t apply for.”

  Shock registered on her pretty face. “Well, that’s a first,” she said. “You’re quitting because they’re threatening to promote you?”

  “The bishop considers it an elevation of status. And I’m not interested. I guess that sounds ridiculous,” he admitted.

  “Yeah, because I’ve never met a priest who didn’t want to be a cardinal,” she said.