Nadia. This was what she had meant when she said Jill might never speak to her again when she found out what she’d done. She’d gone to Freeport with Cushman. It was Nadia who had forged Jill’s signature on the mortgage.
“Forging signatures on banking documents is a serious federal crime,” the judge continued. “If this is not your signature, Mrs. Goodman, these divorce proceedings will cease immediately. Your husband and his friends will be investigated for banking fraud. All company records will be audited and years of transactions will be re-examined. The process could take months, longer if the investigation uncovers evidence. During that time your husband’s company assets will be frozen. It will not be business as usual, I’m afraid.”
Jill looked at Marc, then back at the judge. “May I have a moment, sir, to speak with my husband?”
“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Judge Atkinson rose. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As the door closed behind him, Jill watched Marc collapse against the back of his chair. If she could freeze one moment in her life to relive over and over, it would be this one. Just for the look on Marc’s face when he’d realized the power she held over him, over his company. Part of her wanted him to be investigated and punished. But the bigger part of her just wanted to be rid of him.
“Now, Jilly.” Marc regrouped, softening his gaze and offering a tentative smile. “You know this is all a misunder—”
That might have worked before, but it didn’t work now. Jill held up her hand and Marc paused, assuming she was willing to bargain. She wasn’t.
“Pay it off,” she said.
“Pay what off?” Marc echoed. He seemed honestly confused.
“The mortgage, Marc. The mortgage you and your stupid friends took out in my name. Pay it off right now and I’ll let it go. I won’t press charges.”
“Okay, fine. As soon as the house sells—”
“No. Not when the house sells—now. That house has been on the market for so long that I don’t think it will ever—” Jill gasped as the realization struck her. “You never intended to sell that house, did you? That’s where you meet Brittney. That’s why you still have it. You don’t want to sell it.”
“Jillian.”
“No.” Jill reached for her cell phone and opened her banking app. “We’re done. Transfer the money to my account and I’ll pay it off myself. Everything you need is right here.” She turned the screen toward him.
But Marc spluttered, “I’m afraid the company is a little short on working capital right now.”
“You don’t have the money?” Jill lowered her phone. “How can you not have the money? Five hundred thousand is nothing to you.” She flicked her hand dismissively through the air. “I don’t care how you get it. A line of credit, a loan, I don’t care. I want it paid off and you need to figure out how to do it.”
“I’m not willing to—” Marc began, but she cut him off.
“Then the judge should know about this, shouldn’t he?”
“Jill.” Marc’s voice was stern. “This isn’t funny.”
“No, it’s not funny at all.” Jill folded her hands on the table’s surface. “You called me a Jersey Girl, implying that I’d never be good enough for you—”
“Fine,” Marc snapped. “You want an apology? Will that make you feel better?”
“No, I don’t. I want you to remember that this Jersey Girl holds the fate of your entire company in the palm of her hand. That I was gracious when you didn’t deserve it.” Jill leaned forward, locking her gaze with his. “So lemme tell you what happens now.”
Several minutes later, the conference room door opened, and the judge poked his head in. “Are we all finished here?”
“We are.” Jill straightened in her chair.
“And what have we decided?” The judge settled into his place and opened his folder.
“Marc has decided to sign the house over to me. I intend to sell it.” Jill’s voice was clear and strong.
The judge glanced at Marc. “Is that true, Mr. Goodman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s also transferring the balance in a small investment account to me, Your Honor,” Jill added. “To cover expenses for the sale.”
“That house comes with quite a bit of equity, despite the sizable mortgage. Is it your intention, Mr. Goodman, to assign that equity to Mrs. Goodman as well?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Marc’s voice was tight, and it was all Jill could do to keep from cheering.
The judge nodded. “I think we can make that happen right now. We have a notary on staff who will be happy to help.” He made a note and closed the folder.
“So we’re finished here?” Marc pushed his chair back from the table, like a petulant child.
“Not so fast, Mr. Goodman.” The judge’s voice was stern. “It’s not my job to rule on morality. If it were, the outcome of these proceedings would be very different. Even so, I suggest you think about what you’ve said, what you’ve put forth as fact. These proceedings may take place in a conference room, but they are still legally binding. Is there anything you’ve said, or any evidence you’ve submitted, that you care to reconsider?”
“No.”
When Judge Atkinson turned to Jill, his expression softened. “I’m sure you’re pleased with Mr. Goodman’s decision to assign you ownership of the Dewberry house, but don’t forget that you face challenges ahead. The terms of the prenup are very clear. The Summit house has been sold, and you are ordered to gather your things and vacate it within forty-eight hours.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Goodman, you are not to set foot in the Summit house until Monday morning, do you understand?”
“Yeah,” Marc sighed.
The door opened and the judge motioned for his clerk to enter. He handed her the folder. “Please make these orders your priority.”
After the clerk left, the judge addressed Marc and Jill with his final ruling. “Mrs. Goodman, you are awarded full ownership of the house in Dewberry Beach. You are hereby awarded all your clothes—those without price tags attached—your jewelry, and your camera equipment. You have until Monday morning to collect your things and vacate the Summit house. At which time Mr. Goodman may take possession and ownership. The closing can proceed after Mrs. Goodman leaves. I will sign the order and file it with the court by 5 p.m. today. If there are no further objections, you may consider this marriage dissolved one month from today.”
Marc rose from his chair abruptly and left the room, not bothering to mask his disgust.
The door closed behind him and Jill turned her attention to the judge. “Sir, may I ask one more thing?”
“So you own a beach house now?” Ellie raised her beer bottle in toast later that night. “And you’re divorced. Congratulations on both.”
“It appears I do.” Jill tapped her bottle against Ellie’s. “Officially, as of a couple of hours ago, although the divorce won’t be final for thirty days.”
Flush with a bit of cash, Jill had driven to Ellie’s apartment after the meeting with the judge. On the way, she’d bought the double-cheese pizza that Ellie loved and a six-pack of beer. She’d bought groceries too, to repay Ellie for her hospitality over the past week. They sat on the couch in Ellie’s small apartment, sipping beer and making plans.
“What are you going to do?”
“Sell it—as soon as I can,” Jill replied quickly. “No way can I afford to live there.” She tossed the crust back into the open box, then leaned into Ellie’s faded purple couch. “For practical reasons if nothing else. It comes with a hefty mortgage.”
“What about after the sale?” Ellie asked. “Do you get to keep the profit?”
“Yeah, anything beyond the mortgage and closing costs, I get to keep.”
“Shouldn’t you be happier? That house is worth a fortune.”
“I’m worried, El. The house has been on the market for years and it hasn’t sold. What if there’s something wrong with it a
nd it never sells? I have a colossal mortgage payment at the end of the month and another after that. I’m just…” Jill reached for another slice, then changed her mind.
“Is that something you know for sure, or are you guessing?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“So don’t go looking for trouble, as Aunt Sarah said. You might be surprised at how easy that house is to sell.”
“Maybe.” Jill rested her head against the cushion, her head swimming with details. “I still need to research agents this weekend and reach out to them. You know the weirdest part? I never wanted the house in the first place. I lost my temper and now I’m stuck with this thing.”
“Jilly, I think we’re missing the bigger picture here.” Ellie rose to retrieve two fresh beers from the refrigerator. She snapped the lid and passed a bottle to Jill. “You just shed two hundred pounds of useless, overblown, cheating man-weight; you’ve got to feel better about that. Let’s celebrate that first and worry about the beach house later.”
Jill held her bottle up and Ellie clinked it. “You’re right.”
“Of course I am.” Ellie flipped the lid of the pizza box closed because Lewis looked a little too interested in the pile of crusts, despite the pieces that Jill had already slipped him. Then she settled onto the couch, crossing her legs, a position she took when she meant business. “What about the Summit house? Did you say you have this weekend to get your stuff? Is Marc going to be there?”
“No. He gets it Monday morning and the new owners take possession a week after that.”
“You okay with that?”
“Yeah, I really am.” Jill pulled a blanket from the basket and draped it over her legs. “It’s a pretty house, elegant, but cold, you know? With so many people coming and going, it never felt like home.”
Home to Jill was watching Aunt Sarah pour pancake batter into a sizzling frying pan on a Saturday morning. It was holding the flashlight exactly right while Uncle Barney changed the spark plugs in his battered pick-up truck. Home was the first cold spray of water in the outdoor shower and the warm towel afterwards. It was waking up before dawn to go fishing with Uncle Barney, just to be with him. In Aunt Sarah’s kitchen there’d been a leaky green refrigerator and a temperamental gas stove that required a lit match and a steady hand just to cook dinner. Would Aunt Sarah and Uncle Barney have wanted a stainless-steel refrigerator with a smart screen or an eight-burner gas stove with a pot filler, like the one in Marc’s kitchen? Possibly, but it wouldn’t have made their home any better. They hadn’t cared about money. Their home had been perfect the way it was.
“And you’re okay with tomorrow on your own? Because I can cancel—”
“Absolutely not,” Jill replied. “Don’t cancel anything. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay then. I’ll be over on Sunday morning.” Ellie raised her bottle. “Here’s to moving forward.”
“To moving forward.” Jill raised her own bottle to meet Ellie’s.
The clink echoed in the cozy room.
Ten
The judge’s order allowed Jill the weekend to collect her personal things before leaving the Summit house for good. Forty-eight hours to pack up one life and begin another.
After unlocking the door and disabling the alarm, she made her way to Marc’s office. She’d taken the Dewberry Beach house from him in the heat of anger and she was becoming more and more convinced that it was a mistake. That house had been on the market for years and no one wanted it. That alone was concerning. Even though the bank had allowed Jill to assume the mortgage payments, the first payment was due in just two weeks and the amount she was responsible for was staggering. Worse, after adding up every bit of cash she had on hand, Jill had been horrified to realize that she had only enough for three mortgage payments. Just three.
So the clothes in Jill’s closet could wait.
Right now, the contents of Marc’s office were more important.
Jill’s plan was to sell the Dewberry Beach house as quickly as possible, and for that to happen, she needed to know everything about it. Marc had told the judge that the Dewberry property was supposed to be part of a neighborhood development, similar to the one he’d built in Summit, with the house itself being the model. He’d bought a large oceanfront lot at a bargain price and started construction. But Marc had said that buildable lots in Dewberry Beach were impossible to find so they’d expanded their search to include neighboring towns. The model home had remained where it was, with the rest of the development planned for a less expensive parcel of land further inland, though Marc had told the judge that managing the two properties was too costly so they’d abandoned the project entirely. The house in Dewberry Beach was all that remained.
Although Marc hadn’t confirmed it, Jill still suspected that he’d had little interest in selling the house because it was where he met up with Brittney. But as painful as that was to consider, it would actually be good news. The house might be easier to sell than she thought.
When Jill reached his office, she pushed open the door with a bit more force than necessary. This room had been Marc’s little kingdom, which Jill hadn’t been allowed to enter. Things were different now. Jill plopped herself into his chair and spun it around. And when it slowed, she leaned back and propped her feet on his desk.
“Where did you put the Dewberry stuff, you little weasel?” Jill’s gaze swept the contents of his office.
It was possible that she wouldn’t find anything here at all. If Marc had been trying to sell a prime piece of oceanfront in the hottest real-estate market in the state and couldn’t, he wouldn’t have kept a reminder of his failure. In that case, all information on the Dewberry house would be in his city office, or in the shredder.
She pushed back from the desk and began her search in a filing cabinet.
Because she didn’t know what she needed, Jill examined all of it. She opened up his cabinets and flipped through his property binders. She considered every scrap of paper inside every file folder in every drawer, lifting out whatever might be relevant. And when she was satisfied that she’d left no stone unturned, she gathered everything and left.
She dumped it all on the dining-room table and sorted through it.
What she found was a strange mismatch of things. There were drone shots of the property and the beach. Interior photographs of every room, expensively staged. And marketing copy that described the town of Dewberry Beach as an “upscale shore experience,” with a rich nightlife, shopping, and restaurants. To be fair, Jill had only driven through town, but her impression was that Dewberry Beach was a family town with not much to do apart from visiting the beach. Anyone expecting more than a quiet day would be disappointed.
However, it was possible she was mistaken.
To make sure, Jill opened her laptop and pulled up information about Dewberry Beach. Her search showed that the town was small, bordered on the east by the Atlantic Ocean and on the west by Barnegat Bay. There was a tiny train depot on the edge of town, a salt pond a few blocks from the ocean, and a walking path beside a creek. In town, shopping seemed to be limited to a few blocks along the main road, which wasn’t what Marc’s ad copy suggested at all.
Jill went to the town’s website and liked what she saw. It had a small-town, friendly feel that was inviting. The pictures of the October farmer’s market showed wheelbarrows piled high with fat orange pumpkins, and baskets of apples, and drums of fresh kettle corn. An announcement in the corner proclaimed that money earned from the pancake breakfast at the fire department would fund new equipment. Further down, a blurb congratulated the Fish Shack on winning Best Lobster Roll for the third consecutive year. And finally, there was a notice that the ice cream stand next to the beach would be closing for the season but that containers of black licorice were still available for sale, at a discounted price. Apparently, there was quite a bit left.
The real Dewberry Beach was nothing like Marc’s description.
Closing her laptop, Jill returned her a
ttention to the papers on the table and found something interesting. Brittney had been put in charge of marketing the house and grounds, and had been given a very generous operating budget. She’d hired a real-estate firm who specialized in vacation homes in the Hamptons to consult. A bizarre choice, it seemed to Jill, given that the look and feel of Dewberry Beach wasn’t anything like the Hamptons. It appeared that Brittney had been in way over her head, completely unqualified for the job.
So maybe things weren’t as bad as they first appeared.
Maybe this house just needed a reset.
Jill continued her research, feeling a bit more optimistic. She still needed to hire someone to list the house and handle the sale, someone willing to work hard and start right away. They had to be familiar with small towns on the New Jersey shore, and given the price of the house, they had to understand upscale clients. Those requirements narrowed Jill’s list considerably, from more than a dozen to just three. Jill composed an email to each of them, introducing herself as the new property owner and expressing her desire to sell quickly. She sent them off and closed her laptop.
She’d taken the first step and it felt good.
The next task would be sorting out her closet.
Eleven
With the office sorted, Jill climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, her anxiety rising with every step. Jill couldn’t forget the selfies Brittney had sent. She remembered every detail of every picture. One of them had been taken in the master bedroom, in Jill’s bed. She’d known her marriage was over the moment she saw the pictures, but her heart was slower to understand. It did not want to revisit the scene of her husband’s betrayal.
The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner Page 10