by Wendy Wax
I owe a lot of people apologies, and there will be many butts to kiss, but for the first time since Josh called off our wedding, I feel equal to the task. More importantly, I want my friends back. And my life. And this job.
Just before Jazmine’s supposed to be in, I place a copy of Bill Bryson’s book on her desk as a thank-you gift for taking me with her to book club. And hiring me. And everything.
I picked it up at Between the Covers over the weekend, and I got one for myself, too, because I want to give book club a try. Everybody there was pretty cool. And if I’m going to move on and let go of the idea of Josh, I’m going to need to stay busy. Plus, the more friends the better.
I might even go back and buy the online dating book. My stomach feels kind of funny at the idea of kissing—or even going out with—someone who isn’t Josh. But I’m going to have to start somewhere, right? I don’t know if the advice will apply to me—I mean, I’m pretty sure Meena’s even older than my mother—but it couldn’t hurt to practice around people who don’t know what they’re doing, either. And it’s not like we’d be competing for the same guys. Okay, that thought makes me laugh out loud.
I’m still smiling when Jazmine arrives on the dot of one thirty.
“Please get that scouting report to me by . . .”
I hand her the hard copy before she finishes. “It’s also in your inbox. And I’ve updated your schedule—you have drinks this evening at F&B at eight. Also, your father called to say that . . .”
“I know, I’ll be at Maya’s match at four thirty and . . .”
“Her match has been moved up to four o’clock, so I rescheduled your two thirty to tomorrow right after a twelve thirty lunch at New York Prime just to be safe. There’s a fresh latte on your desk.”
She doesn’t stop or comment, but a small smile appears on her lips. Which is high praise from Jazmine.
An answering smile tugs at my own as her office door closes behind her.
“Impressive.”
I jump at the sound of Rich Hanson’s voice. The guy does have a way of materializing out of nowhere.
I look up and meet his eyes, which are always kind of probing even when he’s being friendly. I’m not the only one wondering why he’s even here at StarSports Advisors, which is way smaller than the LA agency he came from, with its legions of star agents; worldwide offices; and fashion, event, and marketing divisions. Their baseball, tennis, and golf academies have turned out some of the biggest-name athletes on the planet.
Hanson was at the top of the heap there, and football and baseball were his things. Now he and a handful of his biggest clients are here, and nobody knows how Larry Carpenter lured him away or even if that’s how it went down.
He nods toward Jazmine’s office. “Please buzz her and let her know I’m on my way in to talk with her.”
Jazmine
“Tell him I’m not in,” I reply when Erin buzzes me. The last thing I need today—or any day—is Rich Hanson.
“He just watched you walk into your office.”
“Then tell him I’m on the phone. Tell him I’m . . .”
“. . . busy?” Hanson asks as my office door swings open and he steps inside.
I grit my teeth. I am not going to engage in a conversation about knocking before entering. Or get into tit for tat or any other cat-and-mouse games. Because he will automatically assume that he’s the cat, and I’m not about to scurry out of his way or look for a hidey-hole. I just wait quietly, allowing my irritation to show, while he looks me and my corner office over, taking in its view of the traffic down on 400 and what locals refer to as the King and Queen Buildings in the distance.
“You don’t have a single memento of your playing days,” he observes, as if he just stopped in to chat.
“I was a college athlete. That was a long time ago.” He’s the last person I would ever tell that I threw out virtually every reminder of my brief career the day I came home from the hospital. Xavier was gone, and I knew I’d never play competitively again. I didn’t want any reminders of my former life.
“I’ve known people who pitched maybe one inning in Double-A ball and milked it forever,” he says as he takes a seat that I have not offered and he hasn’t asked for. “But then I guess that would have been a reminder of everything you lost.” It’s said almost gently, but my blood goes cold. I can’t seem to find the words to tell him this is not his business.
“I understand you have a daughter who may be as talented as you were.”
I blink in surprise. “Is there a point here somewhere? Or are you working on a psychology degree in case the agenting thing doesn’t work out?”
He smiles. “I fell in love with sports during my first T-ball game. I played three sports in high school—everyone else picked one to excel at, but I wanted to play everything. I was pretty good, but I was never great.” He looks down. “I have a huge amount of respect for people who have the talent and the drive. All I had was the drive.”
“And the ego. I think you got plenty of that.”
He smiles, not at all offended.
“Are you here for a reason or purpose of any kind? Because if not, I am, in fact, busy.”
“Right.” He straightens. “The wide receiver I mentioned, he’s good and he needs the right kind of representation. But I can’t take him on because I’ve got . . .”
“. . . Cosgrove.”
He nods.
“So, you want to have your cake and eat it, too. And you want me to pretend to bake that cake for you.”
“No, I want to do everything I promised for the client I already have. But I hate to see a really promising player get overlooked. He’s not ready for the draft right now, but I think he can go pretty high next year if he can be convinced to wait.”
“So, you want to use me to convince someone else’s prospect not to enter the draft. After you stole Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal for your client.”
“Someday you’re going to have to explain why you always see me in the worst possible light.” He looks at me with an earnest expression I don’t recognize. “But for now, I’ll just say that if you’d had Verizon locked up for Browning, no one could have taken it from you. He was counting his chickens, and he wouldn’t have embarrassed you both if he’d kept his mouth shut like I’m sure you warned him to.”
I resist the urge to argue, which has become practically automatic whenever I’m around him. I’m not sure where all that sincerity he just served up came from, but even though he’s right about Browning mouthing off, that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to rubbing his nose in the Sony PlayStation deal. Or that I’m going to take on the wide receiver he claims he’s just trying to help.
He hands me a file folder that includes Isaiah Booker’s photo and stats. The name is familiar. “Didn’t he take over for Juran Holmsby up at Appalachian State at the end of the season?”
“Yeah. He’s a junior. Didn’t get much playing time until Holmsby got injured. I saw him at a small pro day. He’s five-ten, smart, agile. Knows how to run a route. Ran the 40 in 4.45.
“The only agent interested in him is urging him to declare for the draft, which would be a mistake. The kid needs more time and opportunity to develop. Someone needs to convince him to stay where he is another year.” He’s watching my face. “If it would make you more comfortable, I could introduce you . . . and maybe offer help from the sidelines once he’s eligible to sign.”
“If I sign an athlete, he’s mine.” I stare into his eyes, but they’re not giving up much. “Tell me the real reason you want to bring me in, and I’ll consider it.”
“I don’t know what you’re looking for here. This kid’s good, and he needs representation. You’re the right person for the job.”
“Why me?”
“Because I like the fact that you always bring your A game.”
Eyebrow up, I wait for the rest of it.
“All right . . .” He shakes his head, puts his hands up in surrender. “And because he was raised by his aunt, a lovely but no-nonsense woman who . . .”
“Would probably tell you to get lost.”
“I doubt it, but she’d probably listen better to you.”
“I don’t actually specialize in athletes raised by single women,” I snap, annoyed.
“Well, you kind of do. I mean, I can understand why they’d trust you.”
“And they would be right.”
He puts a piece of paper with contact info in front of me. Then he picks up his phone and sends me a text with links to Isaiah’s most recent game videos. “I told his aunt she might be hearing from you and that we’d like to come out and talk to her and Isaiah.” He shrugs as if the whole thing doesn’t really matter, but I can tell that it does. “Just think of him as a peace offering.”
“A person is not a peace offering.”
“Then what is?”
I sigh. “Why don’t you stop beating around the bush and tell me what you really want.”
There’s a brisk knock on the door. Erin pops her head in, takes a quick look between me and Rich. “I was, um, just checking to see if I can get fresh coffee for either of you?”
“Thanks. I’d love some.” I’m careful not to smile at her clearly protective tone. “Rich was just leaving.”
After she backs out and closes the door again, I stand. “Was there anything else?”
He stands, because otherwise he’ll have to look up at me. “We can discuss it when you have more time, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up that Larry and I had a conversation about creating a new tennis division.”
I look into his eyes. But I can’t read them. “I brought this up when I first joined the agency, and he wasn’t interested.” I study him as I think it through . . . “But a lot of players are making moves to smaller boutique firms.”
“Bingo.”
“But we’d need to take on at least one or two top players.” I stare at his face and all the way into his eyes, which is something I typically avoid, and realize that he’s far more interested in this subject than he’s letting on. What I don’t know is why. “Or we’d have to invest the time and money into building them.”
His eyes glitter. “I was thinking we might do both.”
Nineteen
Sara
I have now read, highlighted, and sticky-noted the copy of The Empowered Woman’s Guide to Divorce that Annell tucked in my tote bag when I wasn’t looking last Saturday. A lime-green sticky note with the words “I’m here” scrawled across it was stuck to the cover.
The book is written by a female therapist and a male lawyer who practices family law and is meant to cover both the emotional and legal aspects of what they describe as “your divorce journey.” Which was a little discouraging, since I was hoping that given the fact that Mitch is a liar, a cheat, and a thief, it might be a short trip.
Apparently, my hurt, anger, and fear are a part of this journey for everyone. So is my sense of loss. I thought I’d finally found a partner who would share my life and prove once and for all that I am not unlovable and therefore destined to spend my life alone. I was wrong.
Every night after work I pick up or throw together some kind of dinner for Dorothy and me. Then I sit down to do my divorce “homework,” which includes surfing county court, state bar, and judicial websites as well as attorney blogs and articles. As a result, I now know that Georgia is an “equitable distribution” and “no-fault” state. I also know that Mitchell doesn’t actually have to agree to a divorce.
The book claims that hardly anyone can really afford a divorce attorney without going into debt and has sections on less-expensive options, like mediation, negotiation, and even self-representation—something I consider for about five seconds until I remember Abraham Lincoln’s quote about a person who represents himself having a fool for a client. I already feel deeply stupid for not realizing what my husband was up to.
Today, I have free initial consultations with five family law attorneys. Happily, because of the homework I’ve done, I can use these appointments to ask more specific strategy-oriented questions. Not so happily, I now know a lot of things I wish I didn’t. By the time I get to my last consultation at four p.m., exhaustion has set in. Ditto for hunger and thirst.
Bonnie Traiman appears to be somewhere in her late forties or early fifties. Her brown hair is parted down the middle and hangs in waves to her shoulders. Her calm, appraising brown eyes and her genuine smile are the most comforting things I’ve seen all day.
Given how wilted I feel at the moment, I’m relieved that she’s not wearing a suit, like the sharp-eyed, perfectly turned out lawyers I’ve already met with. Or heels like some of the other female attorneys.
An eyeblink after we’ve shaken hands and introduced ourselves, I’m seated on a sofa and she’s handing me a Kind bar and a bottled water, which she pulls from a mini fridge built into a bookcase.
“Go ahead. Please.” She nods to the bar and drink on the coffee table. “You look like you’ve had a long day. We’re not on the clock until you at least finish the water. I’ll be right back.” She leaves me alone just long enough to devour the bar and gulp down the water. By the time she comes back and takes a seat across from me, I feel almost human.
“So. How many lawyers have you talked to so far today?”
“You’re number five.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of legalese for one day.”
“Yeah. And most of it’s been pretty disheartening.” The sofa, on the other hand, is pretty comfortable. If it were an option, I’d curl up in a ball right now and never get up again.
“I know this isn’t the kind of conversation anyone ever really expects or wants to have. Tell me what brings you here.” She’s definitely warmer than almost all of the “suits” I’ve spoken to today, and I appreciate that she doesn’t dillydally.
“Well, my husband has been working and living in Birmingham during the week and mostly coming home on the weekends for a little over eight months now. On New Year’s Day, I found out, completely by accident, that he has a . . . girlfriend . . . and they have a four-year-old child together and . . . she’s pregnant again.”
She winces. “That’s rough.”
I wince at the understatement, but she’s the first lawyer today, male or female, to offer what feels like actual sympathy. “I thought that we were happy. Or at least okay.”
“So, he asked for a divorce so that he can marry her?”
“No. In fact, it’s really weird, but I’m getting the impression that he’d be perfectly happy to stay married and just keep things the way they are.”
“Interesting,” she says, not at all shocked. “I’m assuming that’s unacceptable to you.”
“Yes.”
“So, here’s the thing. If we were to work together, you’d have to decide what you care about most. Raking him over the coals or getting this over with in as equitable a way as possible.”
“I was kind of hoping for both. I mean, shouldn’t he be punished for what he’s done?”
“Yes, he should. But the courts aren’t going to do that. In Georgia, you’re looking at irreconcilable differences. What he’s done is abominable. Unfortunately, judges hear stories like this every single day.
“I prefer to represent women because I think they often get the short end of the stick. Women and children tend to come out of divorce worse off while men tend to walk away better off. If we work together, I will help you win your freedom. Because your freedom is the ultimate win. His punishment is not getting to be your husband anymore.”
“But he’s used our money to support another woman, another family.” My eyes well with tears that I’ve been holding back all day.
“That’s something we’d have
to document and prove.” She pushes the box of Kleenex gently in my direction. “Judges want to see a father supporting his children regardless of who mothered them, and frankly, I think that is as it should be.” Her gaze is direct and unapologetic. “Is there any one asset that matters to you above all others?”
I dab at my eyes; as always, I’m uncomfortable crying in public. Most of the foster parents I lived with tended to equate tears with ingratitude. “I know Georgia is all about ‘equitable distribution,’ but I never had a home growing up. The one Mitchell and I bought is my first.” My throat clogs with emotion when I think back to the day we took possession. The bottle of champagne we shared sitting on the bare floor of the empty living room. “All I . . . I’d hate to lose the house.”
“Once we have a complete list of assets and debts and so on, we’ll have a better sense of what’s possible.” She meets my eyes. “I am extremely cost conscious—otherwise things can really snowball—and I’ll save you money wherever I can as long as it doesn’t jeopardize the outcome. If your husband hires an attorney, we have a much better shot at reaching a settlement. Going to trial can quadruple the cost.”
I watch her face as she talks. I like that she’s sympathetic but not soft. I hold my breath while she explains the required retainer and a ballpark of what I can expect to pay at her rate of $350 per hour. That ballpark, like all the others I’ve heard today, is far more expensive than I’d hoped, but at least she has addressed the issue head-on and promised to keep expenses in mind. Gut level, I feel comfortable with Bonnie Traiman in a way I didn’t with the others. I just hope my gut knows what it’s talking about.
We both glance down at our watches. I have only five free minutes left and plenty of other questions, but Dorothy’s situation has been in the back of my mind all day. For the first time, I bring her up.
“Are you and your mother-in-law close?” she asks after I explain the situation.
“No, not really. At least we never have been. But . . . what Mitchell’s done to her is just . . . wrong. And lying to the lender to make sure communication came only to him—wouldn’t that be illegal?”