by James Ross
Shari sighed.
“Appraisals on homes will average in the $300 range. Office buildings, strip malls, bowling alleys, theaters, and all of the other properties will run anywhere from $1,200 to $3,000 I would guestimate.”
“Anything else?”
“Sure there is. It will be $175 to file the divorce petition in St. Louis County. We’ll have to serve the papers. The Sheriff’s department will want $30 for that.” Leslie still had mixed feelings on this one. Even though it meant a sizeable chunk of change in her pocket she wasn’t wild about taking on a case that had so little reason behind it. “We can file a motion for attorney’s fees. He’s the one with all of the income, isn’t he?”
Shari nodded her head. “I’d like to ask for that. Tyler Cy knows the appraisers and all the real estate people that can do those things at a reduced rate.”
“But that opens up another potential trouble spot. His contacts might purposely devalue property and skew assets in his favor. We may not elect to go with people that he knows. We may decide to go with unbiased third parties.”
“Is there anything good that can happen for me? I want out.”
Leslie nodded her head favorably. “Look, as I said before, Missouri is a no-fault divorce state.”
“Huh?”
“When dissolving a marriage, the Missouri courts simply do not consider fault. That is good for you. You can say that you have irreconcilable differences, the marriage is irretrievably broken, and there is no likelihood that it can be preserved. You can go each other’s way.”
“That’s what I want.”
“Even though the court doesn’t determine fault, it may come into play when the judge awards spousal maintenance and division of assets. But it appears that two of your children are old enough to care for themselves, so that won’t be much of an issue with the judge.”
“They’ll be out of the house.”
“Where you’re going to need my services is in the division of property. The courts will try to make it an equitable division if the spouses cannot come to a meeting of the minds. Missouri is a common law state.”
“Meaning?”
“You should know. You own half of each other’s property.”
“That’s right. I knew that.”
“The courts will take into consideration the income of each spouse to determine the economic circumstances going forward. The judge will examine the contributions of each spouse. The judge will also examine the value of non-marital property.”
“I don’t have anything and I want alimony. Tyler Cy made it all.”
“You have to understand that the court does not have to award alimony. In Missouri it is called spousal maintenance. Since he makes it then the chances are good that he’ll have to support you. That can be temporary or permanent depending on the decisions of the courts. The judge will look at your earning capacity, income producing assets that you receive, and he may consider spousal maintenance if your reasonable monthly needs are not met. What do you plan on doing with the rest of your life?”
“I want to play bridge, golf, and shop.”
“Aren’t you a little bitch?” Leslie laughed. “We all wish that we could do that.”
Shari smiled. “I’ve earned it. I had to put up with a lot.”
“You never answered my question.”
“Which one?”
“You said ‘not yet’.”
“Yeah, not yet.”
“As your attorney my advice to you is to not have an affair while you are still married.”
“Even if I’m separated?”
“Get it straight. There is no such thing.”
“Any particular reason why? My sex life is pretty much non-existent.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve given him a nickname for a reason.”
“You’ve confused me.”
“Flaccid. I call him Flaccid for a reason.”
Leslie had a tight lipped grin. “It happens. There are pills for that nowadays. Maybe he is in the middle of a mid-life crisis after all.”
“Maybe I am. I want to get laid while I can still enjoy it.” They laughed.
“As your attorney, whatever you do, don’t do something stupid. Wait until this ordeal is over.”
“How long will it take?”
“If he denies that the marriage is irretrievably broken then it could drag out. I expect that his lawyer would advise him to say that. The Statute has four ways to prove that a marriage is irretrievably broken.”
“I’m not going to wait that long to get some.”
“My advice is to wait. If the court finds out that your conduct inside the marriage is poor then it could affect the spousal maintenance that you could receive.”
“Dammit. Why do things have to be so difficult?”
Leslie got up from her seat, showed Shari to the door, shook her hand and said, “Look, my first bit of advice is to consider counseling.”
“I’m not about to go through that.”
“A divorce is a nasty split if one person doesn’t want it.”
Shari fumbled around in her purse for a pack of Marlboro Lights. “I want out.”
Reluctantly, Leslie said, “Then don’t jeopardize your spousal maintenance by doing something stupid.”
“Like getting laid?”
“Yeah, like getting laid.” Leslie opened the door. “For now, your time is up.”
Chapter Nine
Are you ready?
Raul Mendez had unlocked the door to his office only a few moments before the text message zipped across the screen. Aside from his work at the country club Raul was an independent businessman, specifically an unlicensed massage therapist and personal trainer. He had rented a bay in a second tier strip mall to legitimize his activity. His daily routine consisted of showing up at Olde Blueblood at nine-thirty, prepping for lunch, turning on the charm for the ladies, and then wrapping up around two-thirty. From there he would run errands and get to his other job between four and five o’clock and sometimes work past nine or ten depending on which client wanted what.
He stared at the message wondering whether or not he should reply. Raul had given out so many business cards with his cell number the caller could have been any of a number of people. His conclusion was someone wanted to get to his business to honor an appointment that he had forgotten about. So he answered.
Ready for what
A couple of minutes elapsed. Raul went about tidying up the waiting area. Magazines that had been strewn around the room were returned to the rack. He moistened a cloth and wiped down a table. It wasn’t a professional cleaning job. After all, he was a guy who had come from an island many miles south of the US. A quick wipe here and a well-placed wipe there was all he needed. Raul’s Sports Therapy wasn’t going to be in great demand this evening.
He continued to the all-purpose closet and grabbed a vacuum. The lobby was small. A quick once-over would get anything visible to the naked eye off the indoor/outdoor carpet.
It’s time for the next step
Raul hadn’t heard the message come in. He finished the cleaning chores and turned his attention to the radio to listen to the St. Louis Cardinal pre-game show. He had come to the States seventeen years earlier with two friends, Basilio Vasquez and Rico Avila. They were members of an All-Caribbean All-Star team. The trio had established themselves as complete baseball players, meaning that they could run, throw, hit, and catch with the best of them. They wanted to come to America for more exposure and greater money. All fudged their age and entered high school looking like adults. Raul tore up a knee early in his career while Rico’s talents were not appreciated by scouts. However, after high school and junior college, Basilio signed with the Cardinals. A trip to the minor leagues was brief. He quickly made it to the Big Leagues. Success on the field was rapid. Basilio made his mark at the major league level. Cardinal fans fell in love with their Latin hero. He became known only as Basilio. The chants were repeated nightly.
The message alert signaled a second text.
R u there
Yeah – sorry por favor
R u ready for the next step
Raul still was not sure who was sending the text message.
Do you have an appointment
Do I need one
Raul had a store front and was open to walk-in traffic, but that was generally not the accepted practice. Virtually all of his clientele scheduled a session in advance. Once in a while he left openings in his appointment book for last minute call-ins.
Let me check my book
Raul proceeded to the chest high counter that served as his reception desk, main desk, and office. He grabbed the tan leather book with a cross on the front and thumbed to the date. He knew beforehand that his schedule tonight was light.
What time would you like
No immediate reply was forthcoming. Raul lost himself in the broadcast of the pre-game show. He reached down to the mini-refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water then glanced at his watch. He still had 15 minutes before his first appointment would arrive.
U don’t know who this is do u
Raul suspected who the culprit was. He had received a few scattered texts in the past. Mostly they came later at night after alcohol had kicked in. One in the early evening was out of character.
I can offer a guess
He waited ten seconds before texting a follow up message.
Hot stuff?
The reply was immediate.
:)
Well r u ready for the next step
Raul’s life was going along smoothly. He had settled into a little pattern. There was no need to get in a hurry about anything. He had brought that passive attitude over from the islands.
What did you have in mind
If it meant getting a little on the side he had gotten adept at charming his way out of it if he got caught. The message that he got back wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.
Moving to the next stage of my life
Raul hated to be pressured. Conversations that turned to the future always made him run, and especially when it came from a woman wanting more than just sex.
What is that
He sort of knew what the response was going to be but threw out the bait hoping that maybe somehow he could wiggle his way into a new topic.
Why do u always play stooooooopid!!!
Pop. Pop. Pop. The texts came in rapid fire succession.
U know what I want
Get rid of the effing bitch
She’s in the way
Raul threw his head back and stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, literally saved by the bell attached to the front door.
My appointment just walked thru the door
Don’t give me that BS
She’s in the way
I want you to do something
Raul stared at the screen trying to think as fast as he could.
We can talk later
Gotta go
He put the phone down.
Ur such an asshole!
U can do it
I can’t
U got the balls to take the bitch out
Let’s move on
TOGETHER!!!
Chapter Ten
The “effing bitch” in question was Tindra Svahnstrom, a young bombshell from Bastad, Sweden. Her angelic face, porcelain-like skin, drop-dead baby blues, natural blonde hair, athletic legs, and non-stop party spirit had captured Raul’s attention long before any of the society ladies at Olde Blueblood entered the picture.
Much of her attitude and look was established in her early years. Her father, Hjalmar, was one of the original hoteliers in what is known as the Swedish Riviera. Located in Sweden’s southernmost province of Skane (SKO-nah) on the southwest coast of Sweden, Bastad is the first area in the Nordic country to thaw after the frozen winter. It is tucked away in a sheltered bay with the Hallandian mountain ridge rising behind it. Because of its locale, Bastad became a popular spot for sea bathing. Swedes flock to it when the weather breaks.
Originally the town was known as a popular shipping port. Then the fishing industry came. The ship building industry thrived. Clog building followed. But the wonderful summer weather that typically saw temperatures soar into the 70s turned the town into the hot spot for Sweden’s elite for a few months each year. Malmo is the nearest large city and is only an hour away. Copenhagen, Denmark is a little farther across the Oresund Fixed Link, the main road and rail system that connects the two countries. When the Mediterranean resorts overflowed, the number one alternative for Europeans was Bastad.
The tiny town is unassuming. Red and white houses, like strawberry chunks in vanilla yogurt, dot the ridge. But down below, seaside is where the action is. Hotels, bars, and restaurants sprang up near the white sand beach only paces from kids building sand castles in the pristine conditions. Discos thump the beat until the wee morning hours. Lobster pizza is served in the chic eateries. Marinas house the newest seaworthy vessels. Golf courses are only a few miles away and are located across the road from ferries that transport visitors to the small island of Hallands Vadero. The sheer beauty of the peaceful blue sea is breathtaking. But in Bastad, tennis prevails and courts abound. Sweden’s in-crowd flocks to the popular resort for a month-long festival each July to party and watch the Swedish Open tennis tournament.
Hjalmar Svahnstrom was a pioneer in hotel and restaurant development. With the money, location, and ideal weather, his baby girl became a bad-ass tennis player on the world stage.
Tindra’s penchant for partying was well known. It was second nature considering where she came from. What followed from the free-spirited upbringing was a tennis scholarship in the United States and non-stop play in south Florida. From there a chance meeting changed her circumstances.
The sun was bright, the temperature hot, and the breeze soothing. Raul Mendez was sitting in the stands in Jupiter, Florida watching his buddy play a preseason game for the Cardinals. He had noticed the blonde one section over, but the third beer was kicking in. It was easy to doze like a cat sitting on a window sill.
It was instinctive. The crack of the bat was sharp. He jerked up. The foul ball came straight back barely clearing the screen. His reflexes allowed him to move quickly to his right and out into the aisle. Raul made a one handed stab at the ball and snagged it in the palm of his hand. His momentum carried him into the section across the aisle. As fortune would have it, his fall put him at the feet of Tindra Svahnstrom.
From a vulnerable position Raul smiled. It was irresistible. He reached up and placed the ball in her hand and cooed, “Solo para usted, Bombon.” Surprised, she matched his pearly whites with a set of her own.
The connection had been made.
Ten days later, her attention sidetracked, Tindra blew out her knee sliding on the clay tennis surface. Raul was there for help and support. Sports therapy rehabilitation took on a whole new meaning. Goodbye tennis career and hello St. Louis suburbs. Their new home was Kirkwood, Missouri, home town of Tyler Cy Donnelly.
Kirkwood was maybe 15 minutes west of downtown and a sister community of Webster Groves. The two municipalities were bedroom hamlets within a larger metro area; tree-lined streets, older model homes, great family values. A trip back in time to Leave It to Beaver.
Raul and Tindra settled. They didn’t see the need to get married. Perhaps it was cultural or just a sign of the times. They found a one-story frame home that fit within their limited means. It was brick in the front with grey vinyl siding on the sides and back. White trim was on the fascia and soffit and columns on the front porch. A porch s
wing swayed in the wind. Twin seventy-year-old oaks burst toward the skies.
First there was a boy; two years later a little sister. Both were gorgeous with dark hair, blue eyes, and angelic smiles. For a while Raul bought into the family plan. But he was just so damn good looking. Women threw themselves at him. It was difficult to resist temptation. He tried hard, but opportunity was always on his doorstep. He paid the bills and was a good provider, but found invitations daily.
Justification came: he wasn’t married. Non-existent vows wouldn’t be violated. After that came mistrust. Tindra suspected, but could never prove. She would fly into a rage and would fume. Resentment followed. She was a party girl in her own right, but now tied to home and motherhood while Raul stayed away. Friction and stress in the relationship escalated.
It was a shame—in a way. Theirs was a union made in heaven from a physical beauty standpoint. The bond worked much of the time, but insecurities would get the best of Tindra. She couldn’t stop Raul’s philandering. The slightest look from the opposite sex infuriated her. Even if he didn’t do anything, her mind convinced her that he did.
Chapter Eleven
Tyler Cy was at home on Saturday afternoon minding his own business. Shari was out doing one of her favorite things: shopping.
Actually there was a tiny asterisk next to the minding his own business thing. He was watching golf on TV and snoozing on the couch. He didn’t hear the car pull up in the front of the house, but the knock on the door was loud and clear.
He rattled his head about, wiped the hair down over his ears and headed for the front door. Two uniformed policemen stood outside. “We’re looking for Tyler Cyrus Donnelly. Would that be you?”
“You’ve got him. Is there anything I can do for you? Any trouble?”
“This package is for you. Please sign this statement acknowledging that you received it.” The head cop shoved a voucher in the direction of the real estate magnate. Tyler Cy signed off.
He watched as they pulled around the driveway and off his property. He had been sued before and served papers in the past, but those deliveries had always been made to his office address. He turned back inside, curious about who was after what.