I just wasn’t husband material. I’d already proven that.
Jillian Quinn. There were months where I didn’t think of her at all, and then there were weeks where I couldn’t get her off my mind. After a year of mourning my failed marriage, I put it behind me. I buried myself in the ranch. Sometimes, I buried myself in women. I did whatever I could to forget what I lost.
And now, I was supposed to reflect on how family fit into my future? Hell. Maybe I could convince Harry that the Ward family’s future was with my sister, and I had no doubt that one day she’d drag someone down the aisle. When Kim was focused on something, she didn’t let anything stand in her way. God help her future husband.
When I got home, a familiar car was parked outside our white plantation-style home. Gordon Silverman, my good friend and our family lawyer.
“Silverman,” I grunted as I unfolded myself out of the sports car. “Did we have plans?”
“No. I have news.” He grimaced. “And you won’t be very happy about it. Let’s grab a beer.”
“What is it with you and my sister? Why is everyone drinking before noon?”
“Trust me, you’re going to need it.” He clapped me on the back as we headed inside.
Gordon and I grew up together. He was the son of a ranch hand who’d worked for us. We learned to ride horses together, and we were also little terrors to both the ranch and the town. We both left for college in the city. The only difference was that I came back.
I didn’t even want to think about what he was here to tell me. I’d asked him to go through my father’s finances, so I’d know just what we were dealing with. I’d also asked him to comb through Dennis Blackwell’s background, so I could check the man out. Harry might have forged a new relationship with his son because he wanted to reconnect, but Dennis didn’t give a damn about family. If he was getting close to his father again, there was a damn good reason. And now I knew that reason.
Dennis wanted to keep the Blackwell Ranch. The question was why.
In the kitchen, I cracked open two bottles of beer and handed him one. There was some leftover chicken salad, so I put together two sandwiches and passed one to Gordon. “All right. Let’s hear it.”
Leaning against the counter, Gordon reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. As he took a bite of his sandwich, he slipped the folder of papers toward me. I flipped it open, and my stomach immediately flip-flopped. It definitely wasn’t what I expected.
“I’ve seen my marriage license, Gordon,” I muttered. “It’s not a big surprise to me.”
He took a huge bite of his sandwich and chewed so slowly I wanted to throttle him for keeping me in suspense. Finally, he swallowed, looking just as miserable as before. “In digging through the ranch’s finances, I found something interesting. Jack Ward hired a private investigator a few years after your divorce to look into Jillian. The investigation was completed, and the results were buried in a mislabeled file. I’m guessing that you didn’t know this.”
“My father hadn’t even wanted to acknowledge that I’d ever been married. Why the hell would he be interested in my ex-wife?” Confused, I flipped through the papers. I skimmed over most of it. The investigator found that Jillian went back to school on a track to get her Psy.D in psychology. No surprise there. It had always been her goal.
“I want to become a psychologist so I can figure out my own shit,” she said, her hand running down my chest, to my abs, lower. “Those who can’t play, coach.” Her lips followed the path of her hand. “Those who can’t do, teach.” She licked up my cock, her teeth barely grazing over the head. “Those who are fucked up work with the fucked up.” Her tongue dipped into the tip. “In time, by helping others, I might just help myself.”
Gordon waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Brendan.”
I shook away the mental image of Jillian taking my cock in her mouth and gave him a wry grin. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was saying that I don’t know, but I recognize the date he hired the investigator. It was the day after your twenty-fifth birthday. Do you remember? You showed up at my apartment so drunk you could barely stand.”
Rubbing my chin, I sighed. I did remember that day. My father and I had gotten into a huge argument about the choices I’d made, and I practically threw the truth in his face. The real reason that Jillian and I didn’t make it.
We never talked about it again. I’d forgotten that he knew.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t give a damn what Jillian is doing right now.” I flipped the page and felt a fresh wave of pain and regret wash over me. There was a copy of our divorce papers in the folder. I was just about to close the folder when I paused, tapping the spot where the notarized signature should be. “Where are the official papers?”
“That’s sort of the problem,” Gordon said softly. “There is no official record.”
My head snapped up so fast the vertebrae in my neck crackled and popped. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Turn the page. I highlighted the paragraph you need to read.”
Flipping the page, I skimmed down to the bottom of the investigator’s report. There it was, in black and white.
It seems that the paperwork was never filed. There is no official and legal record of a divorce between Jillian Ward and Brendan Ward.
The world stopped. I could have stared at the words for hours. It just wasn’t possible. For years, I’d been running away from a divorce that never happened?
Gordon finally cleared his throat. “I did my own research. Your lawyer wasn’t actually a lawyer. He was a con artist. He’s in prison doing time for an adoption scam.”
“Why would my father never tell me?” I shook my head, trying to understand. “He knew I was still married and never told me?”
“I don’t know. Under the circumstances, I’m sure that I can find a judge to expedite the process. After all, you’ve been separated for over freaking forever. I just need to get your wife to re-sign the paperwork.”
I jerked my head up and stared at Gordon. “My wife?”
“Yes.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Your wife because, technically…”
“I’m still married,” I finished for him. As the words twisted and turned through my brain, I remembered my conversation with Harry less than an hour ago.
I don’t want my land to be the reason you never find fulfillment in your life. Love. Family.
The old man wanted to see me settled before handing over the added responsibility. He didn’t want me living with regrets the way he lived with his own.
My heart beat a little faster as an idea formed in my head. “I have an estranged wife. I already have a family.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes and studied me. “Uh, Brendan, you’re taking this much better than I expected. Is this the calm before the storm, or is it just not processing?”
“Everything is processing just fine.” I looked up at him, weighing all the pros and cons. “I have an estranged wife, and I have a family man refusing to sell his land to me because he’s afraid I’m not making time for family.”
My friend’s eyes widened. “Harry Blackwell. Jillian.” I watched him connect the dots before my eyes. “My god, you’re not actually thinking what I think that you’re thinking.”
But I was.
The more I thought of it, the more sense it made. I leaned against the counter and took a long drink of my beer. “I want that land, Gordon. Reconciling with my wife is my ticket into Harry’s good graces.”
He snorted. “And you think she’ll just go along with this?”
That was the rub. Jillian was as stubborn as they came, but I was a wealthy man now. “I’m sure I can find something to persuade her.”
The big clock over the mantel tick-tocked the seconds away while my friend stared at me like I had two heads. “You always did like playing with fire. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I hoped so too.
Inviting Jill
ian back into my life even for a few months was dangerous, but I needed a Hail Mary for that land, and if I wasn’t mistaken, I’d just been thrown one. Besides, it wasn’t like there was anything left between us. That had gotten stomped to death long ago.
I’d broker a business transaction with her, and in a few months, I’d be the divorced owner of the largest horse ranch in Southern California.
What could go wrong?
CHAPTER THREE
Jillian
My advisor had just raked me over the coals. Discouraged, I walked out into the bright sunlight and sagged against the bench outside the school. Students scurried to and from buildings, but I paid them no attention. After the last meeting, I thought for sure that he would approve this draft of my thesis, but the criticism was the same.
Too logical. Not enough heart.
Not enough heart? It was a scientific study! Just what kind of heart was I supposed to put into it?
My argument had met a cold gaze. If I couldn’t figure it out, then maybe I wasn’t ready to graduate after all.
Jackass.
Except that I didn’t think he was wrong. I wasn’t trying to finish my dissertation because I wanted to put new ideas in the world. I was finishing to finish, and that wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wallow. Pulling out my phone, I hired an Uber. My shift at the therapy center started in twenty minutes, and my boss, Dr. Jacobson, already didn’t like me. No, he liked me well enough. According to the way he looked at me, he liked me just fine.
He just didn’t like that I’d rejected his advances or that I’d threatened to file a suit if he didn’t keep his eyes and hands to himself.
As the driver picked me up, I swallowed a couple of aspirin. A headache was forming behind my eyes. I had six hours of work ahead of me before I could go home and pop open a bottle of wine. I needed some serious decompression.
Not owning a car in the city wasn’t the worst thing in the world. The bus system went almost everywhere, but my schedule during the day was usually so back-to-back that I didn’t have time to take the bus. With the car-ride systems, I used the same three drivers, and they knew me well enough to be chatty, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk today. A short ride later, and I was at work.
The center was an eclectic mix of free group therapy, court-ordered therapy, and private sessions. It wasn’t the dream job, and it certainly didn’t encourage me to help people. The truth was, the center just did the bare minimum before throwing people back out again.
“Ms. Quinn,” Jacobson grunted when I entered his office for my assignment. He emphasized the Ms. as if to remind me that I wasn’t a doctor yet. I had a feeling that when I did get my doctorate, he still wouldn’t acknowledge it.
“Dr. Jacobson. How’s the day going?”
I immediately regretted the question as he looked up sharply and glared at me. “How do you think it’s going? I’m a doctor, not an office manager, and yet that’s all that I have time to do!”
That wasn’t true. Jacobson handled most of the private sessions. In fact, the only jobs he gave me were…
“Group therapy for widows in fifteen minutes,” he barked. “Make sure they don’t take more than their thirty-minute allotted time. We’ve got a crammed schedule this afternoon.”
I stifled a sigh. The only clients I was allowed to talk to were the widows. Months and months of widows. It was getting old.
Glancing at the program, I groaned as I headed back out to the small desk I shared with the other therapists. It wasn’t just any group of widows. These were the CP Morrissey widows. CP Morrissey was a high-end funeral home. Only the wealthy could afford them, and it was ridiculous that they even offered free group therapy. Most of these women could afford one-on-one sessions where they could really take the time to work through their grief.
Of course, there were some women who weren’t trying to work through their grief, so they liked the group therapy sessions just fine. It gave them a chance to gain more sympathy and add to their connections.
I shook my head of the negativity that seemed to want to hover around me that day. It was unfair of me to go into the therapy session with that mindset. Some of the women really were mourning, and they were the ones I did my best to focus on, but the majority didn’t take the session seriously. It was a nightmare, and a reminder of why marriages weren’t for everyone.
Going through the list of participants, I glanced through their backgrounds. Susan Grady, the thirty-six-year-old model who’d just lost her seventy-five-year-old husband. Donna Yiu, a fifty-year-old woman who’d just lost her seventy-year-old husband, her fifth husband in twenty years. Stephanie Winger had just made headlines after losing her famous producer husband and cut the funding for all of his current projects. Lydia Jacobs was under suspicion after her philandering husband died of mysterious circumstances, and there was one name that I didn’t recognize. Jackie Moore. Her husband had recently passed of a heart attack.
It was not going to be a fun session.
Steeling myself, I headed to the room and set up the chairs. After brewing a fresh pot of coffee, I set out the box of cookies and donuts. Normally, they were stale and old, but Jacobson always made sure that there was nothing but the best for CP Morrissey clients.
I was a little surprised that he wasn’t taking the session himself. It was a great opportunity for him to pick up new private clients who could pay.
A little after the appointed time, all five women trickled in. I gave them a few minutes to get their coffee and cookies before I finally got them seated.
“Good afternoon. I’m Jillian Quinn, and I’m one of the therapists here at the center. This is an open and judgment free zone where you can meet other women who are going through a similar experience as you. You’re welcome to talk about the past and fond memories, but we’re also going to focus on coping mechanisms for the future as you open a new chapter in your life.”
There was a snort from Susan. “We all know Donna’s coping mechanism. Are you going to be trolling for husband number five or six? I think I’ve lost count.”
“I loved my husband,” Donna snarled, lifting her chin. “Unlike you, the tramp who just married the old bastard for his money. There’s no way that you display all that cleavage for your husband. He was so blind he couldn’t even see you.”
“How dare you!”
“Ladies.” My headache intensified as I held up my hand. “Again, this is a place to focus on your grief, so let’s keep our conversations focused on your own experiences. Now, does anyone want to talk about how they’re feeling or some fears or difficulties that have arisen?”
Lydia immediately burst into tears. “I loved my husband so much. I just don’t know how I’m going to survive without him!”
“Then you probably shouldn’t have mixed up his heart medication,” Donna muttered under her breath.
I immediately jumped in before another fight could start. “Lydia, I appreciate you sharing. I’m sure that many of you feel like the future is bleak, but you can get through this. Lydia, do you have some specific obstacles you’re worried about?”
“Everything! I don’t know how to pay the gardener or the pool man. I don’t know how to adjust the bed. The maid doesn’t speak a word of English.”
The other women immediately chimed in with their own worries, but it was Jackie’s quiet voice that caught my attention. “I haven’t been able to sleep in our bed since he passed.” The room immediately fell silent and the women stared at her. She shifted in her chair, but I nodded encouragingly. “My sister says that I’m being ridiculous, but when I get in the bed, it just feels so large and empty. I’ve been sleeping on the couch.”
“I let the dog in the bed,” Stephanie admitted. “We wouldn’t normally do that, but I felt the same. It was just… too cold. I couldn’t get warm no matter how many layers I put on.”
Good. This was good.
“That’s not uncommon, and that’s an
excellent solution. Pets are a great way to keep love in the house, but if you don’t have a pet, I don’t encourage you to go out and adopt one. Making big decisions at this time can be difficult. Jackie, have you tried napping in the bed during the day? That’s something that we usually do alone, and it can help you adjust for when you’re ready to try at night.”
The older woman’s lips trembled as she nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.
To my surprise, Donna reached over and squeezed her hand. I started to relax. Jackie’s raw grief had opened the door, and the guarded cattiness seemed to have subsided. For now.
“My husband would only grind this certain bean into his coffee. I hate it. It’s so strong and bitter, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. It just sits on the counter, and I have to see it every day,” Stephanie muttered.
“I went through the same thing with a bottle of brandy,” Susan admitted. “I finally asked the maid to toss it. I thought that I would be more upset when it was gone, but it just made things a little easier.”
I gave each woman a soft smile. “We all attach certain memories to physical objects. There’s no set time limit for when you need to get rid of these things. Stephanie, Susan obviously found some peace when she got rid of hers, but you don’t have to feel like it will be the same for you. If the coffee encourages fond memories, it might be something that you want to hang on to, but if it just causes grief, I would suggest that you at least put it in the cabinet. Susan’s solution to have the housekeeper help her is great. You could get a friend to help you.”
“What about baseball mitts?” a deep male voice grumbled through the room, and my entire body stiffened. “Would you suggest burning it right after you lose your husband?”
I kept myself perfectly composed as a wave of ice cascaded through me. Even after all this time, I recognized that husky voice all too well.
“I’m sorry, this is a closed-door session,” I said without turning around. I was proud that my voice didn’t have a single tremor. “If you’ll stop by our front desk, they can give you more information.”
Reclaiming My Wife Page 3