Chapter Twenty
I'M NOT SURE WHAT I expected when Jeanne and I enter the conference room.
All I know is that I didn't expect him to be so...surrounded.
Because not only does Sandy have his lawyer with him, but he also has Delia and Risa seated on his side of the table.
Sandy is at the center, in the chair closest to the far end.
His mother is on his left, hands folded in her lap with the kind of stillness that comes from a woman who has spent six decades arranging her face for other people.
Delia is on his right, in a dress that's too short and a manicure that's too red, leaning back in her chair like she belongs there.
The fourth seat on their side is the lawyer.
He's about my age. Sandy's age. Forty-something. Balding at the crown in a way that hasn't been kindly received, with what's left of his hair combed across the gap. He's slouched in his chair when we walk in, one elbow on the armrest, a pen tapping against his lower lip.
He doesn't stand.
None of them does.
Jeanne's smile doesn't change at all. She walks to our side of the table as if she'd expected nothing better, and pulls out my chair before I've finished registering the slight.
"Howie Lyle," the lawyer drawls. He still doesn't get up. He doesn't even put the pen down. "Pettyfer's counsel."
"Jeanne Barbers." Her voice is sunny. "Mrs. Pettyfer's."
"Heard of you."
"How nice."
I sit. Jeanne sits. Howie's eyes flick over Jeanne's blowdry, her smile, her file folder, and something at the corner of his mouth lifts in what I can only describe as a man already deciding he's the smartest person in the room.
I think I see why Sandy hired him.
"Where have you been all this time?" Risa demands.
"My client appreciates your interest," Jeanne says before I can answer, "but I'll have to apologize on her behalf. I've instructed her not to respond to anything to keep our meeting as free from compli—"
"Is that Dior you're wearing?"
The interruption comes from Delia, and her voice has gone up an octave.
She's leaning forward now. Her elbow is on the table. Her eyes have stopped tracking the conversation and are tracking my shirt instead, then the seam at my shoulder, then the cuff. She's frowning. Calculating.
"And are those jeans Gucci?"
"Don't be stupid, babe." Sandy doesn't even look at her. He's looking at me, and his mouth has settled into the smirk I know better than I know my own face. "They're knockoffs, obviously."
He turns to me with a little shake of his head.
"You shouldn't have bothered trying to dress up."
Howie chuckles.
"Mr. Lyle." Jeanne says his name with the same sunny smile she used at the door.
"If your client refers to my client in that manner again, I will be filing a complaint with the bar regarding your professional conduct in this meeting.
And as I'm sure you're aware, the bar in this state has a very low tolerance for counsel who permit verbal abuse of opposing parties at the table. "
A pause.
"So please don't chuckle."
The corner of Howie's mouth comes back down while Sandy looks at Jeanne like she’s suddenly speaking in a foreign language.
“Is that...is that a threat?” he finally asks.
"It's a courtesy," Jeanne answers calmly while still smiling. "I find them so much more effective than threats, don't you?"
Risa looks as if she wants to start screaming at Jeanne, but since Jeanne’s smiling that scary smile of her still—
Risa turns to me instead, her favorite person to bully.
"You ungrateful little—"
"Mrs. Pettyfer." Howie cuts her off, and he sounds genuinely irritated for the first time. "Shut up."
Risa lets out a gasp of outrage. "Excuse me?"
"I said shut up,” Howie snaps. “I’m trying to do my job—"
"Oh, now you're going to do your job?" Risa's voice has gone shrill. "When my son's wife is sitting there in Dior she could only have afforded by sleeping with—"
“Mrs. Pettyfer, dammit!”
Howie has now closed his eyes, the pen still tapping against his lower lip, breathing through his nose like a man asking a higher power for patience. Delia, in the meantime, is still staring at my shirt while Sandy seems...preoccupied?
Honestly, I should've just looked away. But all I can do at that moment is just stare at the four of them and think to myself, This...
This is how the rest of my life could be.
This is what I almost said yes to twenty years ago and again every year after.
And unfortunately, it's when I realize this that Sandy happens to look my way.
Oh no.
"What are you looking so smug for?" he asks nastily.
He always does this. Every time something goes wrong, he somehow finds a way to lash out and pin the blame on me.
"I asked for this meeting because I was feeling a little bad that you'd get nothing."
It's a struggle to understand what he's saying when all I can see is flashback after flashback of our marriage, and Sandy making me feel like I’m always to blame.
"I wanted to offer you some kind of help—" Sandy actually surges to his feet in his rage, which comes out of nowhere. "But now that you're acting high and mighty like that?"
I can already feel my body going still.
"Who do you think you are?"
I know what he’s about to do.
No, no, no.
And yet—
SLAP.
It’s just like before. I don't know if it's shock, or if my reflexes are too slow. Or maybe I've become so traumatized that I can't even move.
His hand strikes my cheek so, so hard that it has me swaying, and the whole place falls silent.
Everyone is staring at Sandy in shock. His own mother included. Because his entire life, Sandy has always been the charming, good-looking, easygoing guy.
Howie has finally stopped tapping his pen. His mouth is open. His eyes have gone wide.
Risa has lifted one hand and pressed it flat against her own chest, and her face has gone the kind of white that takes a moment to set in.
Delia, alone among them, is not looking at Sandy.
Delia is still looking at me.
And I...
I never tried to change anyone's opinion about him.
No matter what he did, no matter what he said, I always told myself it was a fluke.
That he had an excuse to do it.
But now I know...
"That's the last time you'll ever hurt me," I whisper.
I can never let him get away with it again.
"Oh yeah?" Sandy has somehow lost it. He doesn't seem to realize how everyone is looking at him. "What are you going to fucking do?"
His hand is already coming up as he leans forward...
But he never gets to do anything again.
Because at that same moment, two men in suits enter the conference, and Sandy looks like he's torn between fury and fear the moment he sees them.
"Y-You—"
The men close on him, and that's when Sandy turns into something else entirely. He grabs the chair he was sitting in and shoves it backward at one of them. He grabs a water glass from the table and throws it. Delia screams. Risa makes a sound that doesn't quite make it out of her throat.
"Sandy! What's wrong with you?"
"Mr. Pettyfer, calm down!"
But it's as if a devil's completely taken over him. He's now staring at me with so much hatred in his eyes.
"You slut! You fucking—"
The door opens again.
A third man steps in. Older. Quieter. Carrying a slim folder under one arm. The folder is going to be used. He doesn't look at Sandy. He nods once at Jeanne. He stations himself by the wall.
I almost feel like laughing and crying. Who's next? I don't even know what or who to expect—
Oh.
Or maybe I do, but I just didn’t know if I wanted this to happen or not.
He walks straight toward me, and even though there are so many others in the room, it's like I'm the only one he sees, the only one that matters.
And when he’s finally standing in front of me, this stranger who knows my soul like he’s known me his whole life—
Sandy goes berserk, Risa starts shouting, but it's as if he doesn't hear any of this.
"Does it hurt?"
He asks this so, so softly, and his hand actually shakes as he reaches to touch my cheek.
Ouch.
The tenderness takes me by surprise, causing me to flinch—
Oh no.
I didn’t mean to make him mad. Or lose control. Or both.
All I know is that everything after that happens so fast—
Mr. Everford suddenly has Sandy by the collar, and he’s speaking in such a dangerously soft voice—
"You will never touch her again. Do you understand?"
Sandy doesn't get to answer. One moment he's looking belligerent as he struggles to free himself from his former boss's hold—
The next moment he's down on the floor, his nose bleeding, and he's crying.
"You fucking broke my nose! You'll pay—"
I catch Jeanne nodding at Mr. Everford before stepping forward.
"I'd be more careful with my choice of words if I were you, Mr. Pettyfer." Her voice is still sunny. "This room is under surveillance, and I don't think you'll appreciate footage of this becoming public—"
"She cheated on me!"
His voice has gone nasal from the bleeding. He's still on the floor. His shirt has come untucked. There is a smear of blood across his chin where he tried to wipe his nose with the back of his hand.
"Especially as Mr. Everford has been aware of how you've been embezzling funds from his company in the last two years."
Sandy...was what?
"That's...that's defamation of character!" He's struggling to his feet, one hand cupped under his nose to catch the blood, the other braced against the table. "I'll fucking sue—"
"Do you recognize the name Robert Charles?"
I have no idea who that is. But the name Jeanne mentions seems to catch Sandy flat-footed, and he just freezes. His nose is still dripping blood, but he no longer seems to care.
"Sign the divorce papers, Mr. Pettyfer. And in return, the company will not be pressing charges against you."
"How do I know if you're telling the truth?"
The third man steps forward from the wall and hands his slim folder to Howie Lyle without a word, then steps back.
Howie opens it...and starts biting his nails by the third page. When he’s done skimming, he clears his throat and says, “It’s all here. Sign the papers, and they won’t press charges. It’s a good deal—”
“You only looked at it for a second.” Sandy seems to have finally recovered from his shock, and he’s back to speaking with a mixture of petulance and resentment. “How do you know—”
"Just sign it," Risa snaps.
"But Mother—" Sandy is actually wailing like he's four years old instead of forty, while his own mother ignores him like he really is a toddler who can't make decisions on his own.
Risa looks at their lawyer.
"You're sure it's good?"
"Yes, Mrs. Pettyfer."
As soon as Howie confirms this, Risa snatches the divorce papers that were still on the table and shoves them at her son's chest.
"I will not have you ruin our name over—"
That slut.
It's what she almost said. But she manages to catch herself in time and tightens her lips in silence instead.
"Just sign it!"
She grabs one of the pens on the desk and hands it to Sandy.
His hand is shaking. There's blood on his chin, on his collar, on the cuff he tried to use as a tissue. The pen leaves a small red smear on the corner of the first page when he begins to sign.
Delia tries to comfort him as he starts to sign, but he waves her away irritably.
I'm about to feel bad for her...
Until I see Delia's face turn cold.
She wasn't hurt at all by being waved off.
The wide-eyed-girlfriend act drops off her face like a coat she's done wearing for the day.
What's underneath is something I haven't seen on her until now.
Something that's been calculating for the entire meeting, and that has finally finished its calculation.
She looks straight at me.
And then she actually smiles.
I have no idea what it means.
I only know that it makes me feel nauseous and uneasy. It's almost like she knows something I don't.
It's only later, when Sandy's done signing the divorce papers and Jeanne has asked them to leave, that Delia pauses by my side.
I try to step back. But she's already gripping my arm, and she's whispering into my ear—
"He'll replace you, too. Women like you are always replaceable, darling."
And then she's running to Sandy's side, fussing over him, pandering to his ego, and it’s only when Mr. Everford reaches for my arm—
“That bitch.”
It’s the only time I realize how Delia's dug her nails into my arm, deep enough to make my skin bleed.