Chapter 6
FELICIA FILES THE PETITION on Friday morning.
Irreconcilable differences with a dissipation addendum documenting twenty-four months of diverted marital funds.
Rent, utilities, furnishings, household supplies, and infant-related purchases at a secondary residence maintained without the knowledge or consent of the other spouse.
“He’s been served,” she says. “He has thirty days to respond. Expect contact from his attorney within the week.”
I thank her and hang up. Dom is across the kitchen scoring lamb skewers, and he looks up when I set down the phone.
“It’s done,” I say.
He nods and goes back to the lamb. I go back to the phyllo cups. We work in silence for an hour, and the silence is functional, not strained. The quiet of two people who’ve spent enough time in this kitchen to know when conversation is needed and when it isn’t.
WYNN’S RETALIATION arrives three days later.
His attorney, Craig Durbin, files a motion requesting full financial disclosure and forensic accounting of Three Table Catering, LLC.
The motion argues that the business appreciated significantly during the marriage and that Wynn is entitled to a share of that appreciation as a marital asset, regardless of when the business was founded or who holds the ownership interest.
Felicia calls me Wednesday morning to walk through it.
“The motion itself isn’t unusual,” she says.
“Spouses routinely claim appreciation of a pre-marital business. The question is whether the appreciation is active, meaning your labor increased the value, or passive, meaning market forces did. In most cases involving a business the non-owner spouse had no involvement in, the claim is difficult to sustain. Your partnership agreement predates the marriage. Wynn has no capital contribution, no operational role, and no ownership stake. His attorney knows this is weak. He’s filing it to create cost and pressure. ”
“So it’s a stall tactic.”
“It’s a message. He wants you to know the divorce will be expensive if you don’t negotiate the dissipation claim down. My recommendation is we respond with a counter-motion documenting the pre-marital formation, the partnership agreement, and his complete absence from business operations.
“I’d also like to flag something else he’s done.
” I tell her two good clients contacted me after Wynn contacted two of them, Henderson Capital and Lattimer Group, and told them the business might be undergoing “ownership restructuring.” He suggested they hold off on renewing until the situation was clarified. “Can he get away with that?”
“He can try. What he actually did is tortious interference with a business relationship, and I’m going to make sure his attorney knows it. In the meantime, you need to contact both clients directly and reassure them that Three Table’s ownership is unchanged and operations are uninterrupted.”
This warrants an in-person meeting, not speaking to an assistant like the other day. I’m at Henderson’s office within the hour. The lobby is glass and chrome, corporate and clean, smelling like new carpet and nothing else.
Grace Matsuda, their events coordinator, meets me by the front desk. She’s holding a coffee and wearing the expression of a woman who likes working with me and doesn’t want to get involved in my personal life. “Natalie, thanks for coming in.”
“Of course.”
She leads me to a small conference room. We sit on opposite sides of a table, and she sets her coffee beside the notepad.
“My assistant told you I got a call from your husband?” She continues when I nod. “He said there might be ownership changes at Three Table, and he suggested we hold off on the April event until the situation clarified.”
“My husband has never had any ownership interest in Three Table,” I say. “The company was founded by me and my business partners. Wynn has no capital contribution, no operational role, and no management authority. He’s never set foot in our kitchen.”
“And the April event?”
“Will happen exactly as planned. Your deposit is secure. Your menu is finalized. Your seating chart went to our events coordinator last week.” I keep my voice level and professional.
Grace doesn’t need my anger. She needs assurance.
“We’re filing for divorce, and Wynn made that call without any authority to speak for the business. I’m sorry he contacted you.”
Grace relaxes into her chair. “I’m glad you came in. We’ve been working together for three years, and I didn’t want to pull the contract over a phone call from someone I’ve never met.”
“Three years and seven events. I remember every one of them, including the dietary restrictions for your CEO’s wife.” I stand up. “I’ll email you a confirmation of your contract terms this afternoon.”
She walks me to the lobby. At the door, she touches my arm. “Whatever is going on personally, your work has always been excellent. We’re not going anywhere.”
I thank her and drive back to Three Table.
Dom is in the office with the phone still warm on the desk and his legal pad covered in notes.
“Lattimer’s is staying,” he says. “Their admin was confused, not concerned. I walked her through the ownership structure and sent her a copy of the partnership agreement. She said, and I’m quoting here, ‘Tell Natalie we like her food too much to care about her ex-husband.’”
I almost laugh. It catches me off guard, the first involuntary upward pull at my mouth in two weeks.
“What about Felicia’s counter-motion?”
“Filed this afternoon.” He slides a printout across the desk.
“Three Table Catering was formed as an LLC by Natalie Huer, Dominic Barrow, and Holly Barrow, five years ago. The respondent has no capital contribution, no membership interest, no management authority, and no operational role in the business. His contact with Three Table’s clients constitutes tortious interference with existing business relationships. ”
He looks at me. “Holly’s name is on that filing. She’s listed as a founding member.”
“She should be.”
“He’s trying to claim a piece of what she built.
” Dom’s voice is level, but he’s gripping the edge of the desk hard enough that the tendons in his wrists stand out.
This is as close to anger as Dom gets. Contained, controlled, and channeled into pressure against a surface instead of a sound.
“Holly poured two years of her life into this company before she got sick. She signed clients, she built systems, and she wrote the business plan we still operate from. Wynn never set foot in this kitchen. He never washed a dish or packed a cooler or stayed until midnight before a five a.m. call time. He has no right to any part of this.”
I wait. Dom doesn’t make speeches. This is the most words I’ve heard from him in a single stretch since Holly’s memorial, He pulls back, sits up straighter, and uncurls his fingers, looking surprised by how much came out.
“We’re not losing this,” I say. “We’re not losing any of it.”
“I know.”
FRIDAY EVENING, THE bridal shower is catered, delivered, and cleaned up. The Henderson confirmation email is sent. The Lattimer contract is intact. Felicia’s counter-motion is filed. Wynn’s attorney has been notified about the tortious interference, and Felicia says the client contact will stop.
Dom and I are in the kitchen at nine p.m., prepping for a Saturday lunch event. He’s portioning chicken into containers for morning marination while I dice onions, and the kitchen is warm, lit, and full of the scent of raw ingredients waiting to become something finished.
We’ve done this a thousand times. Side by side, cutting boards adjacent, the rhythm of knives on wood and containers snapping shut.
We’ve done it while grieving, while exhausted, and while wondering if the business could survive the loss of its best client manager.
We’ve done it when neither of us wanted to be here and when both of us needed to be.
The difference tonight is that I’m not pretending.
For two years, I came into this kitchen carrying the performance of a functional marriage, and I didn’t know it was a performance because I didn’t know the marriage was a set.
I’m not carrying that anymore. The folder is at Felicia’s office.
The petition is filed. Wynn is at an apartment I can describe down to the pattern on the throw pillows, and I’m here, with Dom, in the kitchen we rebuilt from two separate griefs.
“Dom.”
He looks up from the chicken.
“Thank you for reassuring Lattimer, putting together the timeline, driving me to the apartment... All of it.”
He holds still for a second. Then he says, “You would have done the same for me.”
He’s right. I would have. I did, in a way. I stayed in this kitchen after Holly died because Dom needed a partner, I needed a friend, and neither of us said it out loud because we didn’t have to.
He goes back to the chicken. I go back to the onions. The kitchen doesn’t close, and neither do we.