Chapter Eighteen
I shuffled through security at the courthouse, gazing at its high arched ceilings and historic marble floors. People in suits crowded the lobby, their strained expressions hurrying me along.
Mediation started in twenty minutes, and I arrived early to get settled before facing Robert, my nemesis.
My phone buzzed and I moved into a nearby corner to check the message from Camilla. She and Jeff had left for their trip yesterday, and I’d asked her to let me know when they arrived.
Camilla: Miss you Mom!
I smiled and typed an immediate response before she could disappear.
Me: Miss you too, sweet girl! Have an incredible time!
Camilla: I will! It’s beautiful here
Camilla: You’d love this so much
Me: Thrilled for you! Soak in every moment
Don’t rush into an engagement if the opportunity arises.
The small dots bounced on-screen, indicating Camilla was typing.
I waited. The dots stopped, and my heart stopped with them.
Camilla: Sending pics and love
Camilla: Talk soon!
I rushed out a quick goodbye as images of Camilla, their immaculate bungalow, and the Indian Ocean popped into view.
My gaze lingered on each photo. Gratitude for my daughter’s ability to travel like this and experience these things overwhelmed me, and my breath shuddered.
She looked so unequivocally happy.
The last picture was a selfie with Jeff at her side. She blew a kiss at the camera, but his eyes were fixed on her. The image reminded me of Mom’s photo with Sébastien. They’d both experienced the kind of adoration I once dreamed of, and I envied them that.
I sighed as I tucked the phone away.
A few minutes later I spotted the door I was looking for.
My reflection in the glass stared back, unimpressed.
I’d chosen a cream-colored blouse and wide-legged black silk pants with matching pumps for the occasion.
Small gold hoops adorned my earlobes, pearls lined my neck.
From the outside I appeared poised. Inside I was Mentos in Coke.
I tapped my information into the kiosk screen and tried uselessly not to think of the shimmering rhinestone in my still-swollen nostril. Robert would see it as a sign I’d returned to white trash without him. Never mind that my parents had made a solid middle-class living.
I took a seat on a nearby bench and waited for Robert to arrive.
He appeared two minutes past our scheduled start time, wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He chatted with security, chummy and unhurried, then moved down the hall toward me.
I trembled immediately at his presence.
Thankfully, the mediator called us inside before he reached my bench.
I took a seat at one end of a giant oval conference table, sure I’d throw up or pass out.
I’d brought a list of things I wanted to address and notes for rebuttal to his inevitable pushback, but I wasn’t prepared for my physical response to his nearness.
Logical or not, I feared him, and that made me angry. Which was a terrible distraction.
For three hours, we answered the mediator’s questions, addressing one another only as needed across the massive table.
When I asked for an update on our dwindling bank balances, he accused me of divorcing him for his money.
When I suggested he fire the gardener or cancel our country club membership to save money, he outwardly scoffed at my ignorance.
According to Robert, the gardener was necessary to prepare the home for sale, and he needed the country club to continue conducting his business as usual.
How could he afford to stop taking clients golfing at a time like this?
He suggested I sell my mom’s house. We were selling our marital home, after all.
Why should I keep the property I inherited when we could divide the proceeds from both?
I bristled at his greed. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” I snapped. “We owe more on the marital home than it’s worth, and Mom’s place is paid for. Not to mention she left it to me in her will.”
Robert feigned shock at my heated response.
The mediator pumped a palm up and down, cautioning me to remain calm. “It was just an idea, Sophie. That’s why we’re here,” she said. “Let’s keep brainstorming to find something you can agree upon.”
At that moment I wondered if Robert had a connection to our mediator. I recalled his casual familiarity with the courthouse employees when he arrived. Divorcing a well-known attorney in a community as small as ours sucked.
I took a calming breath and fixed my attention on Robert for the first time, locking my gaze with his. “While we’re discussing financials,” I said flatly. “I’d like to know which investments you made that allegedly bankrupted us.”
He chuckled and waved one hand dismissively.
“I’d have to talk to my broker to get the exact stock names.
Investment strategies are complex, and not at all a science,” he added, implying I couldn’t possibly keep up if he offered further explanation.
He swept his gaze to the mediator, eyebrows lifted in a plea for understanding.
She nodded, charmed.
“Please do,” I said, pulling their eyes back to me.
“What?” Robert asked.
“Do ask our broker,” I clarified, heavy emphasis on our.
The money wasn’t his alone, and therefore, the person who moved it didn’t work for him alone either.
“I want to know which specific investments emptied our accounts. More specifically, I’d like to request documentation outlining the movement of funds and their loss. ”
“It’s always about money with you,” he said softly, though loud enough for the mediator to hear and make a note on her tablet.
I left frustrated and disappointed. When I reached the parking lot, he was waiting by my car, smiling.
I checked the area for witnesses or cameras before I approached, afraid I might need to document whatever came next.
“Have fun today?” he asked.
“Pardon,” I said, edging past him to open my door.
“This is all your fault, you know.” he said.
I dropped behind my wheel and closed the door. Then I covered my eyes with sunglasses to hide my fear.
Robert crouched, pointing his beady eyes through the glass at my side.
“We had a good thing going, but you ruined it. Always wanting more,” he said loudly and shook his head.
“You won’t even get spousal support now, babe.
Then who will support your low-class lifestyle?
” His gaze fixed on my nose piercing. “Better run and get your tattoos and hair dye fast, because the money’s about to run out,” he jeered.
He straightened slowly and raised his hands wide at his side. “Wishing you all the best,” he called.
I imagined hitting him with my car.
If he managed to fool the courts and get away with all our money, I’d be sunk.
Everything I’d worked so hard to keep afloat would be gone in a matter of months.
I’d already sold all of Mom’s possessions with any significant value to pay off the property taxes, and I was working two jobs just to pay the utilities, buy food, and put gas in my car.
I supposed I could sell the car, but I’d have to buy another to replace it, something older that would probably need repairs I couldn’t afford.
My fingers tightened painfully around the steering wheel as I reversed away from the space, then left Robert fading in my rearview mirror.
I hadn’t come this far to fail, and I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction of believing he’d ruined me.
My forensic accountants promised to be in touch if they found evidence to suggest we weren’t really bankrupt.
I hadn’t heard a word from them yet, which wasn’t good.
There had to be a way to prove he was lying. But how?
The next few weeks went by in a blur. I put off cleaning Mom’s closets on the days I didn’t work at the restaurant and instead decided to freshen up the decor.
I painted the living room a bright cream and my bedroom a soft pink.
I hung frilly curtains in all the windows and placed tchotchkes on shelves and stands.
The house felt more like home each day, filled with a curated collection of things that made me feel like me.
I took a page from Chez Margot’s playbook and added plants to every room. Potted herbs on my kitchen windowsill. Ferns and succulents in macramé plant holders elsewhere.
I worked through lunchtime at the restaurant most days.
Thanks to the growing popularity of the Invisible Baker, from dinnertime until eleven each night, I baked and then, exhausted, I slept deeply.
I had Lucas to thank for the abundance of orders, though he still didn’t know I was the Invisible Baker.
He only requested a few dozen pastries at first, but the number grew with demand.
Soon customers waited at the doors for Chez Margot to open so they could get first dibs on macarons, éclairs, and pains au chocolat.
Lucas added signs to the display case, crediting the Invisible Baker. Orders for my small business quadrupled, and my social media following did too.
Deliveries were the trickiest part. I’d hired Alicia’s sons for after-school deliveries when I couldn’t do them myself—which was more and more often. I had no idea how I’d manage if business continued on this trajectory.
Tomorrow’s problem, I thought.
Today was Saturday, and my day off.
I pulled into Alicia’s driveway just after breakfast. Cameron and her sons played catch on the lawn outside their pretty blue-and-white cottage. She rose from the porch swing and moved gracefully in my direction, purse in hand.
Cameron broke away from the game to catch her around the middle and kiss her head before she reached my SUV. He opened my passenger door for her and waved. “Hey, Sophie. What’s on the agenda this time? Should I arrange another drunken pickup or—”
“Shush,” Alicia said. “We haven’t decided yet. You’re all on standby!” she hollered, projecting her voice in the direction of her watching teens.
They cracked up, and I smiled.