Chapter 1—Christa #2
JAI SHWARA’S OFFICE occupies the twenty-third floor of a building with a spectacular view and chairs apparently designed to prevent anyone from becoming comfortable enough to reconsider a divorce.
I shift for the third time in ten minutes, trying to find an angle that doesn’t put pressure on the same spot in my lower back.
Jai glances up from the file in front of her. “They’re terrible, aren’t they?”
“The chairs?” I adjust again and give up.
“Yes.”
“I thought perhaps discomfort was part of your legal strategy.”
“It is.” Jai closes the file. “People make faster decisions when their lower backs hurt.”
I smile despite myself. Jai is in her forties, with dark hair cut just below her chin and a wardrobe that makes me reconsider every blazer I’ve ever owned.
I found her through a woman whose divorce was supposed to destroy her socially and didn’t.
Jai’s name never appeared in the gossip surrounding it, which told me almost as much as the recommendation did.
She turns the folder so she can reference one of the pages. “Your studio is straightforward. You established it before the marriage, the ownership has remained solely yours, and your records are clean. We’ll document the current value. I don’t anticipate a serious dispute over it.”
“Good.” Some of the tension I’ve carried into every meeting with her eases.
“Your separate inheritance from your grandmother is also clearly traceable.” Jai slides one document aside and reaches for another. “Your father’s gifts are more complicated because of the way some were transferred, but we’re sorting those.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
Jai looks at me over the top of her glasses. “You should care about your money.”
“I care about mine. I don’t care about Tate’s.” I shift again in the chair. “I don’t want half of Meade Holdings. I don’t want his trust income. I don’t want to spend eighteen months arguing about a vacation house in Aspen that I’ve visited twice.”
“The Aspen property isn’t marital property anyway.”
“Excellent. I’ve already won.”
Jai’s mouth twitches. “I appreciate a client with realistic goals.”
“I want my studio protected. I want the things I brought into the marriage. Anything we bought together can be divided fairly.” I run through the list I’ve already given her twice, hearing how simple it sounds when reduced to assets. “He can keep the house if he wants it.”
Jai studies me. “You don’t?”
I picture the six-bedroom limestone house where Tate and I have lived for five years. A designer chose most of the furniture because Tate disliked the pieces I suggested. Apparently, marrying a furniture conservator doesn’t mean you want her opinions about furniture.
“No.”
Jai waits instead of filling the silence.
I know what she’s doing because she did the same thing during our first meeting. Silence is probably another legal strategy. Between that and the chairs, she has an impressive arsenal.
“It never became mine,” I say.
“Why not?”
I start to answer, then stop. I know when I quit thinking of it as our house. What I can’t identify is when I started thinking of it as Tate’s. “I don’t know.”
Jai accepts that without trying to interpret it for me. She opens the file again and checks another page. “You also said you don’t want allegations included unless they’re legally necessary.”
“I don’t have allegations.”
“You told me Tate is rarely home.”
I smile slightly. “Being a bad dinner companion isn’t grounds for anything except eating alone.”
One corner of Jai’s mouth lifts before she asks, “Do you suspect infidelity?”
“No.” The answer comes easily because it’s true.
Tate has become distant. He’s impatient with me. He works constantly, travels more than he used to, and treats every fertility conversation as an inconvenience I’m inflicting on him. I still don’t think he’s cheating. A marriage can fail without another woman waiting outside to collect the husband.
“I don’t want investigators,” I continue. “I don’t want anyone digging through his phone or following him. I don’t want photographs mysteriously appearing online. I want a divorce.”
“Quietly.” Jai makes a note in the margin of one page.
I nod. “Very quietly.”
She glances up. “Fairly?”
“Painfully fairly.”
“Most people who sit in that chair want blood.”
I chuckle. “That’s not my style. I’ll settle for my good chisels.”
“Those are separate property.”
“Then I have everything I need.”
Her humor fades as she closes the folder. “Christa, wanting a peaceful divorce doesn’t obligate you to disadvantage yourself.”
“I know.” I understand, but I just want a peaceful, amicable dissolution. I loved him once and don’t want to drag this out.
“You can change your mind about strategy at any point.” Jai rests her forearms on the desk. “If Tate becomes difficult, I become difficult.”
I smile. “That’s why I hired you.”
“Then I’ll keep preparing.” She opens her calendar on the tablet beside her. “You haven’t authorized filing yet.”
“Not yet.” The answer bothers me as soon as I give it.
I’ve spent six weeks gathering statements, documenting property, making copies of business records, and quietly moving sentimental things from the house to my studio.
My grandmother’s silver frame disappeared from the bedroom last Tuesday.
Tate hasn’t noticed. Neither has he noticed that half my casual clothes are gone.
I tell myself I’m waiting because I want everything organized before I file.
Jai probably knows better.
I shift forward in the terrible chair. “How much more do you need?”
“From you, very little.” Jai checks the calendar. “I should have the remaining account review completed next week.”
“Then we’ll decide.”
“You’ll decide.” She closes the tablet. “I’ve already decided divorce is an excellent business model.”
I laugh. “That’s reassuring.”
Jai gestures toward my chair. “It paid for those.”
This time the laugh comes easier. “You should charge more to buy better chairs.”
CHARLA CALLS WHILE I’m driving back to the studio. I let the car read her name through the speakers before I answer. “Hi.”
“I need your opinion.”
“That’s dangerous. Blunt or gentle?”
“I need your supportive opinion,” she corrects.
I laugh. “That’s considerably more dangerous.”
My sister makes an offended sound. “You’re supposed to love me.”
“I do. That’s why I require clarification before agreeing to anything.”
Charla and I have the same face, at least according to everyone else.
We have the same pale-blonde hair, although hers falls almost to her waist while mine barely reaches my shoulders.
We have the same blue eyes, the same height within half an inch, and the same slight bump on the bridge of our noses from a childhood collision involving a trampoline, a sprinkler, and a mutual refusal to admit whose idea it was.
“I bought the silver dress,” Charla announces.
I turn into the studio lot. “Which silver dress?”
“The Varenne.”
“That cleared up nothing.”
She makes another irritated sound through the speakers. “The one I showed you yesterday.”
I try to remember. “You showed me seven dresses yesterday.”
“Six.”
I search hard through my memory. “There was a red one with feathers.”
She scoffs. “That wasn’t a serious contender.”
“It had a price tag.”
“It was conceptual.”
I park near the rear entrance and shut off the engine. “What opinion do you need?”
“I need you to tell me Simon will like it.”
Of course. Simon Nichols has been Charla’s favorite subject for the better part of two years.
I’ve never met him, although it’s difficult to move through our social circle without knowing who he is.
Nichols Global owns enough companies that I occasionally discover he’s involved with something only after reading the fine print.
He’s richer than Tate’s family, more private than most men with that kind of money, and apparently immune to my sister.
Charla regards this as a temporary defect.
“I don’t know what Simon likes.”
“He likes understated,” she says with complete confidence.
I get out of the car and collect my bag. “Then why did you buy a silver dress?”
“It’s tasteful silver.”
I close the car door. “Is that different from regular silver?”
“Yes.”
“I stand corrected.” I head toward the studio entrance.
“You’re making fun of me.”
I chuckle. “A little.”
Charla ignores that. “Simon will be at the Caldwell dinner Friday.”
“Congratulations.”
She lets out a grunt of irritation. “I’m serious, Christa.”
“I know.” That’s the problem. Charla has dated plenty of men. She’s enjoyed most of them and mourned none for more than a weekend. Simon Nichols is different, though I’m not sure whether that’s because she wants him or because he keeps refusing to want her. Probably both.
“He’ll notice me,” she says with enough insistence I can picture her stomping her foot like she still does sometimes.
I unlock the rear door. “Hasn’t he already noticed you?”
“Not properly.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“It means he knows who I am.”
“That’s generally what noticing means.”
She sounds fully annoyed now. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I step into the studio. Old wood, shellac, and the citrus cleaner I used this morning replace the sterile scent of Jai’s office. This place makes sense to me in a way my house hasn’t for a long time. “You’re probably right.”
Charla is quiet for half a second, which is unusually long for her. “Are you okay?”
The question catches me off guard. I set my bag on the worktable. “I’m fine.”
“You sound weird.”
“I’m talking through my phone.”
“You’re not in the car anymore. I heard the door, but I meant your tone.”
Twin sisters are inconveniently observant when they choose to be. I cross the workroom toward the walnut sideboard waiting beneath the task lamps. “I had an appointment.”
“What kind?” Charla’s interest sharpens immediately.
“The boring kind.”
“Medical?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“Not exactly.”
Charla waits instead of firing another question.