Chapter 6—Christa
JAI’S EMAIL ARRIVES at nine-twelve Monday morning.
I read it twice from behind my desk at the studio. For weeks, I’ve had a divorce attorney, and since Saturday night, I’ve known exactly what would happen this morning. None of this is a surprise. Still, five characters and a string of numbers have turned my marriage into a court case.
I open the attachment and read my name, Tate’s, and the case number.
I’ve reviewed the petition enough times to know whole paragraphs by memory.
I expected grief when this moment arrived.
Instead, my first thought is that Jai types very fast, followed immediately by the discovery that I’m hungry.
I stare at the screen, almost offended by my own appetite.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I apparently believed divorce would make breakfast inappropriate.
The yogurt I brought is still in the refrigerator, so I retrieve it. By the time Jai calls, I’m eating at my desk and reviewing treatment photographs from a walnut secretary I finished last month.
“You’re eating,” she says after I answer.
I glance at the yogurt. “How do you know?”
“Your spoon hit something.”
“The container.” I rattle the spoon against the side.
“I was hoping you’d developed a cocaine problem. It would’ve made the next few months more interesting.”
I laugh and dig another peach out of the bottom. “You’re a terrible attorney.”
“I’m an excellent attorney. I’m a questionable person.”
“I agree. You’re making my morning unexpectedly delightful though.” I drop the spoon back into the yogurt as her tone turns more businesslike.
“Everything went through easily. Service is arranged for this afternoon.”
My spoon slips deeper into the peaches. “What time?”
“I don’t control the process server’s route, but likely between one and four. We used his office rather than the house.”
Relief makes me almost giddy. I didn’t want Tate served at home while I was there, and I especially didn’t want to spend the day waiting for a knock on the door. “Great planning.”
“I have some experience ruining people’s days.” Papers rustle on Jai’s end before she asks, “Are you going home tonight?”
I look toward the window. “I don’t know.
” I stayed at the hotel Saturday and Sunday.
Tate sent fourteen messages the first night, six yesterday, and called five times.
None crossed into threats. Most alternated between irritation and disbelief that I wouldn’t come home to discuss what happened at dinner.
This morning’s message was almost normal.
Tate: Are you planning to stay at a hotel all week?
I haven’t answered.
Jai gives me a moment before asking, “Do you want to?”
The question is annoyingly sensible. I scrape the spoon around the side of the container. “No.”
“Then don’t.”
“I own half the things in that house.”
“Things don’t get lonely. They don’t fill time with documentaries.”
I smile. “You really did resent that interruption.”
“It was about competitive mushroom hunting. I may never recover.”
I’m briefly sidetracked. “What is competitive mushroom hunting?”
“I don’t know. You called before I could find out.”
That gets another laugh out of me. Jai waits for it to fade before reminding me that I don’t need to make a permanent housing decision today. I can stay at the hotel, stay with family, rent something, or arrange a time to collect whatever else I need from the house.
“I already moved most of the sentimental things.”
“I figured you had if you read the handbook.” She gave me a handbook of what to expect at our first appointment.
Six weeks of quietly carrying pieces of my life out of my marriage suddenly seems less paranoid and more efficient. I fold the foil lid over the empty yogurt container. “I’ll stay at the hotel.”
“Good. Tate may call after service. You can answer if you want, but don’t negotiate. If he gets abusive or starts threatening financial consequences, end the conversation and send him to me.”
“I know.”
“I know you know. I get paid to repeat myself.”
I toss the empty container into the trash. “Expensive hobby.”
“Very.”
“Worth every penny.” I mean that wholeheartedly.
We hang up, and I return to work. At ten, I meet with one of my conservators about a Regency sideboard. At eleven-thirty, I approve an estimate, and at twelve-fifteen, I eat half a turkey sandwich while answering emails. Apparently, divorce doesn’t stop time or affect my appetite.
At one-oh-five, Simon sends a message.
Simon: I’ve been informed I’m not allowed to realign the screws before tomorrow.
I stare at it, then smile.
Christa: Who informed you?
His answer comes almost immediately.
Simon: Misty. She claims you’re conducting an experiment.
I am now.
Three dots appear while I take another bite of my sandwich.
Simon: This feels unethical.
I type back.
Christa: You’re free to withdraw from the study.
His answer arrives before I can put the phone down.
Simon: Absolutely not. I’ve invested too much.
I laugh quietly. He makes me feel like a teenager with a crush.
One of my assistants looks through the open office door, so I hold up my phone. “Client.”
Her expression suggests clients aren’t generally funny, but she keeps walking.
I look at Simon’s last message again before setting the phone down. I’m going back to his house tomorrow, and the petition is filed. Things have changed. I’m still married, and a court filing doesn’t erase vows or history, but I’m no longer considering divorce. I’m actively getting one.
My phone rings at two-forty-one. It’s Tate. I know what happened before I answer. “Hello.”
“Where are you?” His voice is sharper than it has been during any of his calls from the weekend. “You filed for divorce.”
The process server found him. I lean back in my chair and look at the petition on my monitor. “I’m at work, and yes, I did.”
“Are you serious? Christa, what the hell?”
My office door is open, so I get up and close it before returning to my desk. “I don’t know what part is confusing.”
“You had me served at work. People saw him.”
That’s the part that matters first. People saw. I sit again and straighten the edge of the treatment report beside my keyboard. “I’m sorry that embarrassed you.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
I consider that while running one finger along the paper’s edge. “I’m not especially, I suppose.”
Tate exhales hard into the phone. “This is because of Saturday?”
“No. Saturday is one item on a long list.”
“Then what is this about?” The anger eases enough for confusion to come through.
He doesn’t know. I look around my office, at the framed certifications, treatment photographs, and shelves holding pieces of a career Tate still refers to as something I enjoy doing. “Our marriage has been over for a long time.”
“No, it hasn’t. We had an argument.”
“We’ve had hundreds of arguments, Tate.”
“Every married couple argues.”
“Every married couple doesn’t spend three years pretending one person’s fertility is the other’s responsibility while refusing to complete the testing.” I push the treatment report aside because I’m no longer reading a word of it.
His voice hardens. “We’re back to this? I told you I’d consider the test.”
A laugh escapes me at his rewrite of our recent history. “You told me your family history proves you don’t need one.”
“I was angry.”
“You’ve been angry for months, and I’ve spent those months taking the brunt of your blame while you assume you’re fertile.”
“This has been stressful.”
“For you?” I scoff and swivel away from my desk. I could explain an HSG to him, including exactly how much fun I had getting mine while he refused to provide a sample in a cup, but he wouldn’t listen anyway.
Tate lowers his voice. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn everything I say into an attack.”
I rub my forehead. “I’m not doing this with you.”
“You’re the one who filed for divorce without telling me.”
I look toward the closed office door. Nobody in the studio can hear him, though I’m suddenly grateful for the solid walls. “I told you Saturday I was tired of you.”
“I thought you were upset.”
“I was upset. I was also telling the truth.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Something besides anger fills the silence that follows. Real shock has finally broken through. Tate didn’t believe I would actually leave him, and instead of hurting me, the discovery is almost fascinating.
When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “You hired a lawyer without saying anything to me. How long?”
“Long enough.”
“How long, Christa?”
I glance at the photograph of my grandmother on the shelf behind my desk. “That isn’t relevant.”
“It is to me.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t even notice I was moving my grandmother’s things out of the house.”
The silence changes before Tate asks, “What things?”
I close my eyes. I moved boxes, photographs, my grandmother’s silver-backed brush, the little watercolor from my childhood bedroom, and two pieces of furniture Tate has walked past every day for years. He hasn’t noticed any of them are gone. “Never mind.”
His frustration returns. “Don’t say something like that and then refuse to explain.”
“I’ve been moving personal things out for six weeks.”
“What?”
I open my eyes and look at Grandma’s photograph again. “Exactly.”
Another pause follows, and I can almost picture Tate mentally walking through the house, trying to identify what disappeared. He won’t know. “Where did you put them?”
“Some at the studio and some in storage.”
“You planned this for six weeks?”
“Yes.” I turn back toward my desk, but the open petition makes me change my mind and rise instead.
Tate’s tone becomes more controlled. “Come home tonight. We need to talk about this in person.”
I cross to the windows overlooking the workroom. “I don’t want to come home. We’re talking now.”
“It’s your house too.”
“For now.”
He exhales again. “Christa, don’t do anything else until we’ve talked. Tell that Shawarma dude to hold off.”
“Shwara. Jai. She isn’t a dude.” I rest one shoulder against the window frame. “The divorce is already filed.”
“You can withdraw it.”