Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bill had acquired his start the way so many of America’s wealthy do: his parents had given him some money.
His father, John, was the first to transform the family’s generationally held apricot orchards into office buildings, and out of John’s four children, it was Bill who displayed the most aptitude for real estate development.
Bill was decent in business, and like all those with profound wealth, he had also been lucky.
He was generous but not unwise; he liked luxury but not excessively; and, most importantly—given that three marriages are a financial toll no matter how moneyed the parties—Bill had a good lawyer.
Bill’s lawyer was named Nelson Das. When Joan met him, Nelson had already known Bill for fifteen years.
He’d started in litigation at Sullivan they needed a wife the same way a child clutched a security blanket or craved ice cream.
The thing was, you could get sick of a craving.
When that happened, Nelson was there too.
Bill asked Nelson to connect with Joan, as it had become routine for Nelson to meet Bill’s potential wives.
“Alone?” Joan asked when Bill presented the invitation.
“Yes, alone.”
“Who is he again?”
“Just my lawyer.”
They were seated in the kitchen. When Joan first saw Bill’s home, she’d been stunned by the beauty of the place: the gently sloped ceilings above rooms of majestic height; the spaces flowing one after the other, any of which opened directly into nature.
The house was modern but not overly angular, and what Joan really loved was the warmth she felt, as if it were a real live person wrapping its arms around her.
She had spent a dreamy hour that morning hanging her clothes in the closet.
This was going to be her home, her life , and she’d been happily floating along in this shimmering bubble of fantasy until it popped.
A lawyer! Well, of course Bill would want one; lawyers got involved when there was money, wasn’t that so, and it seemed Bill had plenty. A lawyer would want to protect Bill’s money—protect it from her, she supposed, if she tried to leave and take any.
But: who was going to protect her ? Bill had three divorces to her one; what was Joan to do if he left her?
She kneaded her hands in her lap. “Do I need my own attorney?”
“Do you want me to get you one?”
Joan could tell Bill was surprised by her question. She’d asked it spontaneously, the word “attorney” rolling awkwardly from her mouth. Joan had first encountered the word in a mystery novel but had never used it in conversation.
“No,” she replied after a moment. She didn’t know what she would even do with an attorney if furnished one.
She would be nervous; she would be deferential to their authority and eager to please.
And she did want to please, she wanted Bill to be pleased by her—but this was how she’d felt with Milton.
Just as Bill had learned from prior marriages, so should Joan.
She was pretty enough, Nelson thought, as they sat for lunch at the Fish Market, which he’d thought friendlier grounds than his office.
There were elements to Joan’s presentation that suggested she would not do well at, say, a charity lunch: her hair was slightly wiry and stuck up in small bits near her forehead, and while her shoes were neat, they were also inexpensive, and he could see they’d been polished and resoled.
And then there was the fact that she was Chinese— that had been new. At least for Bill.
“You understand this is a friendly conversation,” Nelson said. He directed at her his most benign smile.
She smiled back. “Yes.”
The day’s special, cod set against some limp asparagus, arrived at the table. “I hope you don’t mind my being direct,” Nelson started, and Joan nodded: she’d been waiting for this, he saw. But of course; what else to expect when your fiancé’s lawyer asks you to lunch?
He sipped his coffee. “You are twenty-six. Bill is fifty-one. We hope the two of you stay married until the end—ah, the end of your lives. That is the optimal outcome. But, in life, sometimes there are less than optimal outcomes.”
He’d thought he might need to explain further, but Joan understood quickly enough.
She’d heard of prenuptial agreements, and so Nelson went through his questions: what would you expect, what is important to you?
Nelson was not embarrassed to be asking such questions.
These were the questions when someone like Bill married someone like Joan; when one party possessed resources and the other none.
“You should take some time to think—”
“What did the others ask for?”
He noted both the bluntness and the practicality of the query.
Bill had told Nelson he should answer all of Joan’s questions.
Nelson should be fully transparent , Bill said.
Well, Nelson would be the judge of that.
Men always believed it was going to be different the next time around.
Nelson’s experience was that the wives might change, but the dynamics generally stayed the same.
“You should have that conversation with Bill. But remember, Agatha and Bill had children. And I can share that Evie received a sum.” This had been the subject of some contention.
Evie had not thought it enough compared to Agatha’s; Agatha had not thought her settlement enough either. It was almost always never enough.
Nelson scanned the dessert menu. He was about to inquire if Joan liked lemon cake when she cleared her throat. “I wonder,” she said slowly, “about the house.”
Without realizing, Nelson bent the paper menu.
The house ? As in: Bill’s house? Bill’s home was no cookie-cutter mansion but rather a multiyear passion project commissioned by Bill’s father from Ava Castillo, a protégée of the famed architect Yves Clark.
When Ava was finished, she’d been so pleased with the result that she’d given it a name: Falling House, based on its sloped design, which from certain angles as the sun was setting, made it appear as if the structure were tipping into its shadows.
The home sat on an acre and a half of prime Palo Alto real estate and had been professionally photographed multiple times, magazines making special note of its radial design and vast redwood beams.
“The house Bill lives in currently,” Nelson confirmed. “Falling House.”
“Yes.” She flushed. “I need to feel as if it is my home too, at least somewhat. That it isn’t Bill’s to just take away if he feels like.”
“It’s a very expensive place,” Nelson said pointedly.
“It could be a percentage earned each year we’re married. I’ve seen sample agreements—I found them at the library.”
“I see.” Nelson pushed up his glasses. “And what if he didn’t want to give that to you?”
“I would have to assume,” Joan said softly, “that it would be, ah, indicative of some broader feeling toward me, and I would have to think about that.” She flushed deeper but managed to maintain eye contact. Her hand didn’t shake when she lifted her water glass.
Oh, she was cool. Very cool. Nelson bet she could be icy if it came down to it.
Did Bill know she could be such a way? Some people went their whole lives without encountering certain aspects of their partner, and other times it was only at the end of a relationship that they finally did.
I had no idea he could behave like this, they’d remark in wonder.
I never dreamed she could be so uncaring.
Nelson set down his dessert menu, which by this point he’d folded into a little square. “Does Bill know your thoughts on the house?”
“He will when I tell him,” Joan said. She looked surprised, as if she’d just decided this.
The next time Nelson saw Joan was at the wedding. It was a simple ceremony, held at the Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco. Nelson was pleased to make the invite list, though during the reception he found himself cornered at the bar by Juliet and Theo.
They were so glad Nelson was there, said Bill’s children. With Nelson around, they knew Bill wasn’t being taken advantage of.
“A professional’s watching out for the family’s interests,” Theo said.
“From a long-term perspective,” Juliet added.
The bartender returned with a new bottle of champagne.
“You’re both very kind,” Nelson said as glasses were filled, and then the children left, satisfied, though they were actually incorrect about one crucial point: Nelson’s job wasn’t to serve the family, it was to serve Bill.
Theo and Juliet would learn this later; in fact, everyone would.