Vanessa looked past me to Richard, confusion crossing her face. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go, clearly. The wronged wife was supposed to cry, to scream, to fall apart.
“Margaret,” Richard started, but I cut him off.
“No, no, let her in. I think it’s time we all had a talk, don’t you?”
Vanessa stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood I’d polished just yesterday. She moved to Richard’s side, territorial, marking her claim.
“Richard told me you were being difficult about the divorce,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I wanted to come here, woman to woman, and help you understand. This is for the best, you and Richard have grown apart.”
“Surely you can see that.”
“What I can see,” I said calmly, “is that my husband has been embezzling money from his firm and hiding marital assets to fund his midlife crisis. What I can see is that you’re complicit in fraud.”
“The question is, did you know about the financial crimes or were you just enjoying the expensive dinners and jewelry?”
Vanessa’s face went white. “What? I don’t…”
“The necklace you’re wearing,” I continued. “Cartier, if I’m not mistaken, purchased four months ago with money from Meridian Consulting, which is funded with money Richard stole from our marriage and possibly from his employer.”
“That makes you technically in possession of stolen property.”
“You’re insane,” Vanessa hissed, but her hand went to her throat, touching the diamonds there.
“Am I? We’ll see what the authorities say.”
Richard grabbed Vanessa’s arm. “We’re leaving now.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “Oh, and Richard, the locks will be changed tomorrow. This is my house, too, and I don’t feel safe with you here.”
“My attorney is filing a restraining order. If you need your things, she’ll arrange a supervised visit.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Actually, I can. Consult your expensive lawyers. Goodbye, Richard. Vanessa.”
They left, Vanessa’s heels clicking frantically, Richard’s curses floating back through the evening air. I closed the door, locked it, and leaned against it. Then finally, I let myself shake.
The next three days were a blur. I changed the locks. I filed the restraining order. I moved into the guest room and barely slept, jumping at every sound.
Richard’s lawyer sent threatening letters. Vanessa left nasty voicemails calling me bitter, pathetic, a sad old woman clinging to a dead marriage. Maybe I was all those things, but I wasn’t giving up.
On the fourth day, Jennifer came over with groceries and soup.
“Mom,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “You need to rest. You look exhausted.”
She was right. I was running on empty, adrenaline and coffee and pure stubbornness.
“Take a few days,” she urged. “Let the lawyers handle things. You’ve done enough.”
So I did. I slept. I ate. I sat in my garden and watched the birds and tried not to think about Richard or Vanessa or the battle ahead. I needed to rebuild my strength because I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
The call came on a sunny Tuesday morning. I was in the garden, deadheading roses, when my phone buzzed. Unknown number.
“Hello, Margaret?” A woman’s voice, smooth and professional. “This is Diane Morrison. I’m Richard’s attorney.”
I straightened up, immediately on guard. “I have an attorney, Ms. Morrison. You should speak with her.”
“Of course. Of course. I just thought we might have a conversation, woman to woman, off the record.”
Nothing was ever off the record with lawyers. “I’m listening.”
“Richard feels terrible about how things have escalated,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “The restraining order, the frozen accounts. It’s all gotten so ugly. He wants to make things right.”
“Does he?”
“He’s prepared to offer a much more generous settlement. The house, for instance. He’s willing to let you stay there for up to a year while you figure out your next steps.”
“And he’ll increase the monthly support substantially. All you have to do is drop the fraud complaints and sign the revised agreement.”