Chapter 8 - The Papers on My Hospital Table
I thought Elena had made a mistake.
Roman thought the same.
"That's impossible," he said.
Elena looked unimpressed.
"Strong legal argument."
"My father bought that property."
"Correct."
"Before I married Savannah."
"Also correct."
"Then how—"
"The renovation loan."
Roman stopped.
Elena turned the document toward us.
Four years earlier, the estate underwent an eighteen-million-dollar renovation.
I remembered the dust.
The contractors.
The months we spent living downtown.
What I didn't remember was signing anything that gave me ownership.
"You used marital funds?" I asked.
Roman frowned.
"No. Carter Holdings financing."
Elena shook her head.
"Partially. The rest came through the Hart-Carter family trust."
I looked at Roman.
He looked at me.
"Did you know?"
"No."
"How could you not know?"
"I signed a stack of refinancing papers."
I laughed despite myself.
"Apparently you're not the only person who doesn't read documents."
He almost laughed too.
Elena did not.
"Your father-in-law's original estate plan required that any trust funds used for improvement of a primary marital residence create proportional ownership for the trust beneficiary."
Roman slowly leaned back.
"Her father."
"Yes."
"He did this fourteen years before we renovated."
"Your father-in-law planned aggressively."
I touched the papers.
"My father made sure I always had somewhere to stand."
Elena nodded.
Roman stared at the document for a long time.
Then said, "She can have it."
I looked at him.
"What?"
"The house."
"Roman—"
"I don't want to fight over it."
"You love that estate."
His expression darkened.
"No. I love what I thought it represented."
"And what was that?"
"Winning."
The answer was so Roman I nearly smiled.
He continued.
"It was the house my father wanted. I bought it after he died because I thought owning it meant I'd surpassed him."
I had never heard this.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because then you'd know I cared."
I stared.
"Your commitment to emotional dysfunction is impressive."
This time he did laugh.
A short, surprised sound.
Then his eyes filled.
He looked embarrassed.
That somehow made it sadder.
Elena cleared her throat.
"Before everyone reconciles because of real estate, I should remind you we're discussing separation."
"We aren't reconciling," I said immediately.
Roman lowered his gaze.
The smile vanished.
I felt cruel.
But false hope would have been crueler.
We reviewed temporary terms.
I would remain in Evanston with Evelyn.
Roman could visit three afternoons each week, initially with me or Margaret present.
He could call.
He would have full access to medical information once I signed authorization.
Neither of us would speak publicly about the separation.
Roman agreed to continue household expenses.
I objected.
"I can pay my own."
"You just had a baby," he said.
"I have money."
"It's still my responsibility."
Elena intervened.
"Child-related support is appropriate. Savannah can maintain her independent expenses."
Roman wanted to object.
I saw it.
Then he stopped himself.
"Okay."
Elena wrote it down.
That word again.
Roman learning okay might have been the strangest part of motherhood.
Before we left the hospital, he held Evelyn one more time.
Then carried our bags downstairs.
Outside, snow had stopped.
Chicago winter sunlight reflected painfully off the pavement.
Margaret pulled her car around.
Roman installed the infant seat himself.
Wrong.
A nurse corrected him.
Wrong again.
Finally Margaret shoved him aside.
"Move."
Roman Carter moved.
I laughed so hard my incision-free but very sore body punished me.
He glared.
"Enjoy this."
"I am."
Evelyn slept through everything.
When we were ready, Roman stood beside my door.
"Can I call tonight?"
"About Evelyn?"
"Yes."
I knew he wanted to ask about me.
He didn't.
"Seven."
"I'll call at seven."
He closed the door.
As we drove away, I looked backward.
Roman remained on the sidewalk.
Alone.
For once, he did not follow.
The first week at my mother's house was chaos.
Evelyn believed sleep was a government conspiracy.
My body hurt in places no childbirth class had mentioned.
Milk leaked through every shirt I owned.
Margaret made soup.
I cried because I dropped a pacifier.
I laughed because I cried about a pacifier.
At three in the morning, when Evelyn finally slept against my chest, I wondered how women survived infancy without becoming temporarily insane.
Roman called exactly when he said he would.
Never early.
Never late.
His first visit was awkward.
He brought twelve bags.
I stared at them.
"What is this?"
"Things."
"What things?"
"Diapers."
"You bought twelve bags of diapers?"
"No. There are bottles, blankets, wipes—"
"Roman."
"I didn't know what you needed."
"You could have asked."
He stopped.
Then looked at the bags.
"Right."
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
He spent three hours holding Evelyn.
Changed a diaper badly.
Got peed on.
Margaret laughed until she wheezed.
Roman did not leave early.
That mattered.
On his second visit, he brought nothing except coffee for me and tea for Margaret.
Better.
On his third, Evelyn cried for forty minutes.
Roman paced the living room with her.
"She hates me."
"She's eight days old."
"She definitely hates me."
"She can't focus past twelve inches."
"Then she hates my shirt."
"Possible."
I watched him sway with her.
There were moments when I forgot.
Then his phone would illuminate.
Or he'd smell like the cologne he wore Christmas Eve.
And the photograph returned.
Healing wasn't a straight road.
It was a hallway filled with trapdoors.
Ten days after Evelyn's birth, Claire came to see me.
She didn't appear unannounced.
She asked through Elena.
I nearly refused.
Then agreed.
Not for Roman.
For me.
Claire arrived at noon wearing jeans, boots, and a gray sweater.
Without the red dress, makeup, and polished company-event smile, she looked younger.
More ordinary.
That annoyed me.
I wanted villains to look like villains.
She sat across from me in my mother's living room.
Evelyn slept upstairs.
Margaret stayed in the kitchen.
"Thank you for seeing me," Claire said.
"I haven't decided if I am."
She nodded.
Fair.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, "I slept with Roman."
Everything inside me stopped.
I stared at her.
"He told me you didn't."
Claire's eyes widened.
"No—"
"You just said—"
"I'm sorry. That came out wrong."
I almost stood.
She rushed on.
"I meant I slept beside him."
"What?"
"New York. Four months ago."
My pulse hammered.
"Explain very carefully."
"After a client dinner, we drank. We went back to my hotel suite."
"Did you have sex?"
"No."
"Did you kiss?"
"Yes."
"Then what?"
"He stopped."
I swallowed.
"He stopped?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Claire gave a sad smile.
"He said your name."
I looked away.
"I don't need details."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because Roman told you there were two kisses."
"Yes."
"There were three."
I laughed bitterly.
"Wonderful."
"The hotel was the first."
"So he lied again."
"Yes."
My anger rose.
Claire continued.
"I also need you to know something else."
"Of course."
She reached into her purse.
Not dramatically.
Carefully.
She handed me a folded note.
Roman's handwriting.
I recognized it immediately.
It was dated three months earlier.
Claire said, "He wrote this after New York."
I didn't want to read it.
I did.
What happened cannot happen again. I love my wife. Whatever is broken in me or in my marriage must be dealt with there, not with you.
I read the words twice.
"Why didn't it stop?"
Claire looked ashamed.
"Because I didn't leave him alone."
"And Roman?"
"He didn't leave me alone either."
Honest.
Painfully honest.
"We kept finding reasons to meet."
"Then Christmas Eve."
"Yes."
"Why did he come?"
"I told him if he didn't come, I'd tell you everything."
I stared at her.
"You threatened him."
"Yes."
"And he still came."
"Yes."
That was the part that mattered.
He could have let her tell me.
He could have told me himself.
Instead, he'd gone.
Claire's eyes filled.
"I thought if he showed up, it meant he chose me."
I looked at her.
"What did he say?"
"When he arrived?"
"Yes."
"He said it was over."
I blinked.
"What?"
"He said he couldn't keep living two lives."
"But the photograph—"
"I started crying."
She looked down.
"He hugged me."
"And kissed you."
"I kissed him."
"Did he kiss you back?"
"For a second."
I closed my eyes.
"And then?"
"He pulled away."
The photograph had captured the second before.
Not the one after.
That changed context.
It did not change the betrayal.
I folded the note.
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I hated you."
I stared.
Claire gave a humorless laugh.
"Ridiculous, right? You hadn't done anything to me. But you had what I wanted."
"Roman."
"The version of Roman I thought existed."
I said nothing.
She continued.
"When you disappeared, he didn't blame you. He blamed himself."
My eyes filled despite my efforts.
"He told me if he never saw you again, that would be the price of what he'd done."
I looked at the window.
"I don't want you to convince me to forgive him."
"I'm not."
"Then what?"
"I came to apologize."
She met my eyes.
"No excuse. No explanation. I knew he was married. I knew you were pregnant. I did it anyway."
For the first time since Christmas Eve, someone involved in the betrayal apologized without asking me to understand them.
It didn't make me like her.
But it allowed something inside me to unclench.
"I don't forgive you," I said.
"I know."
"Maybe someday I won't hate seeing your name."
"That's more than I deserve."
She stood.
At the door, I asked, "Are you leaving Chicago?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Tomorrow."
I nodded.
Then she turned.
"One more thing."
I almost laughed.
"There is always one more thing."
"This one isn't about Roman and me."
"What?"
"Marcus knows where you live."
My smile disappeared.
"How?"
"I don't know."
"Why does that matter?"
Claire's face tightened.
"Because yesterday he asked me whether you'd be willing to vote your shares against Roman."
My stomach dropped.
"And what did you say?"
"I said he should ask you himself."
She glanced toward the window.
"I think he intends to."
Right then, a black sedan stopped across the street.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Gray coat.
Familiar.
Marcus Vale.
Roman's best friend looked directly at my mother's house.
May you like
And smiled.
---
