Beth died, he had been lost. The older three
kids were all out of the house, and Jenna had stayed with him for a few weeks, but
then she had to go back to college. He only had to take care of himself; however,
even that had proved challenging. He had buried himself in work, he stayed at the
office for ridiculously long hours, sometimes longer than the associates who were
trying to make partner. He ordered food in from Bar Americain or the Indian place
down the street, he kept a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his locked drawer, he
didn’t exercise, didn’t see the sun, and he dreaded nothing more than the weekends
when he had no choice but to return to his house in Darien and the bedroom he had
shared with Beth, and the well-meaning neighbors who drove by, wondering when he was
going to call the landscapers.
He had loved her so much. Because of his line of work—day in, day out, divorce, divorce,
divorce—he knew that his union with Beth was a rare and precious thing, and he had
treated it as such. He had revered her; she always knew how much he loved her, at
least he could say that. But that assurance didn’t fill the hole. It couldn’t mend
the ragged edges of his loneliness. Nothing helped but the oblivion that work and
whiskey provided.
To this day, he wasn’t sure how Pauline had gotten through to him. Probably, like
everything else in life, it was a matter of timing. Pauline had come to see him eighteen
months after Beth’s death, when the acute pain was subsiding and his profound loneliness
was deepening. He had gained thirty pounds; he was drinking way too much. When Margot
paid an unannounced visit to Darien and saw the state of his refrigerator (empty),
his recycling bin (filled with empty bottles), and his house (an utter and disgusting
mess), she had a fit. She said, “Jesus, Daddy, you have to
do
something about this!” But Doug didn’t know what that something was. He was proud
that he managed to get his shirts and suits back and forth from the dry cleaners.
At first, Pauline Tonelli had been just another fifty-something woman who had been
married for decades and was now on the verge of becoming single. Doug had seen hundreds
of such women. He had been hit on—subtly and not so subtly—by clients for the entirety
of his career. Being propositioned was an occupational hazard. Every woman Doug represented
was either sick of her husband or had been summarily ditched by him (often in favor
of someone younger), and most, in both cases, were ready for someone new. Many women
felt Doug should be that man. After all, he was the one now taking care of things.
He was going to get her a good settlement, money, custody, the yacht club membership,
the second home in Beaver Creek. He was going to stand up in court on her behalf and
fight for her honor.
Doug knew other divorce attorneys who took advantage of their clients in this way.
His partner—John Edgar Desvesnes III—Edge, had taken advantage of at least one woman
in this way: his second wife, Nathalie, whom he had fooled around with in the office
before she had even
filed,
then dated, then married, then procreated with (one son, Casey, age fifteen), then
divorced. There were still other attorneys who, it was rumored, were serial screwers-of-clients.
But Doug had never succumbed to the temptation. Why would he? He had Beth.
Pauline had been on a mission. Doug knew that now because she had confessed to it.
She had told him that she had chosen him as her divorce attorney because she knew
he was recently widowed and she wanted to date him. The Tonellis and the Carmichaels
both belonged to Wee Burn Country Club in Darien, although they weren’t well acquainted.
Doug and Arthur had been paired together once for a golf tournament. Pauline and Beth
had met a couple of times side by side at the lipstick mirror in the ladies’ room
during a dinner dance. Doug didn’t
kids were all out of the house, and Jenna had stayed with him for a few weeks, but
then she had to go back to college. He only had to take care of himself; however,
even that had proved challenging. He had buried himself in work, he stayed at the
office for ridiculously long hours, sometimes longer than the associates who were
trying to make partner. He ordered food in from Bar Americain or the Indian place
down the street, he kept a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black in his locked drawer, he
didn’t exercise, didn’t see the sun, and he dreaded nothing more than the weekends
when he had no choice but to return to his house in Darien and the bedroom he had
shared with Beth, and the well-meaning neighbors who drove by, wondering when he was
going to call the landscapers.
He had loved her so much. Because of his line of work—day in, day out, divorce, divorce,
divorce—he knew that his union with Beth was a rare and precious thing, and he had
treated it as such. He had revered her; she always knew how much he loved her, at
least he could say that. But that assurance didn’t fill the hole. It couldn’t mend
the ragged edges of his loneliness. Nothing helped but the oblivion that work and
whiskey provided.
To this day, he wasn’t sure how Pauline had gotten through to him. Probably, like
everything else in life, it was a matter of timing. Pauline had come to see him eighteen
months after Beth’s death, when the acute pain was subsiding and his profound loneliness
was deepening. He had gained thirty pounds; he was drinking way too much. When Margot
paid an unannounced visit to Darien and saw the state of his refrigerator (empty),
his recycling bin (filled with empty bottles), and his house (an utter and disgusting
mess), she had a fit. She said, “Jesus, Daddy, you have to
do
something about this!” But Doug didn’t know what that something was. He was proud
that he managed to get his shirts and suits back and forth from the dry cleaners.
At first, Pauline Tonelli had been just another fifty-something woman who had been
married for decades and was now on the verge of becoming single. Doug had seen hundreds
of such women. He had been hit on—subtly and not so subtly—by clients for the entirety
of his career. Being propositioned was an occupational hazard. Every woman Doug represented
was either sick of her husband or had been summarily ditched by him (often in favor
of someone younger), and most, in both cases, were ready for someone new. Many women
felt Doug should be that man. After all, he was the one now taking care of things.
He was going to get her a good settlement, money, custody, the yacht club membership,
the second home in Beaver Creek. He was going to stand up in court on her behalf and
fight for her honor.
Doug knew other divorce attorneys who took advantage of their clients in this way.
His partner—John Edgar Desvesnes III—Edge, had taken advantage of at least one woman
in this way: his second wife, Nathalie, whom he had fooled around with in the office
before she had even
filed,
then dated, then married, then procreated with (one son, Casey, age fifteen), then
divorced. There were still other attorneys who, it was rumored, were serial screwers-of-clients.
But Doug had never succumbed to the temptation. Why would he? He had Beth.
Pauline had been on a mission. Doug knew that now because she had confessed to it.
She had told him that she had chosen him as her divorce attorney because she knew
he was recently widowed and she wanted to date him. The Tonellis and the Carmichaels
both belonged to Wee Burn Country Club in Darien, although they weren’t well acquainted.
Doug and Arthur had been paired together once for a golf tournament. Pauline and Beth
had met a couple of times side by side at the lipstick mirror in the ladies’ room
during a dinner dance. Doug didn’t
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