Page 31

VICTOR

“ W hat on earth do you want?”

“Always nice to see you, Dotty.” I removed my hat and ran my fingers along its woolen brim.

Dorothy folded her arms across her chest, popped her hip to the side, and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You didn’t answer my question. What do you want, Victor?”

“May I come in?”

She hesitated before stepping aside. I walked into the front hall of what used to be our home. The scents of lavender and lemon polish lingered in the air, tugging at dead memories. She shut the door behind me and placed her hands firmly on her hips.

“A little notice would have been nice.”

I set my hat on the polished mahogany side table. “Why? Need to run off a gentleman caller?” I removed my coat and hung it on the rack.

“Not this time.”

I let out a humorless chuckle as I scanned the room, listening for noise from upstairs. “Where’s Margaret?”

“Out riding her bike with her friends.”

“I was hoping to see her…” I rocked back on my heels.

Dorothy’s glare could have cut diamonds. “You know how I feel about that.”

“She’s still my daughter, Dotty.”

“When it’s convenient.” She waved a hand to cut me off before I could offer a rebuttal. “What do you want, Victor? I won’t ask again.”

“Well, first I’d like a drink.”

Dorothy rolled her eyes and turned toward the living room. “And?”

I followed behind her. “And…a divorce.”

Dorothy stopped in her tracks, her back rigid. The lamplight slanted across the walls, casting elongated shapes in the quiet room. She turned slowly to face me, her expression smooth as glass.

“A divorce?” she repeated, as if testing the weight of the word on her tongue.

I watched her closely, waiting for the explosion, the sharp retort—something to shatter the fragile hush that had settled between us.

Instead, she walked silently to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a crystal tumbler, and poured a generous measure of bourbon.

She handed me the glass, and our fingers briefly touched.

“You’re not surprised,” I said. A statement, not a question.

Dorothy shrugged, then sank into a plush floral armchair, crossing her legs with casual elegance. “I’m not an idiot, Victor.”

I swirled the bourbon in its glass, the aroma of oak and vanilla wafting up and mingling with the lavender that still lingered in the air. I sat on a hunter-green velvet sofa and took a slow, burning sip.

She exhaled sharply, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “But why now? What’s the rush? We have a decent arrangement. You do what you want, and I do what I want. We’re fine like this.”

“Are we? Are we really, Dotty?”

She let out a short, brittle huff. “Who’s the girl?”

I threw back my bourbon in one last swig, feeling the consuming warmth spread through my chest. “That’s not what this is about.”

Dorothy stood, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself a drink. She didn’t offer me another. “Of course it is. If you’re going to blow up our lives, I have a right to know why.”

“Fair enough.” I set my glass down with a deliberate click. “Yes, I have met someone.”

She swirled her glass, then took a long, measured sip. Her lipstick left a scarlet smudge on the rim as she set it down and leaned against the cabinet. “Do you love her?”

“Yes.” The single word dropped like a hammer.

Dorothy took another drink, slower this time. “What makes this one different?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and clasped my hands together. “I see a future with her, Dotty. A real one.”

“A future.” She scoffed before retraining her face into an impassive mask.

I stood, the alcohol fueling a restless energy within me. “We’ve been living a lie for years, you and I. This ‘arrangement,’ as you call it, is nothing more than a convenient fiction. We’ve been divorced in all but name. It’s time we were honest with ourselves.”

She drained her drink. “You’re the last person with any right to talk about honesty.

” She motioned around the opulent room. “You think I don’t know where all this money comes from?

Every cent is dripping in blood, and I’ve always turned the other way.

” Her voice turned to steel. “Don’t you dare lecture me about being honest.”

Dorothy set her empty glass down with a delicate yet forceful clink, the crystal catching a flicker of light as it met the marble surface of the liquor cabinet. She stood silently for a moment, smoothing the fabric of her skirt. Her lips tightened into a thin line.

“How would it even work?” she asked, her voice measured, as if reading from a script. “The divorce.”

I took in her poised stance and the lingering tension in her shoulders. “Lawrence will handle everything. He’s in with several judges who are…forward-thinking. We just need to decide who files against whom and work out the details of our arrangement.”

Dorothy walked to the sofa and ran a finger along the velvet, idly following the grain of the fabric. “You mean an arrangement that’s best for you.” She didn’t sit.

“I mean what’s fair,” I said. “I gave you my word that I would take care of you and Margaret, and I will continue to do so. Have I ever let you down on that score?”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head with the ghost of a humorless smile. “As husbands go, you’ve been a letdown from the beginning. But no, you’ve never gone back on your word.”

The warmth of the bourbon began to ebb, replaced by a cold gnawing in my gut.

I looked at Dorothy—really looked at her—searching for the woman I had once adored.

Her dark hair was impeccably styled, her green eyes far harder than they used to be.

She was only thirty-one, but all traces of the vivacious girl who had so eagerly said “yes” ten years ago were gone. I had done that—driven her away.

“I never wanted to hurt either of you,” I said.

“Spare me whatever sentimental nonsense you’re about to spew.” She walked to the window and parted the heavy drapes just enough to peer outside. The last of the afternoon light had faded to a dusky purple, casting a melancholic hue over the manicured lawn.

I ran a finger along the rim of my glass, almost gently, as if it were made of spun sugar. “I’m trying to do this the right way.”

The dim twilight cast her in a ghostly glow. She let the drapes fall back into place and turned to face me. “There is no right way, Victor. Just be a man and tell me how it’s going to be.”

I stepped closer, stopping at the edge of the Persian rug that anchored the room. “So you’ll agree to it?”

She shrugged, a gesture so nonchalant it bordered on resigned. “What choice do I have?” Her words drifted off like smoke.

“I’ll have Lawrence draw everything up,” I said, testing her oddly calm demeanor. “I’ll file, and in the meantime, nothing changes—you and Margaret will be maintained on the same terms as our current separation.”

Dorothy’s lips parted slightly, as if to speak, but she held back. The silence stretched, almost elastic, threatening to snap at any moment. She walked slowly around the perimeter of the room, her fingertips grazing the tops of furniture like a pianist playing an absentminded melody.

When she spoke, her voice was calculated and sterile, each word placed with surgical precision.

“I will see my own lawyer. You’ll cover his fee, of course.

I will be the one to file. You’ll take the blame in court.

And we’ll revisit the terms of our separation agreement for something more appropriate.

You’re going to make this worth my while. ”

“Dorothy—” I started, but she held up a hand to stop me.

“Those are my conditions. If I’m going to bear the stain of being a divorced woman, then it damn well better be worth it to me.”

The words stung more than I expected. I nodded silently.

“You should go,” she said, glancing back at the window. “Margaret will be home soon, and I don’t want you here.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the glacial set of her eyes froze the words in my throat. She meant every bit of it—every condition, every accusation—and I knew there would be no negotiating this tonight.

The plush carpet muffled my steps as I walked to the foyer.

I could almost hear Dorothy’s breathing, each inhale and exhale a metronome to the growing tension.

I reached for my coat, the familiar wool brushing against my fingers, grounding me.

My hat sat on the small mahogany table by the door where I had left it.

I paused for a moment, hoping for something—a rebuttal, a concession, even a parting shot—but there was only silence, vast and suffocating. The soft tick of the wall clock marked time like a dripping faucet.

“I’ll see myself out.”