The Pre-Nup (16 page)

“Yeah,” he said. “I was her BFF before you and Ellie were her BFFs.”

“You’re not her BFF; you’re her husband.”

“Soon to be ex-husband.”

“Hear me out, Eric. It’s not that she doesn’t love you.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what it is.”

“She’s afraid. But she’s trying. Aren’t you going to give her a chance?”

“I gave her five years’ worth of chances. If Patrick wants her so bad, he can have her.”

“But she doesn’t want him, she wants you.”

“Then how come she’s off in L.A. promoting Noda instead of trying to win me back?”

“That’s not fair,” Mara objected. “The Rory Reid gig is a once-in-a-lifetime—”

“
You’re
here, aren’t you?” He challenged, his eyes flashing with anger. “You had problems with Josh and you took action. You didn’t sit around waiting for him to come to you.”

“I wouldn’t use Josh and me as the benchmark for a healthy relationship.”

“Still, you’re trying.”

“And you’re not.”

“Not anymore,” he agreed.

“But you love her.”

He shrugged. “Irrelevant. You’ve got the right idea. You have to protect yourself.”

She leaned forward and put on the game face she used when preparing to negotiate with a fellow attorney. “What would it take? What would Jen have to do to show you that she really wants to be with you ’til death do you part?”

He drained the last of his drink and put the glass down with a thump. “Nothing.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not. I’m being literal. She’d have to do nothing. Stop letting Noda and Patrick and everything else consume her whole life.”

She sat back. “You want Jen Finnerty to do nothing?”

“Yep. Talk about a long shot, huh?”

“Well, sometimes long shots pay off. And when they do, you win big.”

“But most of the time, you lose.”

“Take a look around, my friend.” She opened her arms to encompass all the drinks and debauchery. “We’re sitting smack dab in the middle of the world capital of long shots. Are you feeling lucky?”

He half smiled. “Is that an invitation to the poker table?”

“Hey, as long as you’re throwing money away, I’d be happy to let you stake me.”

“You’re on.”

Jen
Chapter
18

Y
ou have bone structure to die for,” raved the makeup artist as she daubed rosy cream blush onto Jen’s cheeks. “And your complexion! Flawless! What’s your secret?”

Jen gazed glumly into the brightly lit mirror set up in Rory Reid’s backstage greenroom. “Oh, you know. Water. Vegetables. Clean living.”

“Well, you must save a fortune on facials.” The stylist finished up with the blush and moved on to mascara. “The smog out here absolutely chokes my pores. And it doesn’t help that I practically live on take-out and diet soda.”

A few days ago, Jen would have seized this opportunity to spread the gospel of Noda, but this morning, she couldn’t muster the enthusiasm.

Apathy and pessimism had definitely set in. She knew that she was poised at the top of what would probably be a long, slippery descent into depression. She would have to take preventative measures. Soon. Maybe tomorrow. But today…eh, who really cared?

“Hi there! What’re you in for?” A taut-faced brunette in a spangly red sweater and white jeans slid into the revolving chair next to Jen.

Jen’s confusion must have shown on her face, because the woman laughed and offered up a dainty hand dripping in diamonds. “I’m Whitley Westphal, here to worship at the altar of Rory and shill my new jewelry line.”

Jen nibbled her lip and tried to place the name. “Whitley Westphal? Aren’t you the—”

“Divinely talented diva who sang the one-hit wonder ‘Something in the Water’ back in 1997?” the woman rattled off. “Why, yes I am. You probably recognize me from the bargain bin at Best Buy or on VH1’s
Where Are They Now?
”

“No, no.” Jen furrowed her brow. “You married a baseball player, right?”

Whitley shrieked with delight. “Oh, sugar, you’ve just made his day! Brick! Brick, get over here! This woman knows who you are. I
told
you you still had groupies!”

A gangly, elderly man shambled over from the corner. He clutched a white Chanel handbag in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. “Brick Milton. Pleased to make your acquaintance. You must be a true-blue Dodger fan, young lady.”

Brick Milton.
That
name clicked right away. “You’re a pitching legend,” Jen gushed, breaking every self-imposed rule she had about fawning over celebrities. “Number seventy-eight, right?”

“That’s him!” Whitley sat back in her chair and patted her husband’s forearm as if he were a particularly clever poodle performing a trick.

Brick smiled shyly. “You really know your stuff. That was decades ago.”

“My husband worships you.” Jen reached down, grabbed her handbag, and searched for something to write on. “I hate to be a nuisance, but would you mind signing an autograph for him? He’ll be devastated that he missed meeting you. He’s going to die!”

Her smile wavered as she remembered that Eric wouldn’t be there when she got home to hear tales of her brushes with the rich and famous. She didn’t even know where he was staying.

But it was too late to call off Brick. He accepted the airline ticket jacket she’d handed over and paused, his pen at the ready. “What’s your husband’s name? Anything special you’d like me to write?”

“Um…” She fumbled for words. “His name’s Eric. And you can just write…um…”

Whitley regarded her with creaseless, Botoxed concern. “Are you all right, sugar? You look a bit peaked.”

Jen shrugged one shoulder. “Just stage fright, I guess. I’ve never done a live national TV show.”

“You’ll do fine,” Whitley assured her. “Why, I remember when I sang the national anthem at the World Series. I was a nervous wreck.”

“Is there a Jennifer Finnerty in here?” An intern holding a huge vase of red and pink flowers bustled through the door.

Jen raised one hand. “Right here.”

“These are for you.” The intern plopped the vase down without ceremony, tossed a tiny white envelope at Jen, and hightailed it back out to the hallway.

While Whitley and the makeup artist oohed and aahed over the bouquet, Jen opened the card with shaking hands and read a single, simple sentence:

Knock ’em dead

“Are they from your hubby?” Whitley asked. “That is too precious for words.” She turned to Brick. “Why don’t you ever do anything romantic like that for me?”

“I just bought you a house in Santa Ynez,” Brick protested.

“Yeah, but that’s a good investment.” Whitley pouted. “I’m talking about gentlemanly tokens of love and affection.”

“I’m holding your purse, aren’t I?”

Jen blocked out their bickering and focused on the three little words typed on the white card. Maybe Eric had decided to give her one last chance. Maybe he’d started to miss her the way she missed him.

She excused herself from the makeup chair and hurried into the ladies’ room. She dialed Eric’s cell number, crossed her fingers, and sighed with relief when he picked up.

“’Lo?” he slurred after a few seconds of static.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jen demanded. “You sound—”

“Hungover.” Eric groaned. “In Vegas.”

“Ah, yes. The bachelor party.” She knew she should leave well enough alone, but she had to ask. “And how was the strip club?”

“Naked. Depressing. Expensive. The usual.” He didn’t seem surprised to hear from her, which she took as an auspicious sign. He
had
sent the flowers. Love! Hope! Second chances!

“So, listen.” She lowered her voice. “You’ll never guess who’s in the greenroom with me.”

“Greenroom?” He paused. “Oh, right. You’re doing that show today.”

And the Lord taketh away.

“You forgot.” She crumpled up the card in her hand and pitched it into the wastebasket next to the sink.

“I’ve been busy,” he said, a tad defensively. “Doing crazy things. Things that would shock you.”

Jen smiled in spite of herself. “Really? Like what?”

“Losing money, mostly,” he admitted. “Mara kicked my ass at the poker table.”

“Wait, why were you playing poker with Mara? I thought she was going out there to talk to Josh.”

“Josh wasn’t available, so she had to talk to me. We stayed up all night gambling and eating. Well, she ate. I drank. Which didn’t help my poker game.”

“May I ask what you two discussed?”

“It’d be better if you didn’t.” He coughed. “Is Patrick with you?”

“No! Why would you even think that?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because he answers the phone when I call my own house?”

Jen took a deep breath. “I didn’t invite him yesterday, he just showed up on my doorstep.
Our
doorstep. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

There was a soft knock on the door. “Ms. Finnerty? Is everything all right?”

Jen covered the phone mouthpiece and called back, “Everything’s great, thanks!”

“Okay, well, you’re on in a few minutes, so…”

“I’ll be there!” Jen double-checked the lock on the door and waded back into the argument at hand. “You have every right to be upset, but I love you, honey. Come home. Please. At least let me explain what happened.”

Another knock at the door. “Ms. Finnerty? We really need you on-set right now.”

“Go ahead,” Eric said. “Take Noda national. You deserve this.”

“But it’s half yours,” Jen choked out. “
More
than half yours.”

“All I really did was write a check. You did the work. You made the sacrifices.”

“But—”

“Bye, Jen.”

She emerged in a daze from the restroom and allowed the production assistant to usher her down the hall.

“We’re set for your segment as soon as we come back from break,” the P.A. informed her. “Rory will introduce the product; we’ve put a few bottles of it out on the coffee table for close-ups. And please remember we’re live, so watch your language.”

Jen nodded numbly and tried to recapture the frisson of excitement she’d felt when Deb had first called her about appearing on the show.

“All right, you’re on.” The production assistant shoved Jen out of the shadows, and a smattering of applause broke out in the audience. “Good luck.”

Knock’ em dead.

She threw back her shoulders and strode into the spotlight with a bright smile on her face and a twist of despair in her heart.

Ellie
Chapter
19

S
tay calm and let me do the talking.” Karen Hamilton, Ellie’s divorce attorney, adjusted the tasteful pearl and platinum brooch affixed to the lapel of her gray suit jacket. “These are just initial negotiations. We’ve got a long way to go before we hammer out a final settlement.”

“I’ll stay calm,” Ellie promised, though her heart rate accelerated at the prospect of facing Michael for the first time since he’d kissed her good-bye at the airport. “But I just got the water bill in the mail. And the mortgage statement and the car lease note. So do we just pass those along to him, or…?”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get to all that in good time.”

Mara hadn’t been kidding when she praised Karen Hamilton as unflinching and unflappable. Ellie had met with her lawyer several times now and had yet to see her express any hint of emotion.

“I won’t panic,” Ellie chanted softly. “I won’t panic.”

“Good.” Karen led the way into the hushed, sumptuously appointed conference room of her downtown legal firm.

Ellie glanced at the heavy blue drapes and gleaming dark wood bookshelves until her gaze locked on to Michael. He was seated across the wide mahogany table with Terry Dawes, a ruddy-faced, squinty-eyed lawyer whom Mara had described as “the unholy love child of a pit bull and Giorgio Armani.”

While their attorneys exchanged cordial hellos, Ellie and Michael sized each other up like prizefighters circling in the ring.

Stay strong,
Ellie admonished herself.
Stay focused on the long-term goal: security for Hannah. Don’t get distracted by love or anxiety or grief.

Emotion was a waste of energy. The only thing that mattered, according to Karen, was money. Ellie had forced herself to stop thinking about her impending divorce in terms of bitter betrayal and start framing it in terms of billable hours. Of which Karen had already amassed a heart-stopping number.

We are gathered here today to put an exact dollar amount on your value as a wife, mother, and human being.

After an office assistant ferried in a tray heaped with pastries, a crystal carafe of water, and a silver pot of coffee, Michael’s attorney helped himself to a scone and whipped out a sheaf of papers. “Shall we get started?”

“Absolutely.” Karen took a seat next to Ellie. “I’d like to begin with a few questions about the financial documentation your office provided me with.”

“Of course.” Mr. Dawes looked directly at Ellie, who flushed and started to fidget.

“According to the terms of the pre-nuptial agreement, my client is entitled to half of all assets acquired during the course of the marriage, in addition to the cash value of three percent of the Bartons’ family business.” Karen glanced down at the documents in front of her. “But per this accounting report, your client…”

“Actually lost money during the course of the marriage. Correct.” Mr. Dawes nodded. “He supported his wife and daughter primarily with the interest from his trust fund, the principal of which, as you know, is exempt from the terms of the pre-nup.”

Karen scribbled down a few notes. “So your contention is that Mr. Barton’s salary did not contribute to the family finances in any substantial way?”

“Correct. Most of the couple’s assets, including the down payments for the house and vehicles, were attained via cash gifts from Mr. Barton’s parents.”

Ellie’s head snapped back up. “What? That’s not true!”

Karen silenced her with a light touch on the wrist. “And what about Ms. Barton’s share of the real estate development company?”

Terry Dawes initiated a brief, whispered consulation with Michael. Then he nodded and turned back to Karen and Ellie. “Ms. Barton signed a buy-sell agreement, stipulating that in the case of divorce, she must sell back her share of the company at current market value.”

“I’m well aware. And your contention is that Ms. Barton’s share is worth…?” Karen raised one eyebrow, inviting the opposing counsel to finish the sentence.

Michael’s lawyer named a dollar amount so low that Ellie couldn’t stifle her gasp. The attorney shrugged in a theatrical display of helplessness. “As you know, the real estate market is severely depressed right now. And, even assuming the market was booming, three percent doesn’t amount to much, especially when we have to account for reserves for depreciation, rising taxes and insurance costs, and falling rents. The fact is, my client’s family business is in the red and has been for some time.”

Michael murmured in agreement while tugging down his shirt cuff to conceal the Cartier watch on his left wrist.

Ellie snorted. “Give me a break. His country club membership alone costs like ten thousand dollars a year. He spends money like it’s water!”

Karen hastened to rephrase this: “I must agree that the Bartons did seem to enjoy an extremely comfortable lifestyle. Luxury furnishings, vacations, new automobiles every two years. If the records that have been supplied are complete, then clearly my client and her husband were living far beyond their means.”

Terry Dawes chuckled. “They certainly wouldn’t be the first couple to do so. Their cars were leased, the house was purchased with a negatively amortized mortgage, and Mr. Barton took out several sizable lines of credit to finance various remodels and furniture purchases. In fact, my client is now living in one of his parents’ investment properties for economy’s sake.”

Ellie mirrored her lawyer’s stony-faced demeanor and said, “He’s lying.”

Michael’s jaw dropped. Terry Dawes’s eyes bugged out. “Ms. Barton, that is a very serious accusation! For you to imply—”

Karen cut him off. “Frankly, I have to agree that this summary of Mr. Barton’s accounts seems incomplete. Your client has an obligation to produce all financial records: pay stubs, bonuses, preexisting bank accounts, investments, tax returns.
All
the money for the course of the marriage.”

“I understand my client’s obligation, counselor. If you’d like to take this before a judge, we’re happy to go to court.”

Karen didn’t miss a beat. “You do realize that if the court finds that you’ve been less than forthcoming about the true state of your client’s finances, you’ll be held in contempt?”

“My client has fully divulged all financial records in good faith. I assure you, he’s practically bankrupt.”

Ellie covered her mouth and pretended to cough. “Bullshit.” Michael reddened.

With a flourish, Terry Dawes produced a stack of documents and slid them across the table. “Ms. Barton, isn’t this your signature on the tax returns filed jointly by you and your husband during the course of your marriage?”

Ellie glanced through the tax forms. “Yes, but—”

He jabbed his index finger toward the ceiling. “Are you asserting that these tax returns do not fairly and accurately reflect the financial situation of Mr. Barton and yourself?”

Ellie realized too late that Michael had trapped her. Again. “Well, I—”

“Surely you’re aware that it would constitute perjury to file a falsified or incomplete tax return with the IRS?”

Ellie looked to Karen for direction while Terry settled back and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“The profit and loss statements included in these tax returns corroborate my client’s account of monetary distress. So the question before us, Ms. Barton, is: Were you lying to the IRS for the past seven years about the state of your finances? Or are you lying to counsel about the state of your finances now?”

Karen held up her hand. “You’re way out of line. This is a gross mischaracterization of what’s going on here!”

“Then let’s get down to brass tacks,” Terry said to Karen. “We’re willing to cede any remaining equity in the house to your client; in exchange, my client would retain ownership of the house’s contents. Furniture, exercise equipment, appliances, et cetera. It’s more than fair.”

Ellie swept aside the tax returns. “He’s already looted all the expensive stuff! The grand piano, the paintings, my jewelry.”

Michael brushed off his lawyer and addressed her directly. “Those are family heirlooms.”

“Your mother gave me those emeralds!” Ellie insisted. “They were a gift.”

“They were a gift predicated on your union with my client,” Terry Dawes said. “Those emeralds have been in the Barton family for several generations. And speaking of family heirlooms…” He did his best to feign reluctance. “We’d like to request the return of Ms. Barton’s engagement ring. Immediately.”

“Not going to happen,” Karen said. “An engagement ring’s a gift, free and clear.”

“Not in this case,” Terry said. “If the marriage dissolves, ownership reverts to the Bartons.”

“According to whom?” Karen demanded. “There’s nothing in the pre-nup about the engagement ring.”

Terry dug out another stapled stack of papers. “I happen to have with me a copy of the current insurance policy on the diamond ring and the emerald pieces. Notice the name of the policy holder.” He pointed out the text for them:
Heath Barton.
“While it was indeed generous of your father-in-law to let you wear the jewels, the duration and amount of this policy clearly establishes ownership.”

Ellie looked Michael right in the eye and asked, “Who
are
you? When did you turn into such a—a—”

“Stay calm,” Karen said under her breath.

“Have a shred of decency!” Ellie said. “Even if you don’t care about me anymore, think about Hannah.”

The opposing attorney nodded. “On the subject of your daughter.”

“Stay calm,” Karen repeated.

“Ms. Barton will be entitled to court-mandated spousal support only for the length of time that it would take her to complete career training and reenter the workforce. She’s young, she has a college degree, she’s certainly capable of supporting herself. Clearly, my client is in no position to provide a lump-sum settlement to Ms. Barton at this time, but he is prepared to do whatever it takes to support his daughter.”

“Well, I should hope so!” Ellie exclaimed.

Michael and his lawyer both ignored her. “We do understand that as a working mother, Ms. Barton will necessarily undergo a drastic change in lifestyle. My client is more than willing to assume full physical custody of his daughter.”

Ellie, who had never so much as swatted Hannah’s behind, had to fight the sudden and overwhelming urge to lunge across the table and physically rip out Michael’s jugular. She gripped the tabletop with both hands and said, “Never. Over my cold, dead body. I mean it, Michael. If you try to take Hannah, I will—”

“My client has proven himself to be a devoted father. Furthermore, he can show that he’ll have the monetary and practical means; his family will guarantee educational and financial assistance, provided Hannah lives with their son.”

“They should be willing to do that, anyway!” Ellie said. “She’s still their grandchild, no matter who she lives with.”

“Oh, we agree,” Terry Dawes oozed. “Sadly, Mr. Barton’s parents do not.”

“Patrice would never…” Ellie’s hands started to ache. At this rate, her fingertips were going to leave permanent indentations in the wood. “Does your mother know about this?”

“You’re never going to get full custody.” Karen sounded bored. “My client is an excellent mother, and you know as well as I do that any court-appointed intermediary is going to side with her.”

“Ms. Barton might want to consider the needs of her daughter above her own. Were her daughter to live primarily with my clients and his parents, her standard of living would be significantly—”

“This line of negotiation isn’t worth pursuing.” Ellie’s lawyer tapped her pen against the tabletop. “My client will never agree to that. Let’s move on.”

Ellie’s entire body was trembling with fury. Michael avoided her searing glare and pretended to study the yellow legal pad next to his attorney.

“Fine. We’ll table the custody issue until our next meeting,” Terry Dawes said. “As to the matter of the house contents and the vehicles—”

“Before we continue,” Karen interjected, “I do realize that my client is bound by the terms of the pre-nuptial agreement, but I’d like to point out that if both parties didn’t fully disclose all assets at the time the pre-nup was signed, the agreement is not binding.”