Chapter 81

There’s no way I can live like that. Married to a man I despise while he holds an active affair with my sister? What would that teach our children? Garnar may think they are too young to know, but clearly they aren’t, given the things they’ve said earlier.

“I’m done with this conversation,” I say and stand.

“Sit back down, Esther,” Garnar says, but I’m already halfway to the door.

“Goodnight,” I say and exit the study.

On my way back to my room, I stop at the bottom of the stairs to peek back up them, searching for the girls. This time, fortunately, they appear to have actually gone to sleep.

Good. They won’t be exposed to any more of this ridiculousness tonight.

Back in my room, I close the door and make my own plans. I’ve let this go on for too long. Garnar has been unchecked for too long, thinking himself some kind of king who has the power to make decision for absolutely everyone around him.

I retrieve my phone from my purse and search for Cynthia’s contact. I call her.

The moment she picks up, I say, “I need the number of your divorce attorney.”

There’s a smirk in her voice as she replies, “It’s about damn time.”

After work the next day, I meet Cynthia outside of the office of her lawyer, Ms. Odette Wroth.

Her office is in an old house in one of the historic districts in town. It had to be the home of a wealthy person at some point of its existence, as the balconies and archways around the windows are decorated with elaborate gingerbread trim.

It’s very nicely done, and that usually means expensive.

“I can’t wait to introduce you,” Cynthia says. “This woman changed my life. I’m sure she can do the same for you with Garnar.”

I remember Cynthia’s broody husband, never happy with anything in life, least of all Cynthia. He’d constantly put her down, insisting she dress modestly and only color her hair a certain shade. Cynthia said many times that she felt like a doll more than a wife.

Since they’ve been divorced, she’s cut loose and acted more wild, certainly, but she’s also the happiest I’ve ever seen her. She’s living life and enjoying every second of it.

I don’t think I’ll go that extreme with a divorce, but I’m ready to cut loose from my dead weight husband.

Cynthia leads me up the stairs and through the front door of the office. There, we meet one of Ms. Wroth’s many assistants. Once the assistant learns who we are, she leads us to a small meeting room that looks as if it was once a dining room, or perhaps a sitting room with the bookcases removed.

There’s a small table there now, with a few comfortable chairs scattered around it. Cynthia immediately plops into the plushest one nearest the window. I claim the slightly smaller one to her right.

Cynthia’s presence isn’t entirely necessary for this meeting, but I asked her to come anyway. For one, she could give me an introduction to a woman she knows well and is fond of. For two, she can keep me from losing my nerve.

It’s easy, in the still of my room, to say that I’m determined to do something. It’s much harder to see it through, knowing how difficult it will be and how much it’s likely to hurt my daughters.

I know, in my heart, that divorcing their father is better for them in the long run, so that they can learn what love and healthy relationships are supposed to be. They can also learn not to stay with anyone who mistreats them.

In the short term, however, I can still feel the phantom of Violet crying in my arms, worrying that a divorce is all her fault. Nothing about this process is going to be easy.

Ms. Wroth is very punctual, stepping into the office exactly on time for our meeting. Cynthia and I both stand to meet her.

She’s short in stature, under 5’ tall, but she carries herself like a supermodel. Red pumps. A crisp, tailored suit with a pencil skirt. Feathered blonde hair done in a fashionable style. Makeup on point. Her neck and fingers are covered in gold and diamonds, and they match the sparkle in her eyes.

She holds out her hand, her fingernails decorated in red paint, the same shade as her shoes.

“Cynthia,” she says with an easy smile. “So good to see you again. I trust you are doing well, being free of that terror of yours.”

“I couldn’t be happier,” Cynthia says. She accepts Ms. Wroth’s hand and shakes it. Then she turns to me. “Odette, may I present, Mrs. Esther Graham, hopefully soon to be Ms. Esther Owens.”

“Ah, Esther. A pleasure. May I call you Esther?” she held her hand out for me next.

“Yes,” I say as I shake her hand. She has a firm, no-nonsense grip.

“Good. Please call me Odette.”

She gestures for us to return to our seats. When we do, she also sits in a chair, hers closer to the table.

“I’ve already done some research on your case, Esther. I assume Garnar won’t go down without a fight.”

“He’s opposed to the divorce,” I say. “And we have two children to consider.”

“Yes. That will make things difficult. Not impossible, mind you. It just adds to the steps we need to complete to achieve total success.”

Odette opens a folder onto the desk and flips through the pages. After a moment, she closes it and looks at me again.

“I’m confident we can still secure you a healthy share of his estate,” Odette begins.

“I really only care about the custody of the children,” I say.

Odette doesn’t miss a beat. “Why not both? At the very least, we’ll get you child support. But what we will need before we can press for anything, Esther, is a few strong supporters that we can secure to speak on your behalf to the judge. It would help if they are high standing and not family members.”

I’ve had some idea this might be an issue. “I can ask my boss, Hugo Harbinger. He can speak to my work ethic and commitment.”

“Good.” Back in the folder, Odette scribbles down Hugo’s name. “Who else?”

“Mr. Carver runs the Rockfield Elite Country Club. I worked there for a time,” I say.

“We can add him too,” Odette says, as she writes down his name under Hugo’s. “But Esther.” She puts down her pen to look at me. “We’ll need more than just employers. This isn’t a job interview, it’s about how you will raise your kids.”

“I volunteer,” Cynthia says.

“Another good choice,” Odette says kindly, “Yet I feel we are still missing someone. Esther. Surely you know someone of high standing in the community, with a good job and a steady income, who isn’t related to you or a dear friend, who can still speak to your character?”

At first I think of the Gardners, but… what do they really know about me other than as an employee at the country club or a shadow behind my father.

I need someone who knows me for me, who will be able to attest to my own good qualities, not those of my father.

As I struggle for names, Cynthia clucks her tongue at me. “Why are you not stating the obvious?”

I look at her, a brow raised.

Cynthia smoothly continues, “Miles Hamilton, of course.”