James Grippando - Money to Burn

I stopped in my tracks. I’d never seen her so upset, so inconsolable.

“This has been building inside me for a long time,” she said. “It’s not a knee-jerk reaction to what’s been happening today. I’ve been unhappy far longer than you can imagine.”

“Mallory, please.”

“I mean it, Michael. I mean this more than anything I’ve ever said to you. I never thought I’d have to say these words again, but once you’ve been in a bad marriage, you know better than to stay too long the next time.”

“Don’t say it,” I said, but I was talking to the walls.

“I want a divorce.”

MALLORY WAS ALONE IN THE BEDROOM WHEN SHE HEARD THE DOORBELL ring. She hoped it wasn’t her husband.

Michael had kept his promise and taken his grandparents to dinner. Mallory had made it clear that he was to find somewhere else to sleep tonight, but she’d spared everyone the drama and told Nana and Papa that she wasn’t feeling well-which triggered a most uncomfortable remark from Michael’s grandmother.

“Morning sickness in the evening, maybe?” she’d said, ever hopeful for a great-grandchild.

Clueless. The entire Cantella clan is clueless.

Not that she didn’t want children. She used to love working with the little girls at the dance studio before she married Michael. Sometimes she just wished that someone in the world would hear her cries for help.

Mallory went to the door, saw her best friend through the peephole, and let her inside.

“Did you tell him?” asked Andrea.

“It’s done,” she said as she led the way to the kitchen. There was an open bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator. Mallory poured two glasses, and the women sat opposite each other on bar stools at the kitchen counter.

Andrea reached across and patted the back of Mallory’s hand. “How are you doing?”

She drew a breath. “I guess I’m okay. It’s all so confusing. Michael’s not a monster. He didn’t abuse me. We didn’t fight over money. He doesn’t hang out late with the guys.”

“He didn’t cheat on you,” said Andrea.

Mallory hesitated. “That’s the weird thing.”

“He didn’t-did he?”

Mallory drank her wine, and her thoughts made her wince. “With my first husband, I know of two other women. There were probably more. With Michael, it wasn’t cheating in that sense.”

“Cybersex?”

“No, no. Not that.”

“Then what?”

She trusted Andrea, but Mallory was going to need a lot more wine before painting the whole picture. “Just forget it. Michael’s nothing like my first husband.”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“Absolutely not. I know what you’re thinking: There are plenty of women who would want my life. And maybe I would, too, if I hadn’t married Michael with such high expectations. My mother wasted forty-one years of her life with a man who didn’t love her. I crammed forty-one years of unhappiness into my first marriage. I don’t need more of it from Michael. I deserve better.”

Mallory was tearing up, but she stopped herself. There had been enough of that.

Andrea raised her wineglass, as if to help avert the water-works.

“Well, I hope you find Mr. Right.”

They drank to the toast. “Tomorrow is what I’m really dreading,” said Mallory. “I’m sure the gossip wire will be at high voltage.”

“Rest assured, they won’t hear a thing from me.”

“It will get out. Everything always does. The Saxton Silvers wives club knows all.”

“You give them too much credit.”

“Honey, even your little secret was out three days after you moved to New York.”

Andrea coughed on her wine. “My secret?”

“Sorry, but it’s pretty juicy when a woman moves to New York with her fiancé and the two of them don’t sleep in the same bedroom. Housekeepers are great sources. You should be careful who you share yours with.”

Andrea went white, confirming it. “He snores, and so sometimes I have to go in the other room.”

“It’s okay,” Mallory said. “It happens to a lot of my friends, though usually not until after the wedding.”

Andrea shifted nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the way Mallory had steered the conversation. It made Mallory feel a little guilty. Andrea had been a good friend and an amazing listener. The conversation was never about her-and true to form, she turned it back around to Mallory.

“So tell me,” said Andrea. “How did Michael handle the news?”

“How do you think?”

Andrea tasted her wine. “Better than he handled Chuck Bell, I hope.”

Mallory just shook her head.

Andrea said, “Do you think there’s anything to that?”

“To what?”

“The things Chuck Bell was saying-that Michael wasn’t really the victim here.”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Maybe he’s not shocked that you asked for a divorce. Maybe he even anticipated it. Rich men have been known to do some pretty outrageous things to keep the wife from getting her hands on the money in a divorce.”

“What are you saying?” asked Mallory. “That Michael knew our marriage was going south so he orchestrated the liquidation of our portfolio and made it look like it was some identity thief?”

Andrea gave her a sobering look.

Mallory’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit.”

“Sorry, Mal. Didn’t mean to drop a dead fly in your chardonnay.”

Mallory froze, then shook her head. “I’m such an idiot. I was feeling like a total bitch over the way I jumped all over him and dropped the news. I’ve been trying to think of ways to throw him an olive branch so we can do this divorce without war.”

She climbed down from her stool, went to her purse, and grabbed her cell phone.

“Who you calling?”

“Who else?” said Mallory, dialing. “My lawyer.”

THE RED SAUCE SMELLED AMAZING, BUT I HAD NO INTEREST IN THE mostaccioli and meatballs in the big pasta bowl before me.

“I know nobody makes it like I do,” said Papa. “But try it. You’ll like it.”

It turned out that the ten-percent-off coupons were good only for lunch, so we went to Carmine’s in the Theater District. It was every bit as lively as Sal’s Place but huge by comparison, with hardwood chairs on creaky oak floors, glass chandeliers hanging from twenty-foot ceilings, and all the trappings of a touristy Manhattan restaurant, right down to the “Old Country” photographs on the walls. It was another of Papa’s favorites, even if it did only look as if it had been around since the 1920s. In truth, it was a vintage 1990s success story that had hit on a timeless formula: great southern Italian food at reasonable prices. Lots of food. Papa said it reminded him of an Italian wedding, the way they served everything on oversize platters intended for sharing. Ironic, on the night my wife asked for a divorce.

“Sorry, I’m just not myself tonight.”

“Is everything okay with you and Mallory?” asked Nana.

“Fine,” I lied. “It’s all this stuff going on at work.”

The waiter grated Parmesan cheese onto my pasta. Papa sent him back for a block of Romano.

“Don’t worry about that TV show,” said Papa. “The treasurer of our condo association tells me that nobody takes Chuck Bell seriously.”

I wished he were right, but in reality a huge chunk of the Wall Street world-everyone from day traders to hedge-fund managers-truly believed that watching FNN all day was “market research.”

My cell chimed. I had my entire team assigned to the Saxton Silvers rumor patrol, with strict instructions to e-mail or text me immediately with any updates. This one was about Chuck Bell. He’d bumped one of FNN’s evening shows to air yet another special edition of Bell Ringer.