The Single Life. Liz Wood
Or responding to your messages?”
“I’ve been, you know, busy.”
“Yeah, so have I. But I return my calls.”
“You pay other people to do it for you.”
“Same thing. Besides, I’m not just talking about business calls. Even your best friend Alice says you haven’t been returning her calls either.”
“I was going to today. I’ve been trying to finish a chapter.” Trying being the operative word, since Lauren hadn’t managed to finish it. She had spent another day looking at a blank screen—when she wasn’t contemplating her blank mind. She didn’t expect today would be much different. Which was why she hadn’t bothered to get out of bed, even when it was clear she wasn’t going to get back to sleep.
“Look, Lauren, I’m your lawyer, but I’m speaking here as your friend. It’s been more than a year since the divorce came through. You need to start living again.”
It was easy for Clare to talk. She’d never been divorced. Never been married, for that matter. Never had her heart broken. Never had to mend it. Not independent, hard-as-nails Clare Hanley.
“Is that why you called? To offer me some friendly advice? For free?”
“Actually, no. I just gave you the free advice, but I called about something else. And that, as you know, doesn’t come free. You pay for it. So, like it or not, I have to give it to you.”
Clare paused for a moment, as if she were weighing her words. When she spoke again, she sounded surprisingly unsure of herself. “Lauren, I think you should come in so we can talk about it.”
“If it’s so important, you should tell me over the phone.”
“Lauren, look, maybe we could meet for lunch or dinner—my treat, of course—and we can talk about this.”
“I already have plans for lunch.”
Not! As Chrissie might say. The old Lauren would have crossed her fingers because she was telling a lie. But the new Lauren—who was really a very old Lauren—a very, very old, tired, worn-out Lauren—didn’t bother with that. She just didn’t see the point anymore, no more than having lunch with Clare, or anyone else for that matter.
“With Alice?” Clare was asking. “That’s okay. She can come, too.”
“No, not with Alice.”
“Lauren—”
“Just tell me, Clare. I may not be a courtroom shark like you, but I’m no hothouse flower either.”
“I just think you’d be better off dealing with this face-to-face.”
“Just tell me.”
“Okay.” Clare sighed. “If that’s the way you want it.”
Lauren didn’t say anything, but her silence was eloquent. After a moment, Clare spoke.
“I’ve been looking into your accounts and, well, I don’t think you’re going to be able to keep up with all your payments. There’s no two ways about this—you’re going to have to sell the house.”
Lauren’s first reaction was to think she hadn’t heard correctly. Her second was much more passionate.
“Sell the house? Are you crazy? Never!”
“Lauren, listen to me. I know what it means to you. I know it was once your grandmother’s house. I know how important it is to you, how much you want to keep it. You made it very clear when we were working on the divorce settlement. You gave up a lot for it—against my better advice, I might add.”
“You’re off the hook.”
“Honestly, Lauren! That’s the least of my worries.”
“So what are your worries?” Other than trying to keep Lauren on the phone as long as possible when all she wanted to do was hang up and have another cry.
“Mostly that you’re not in the same position you were. You lost money on your investments, and now with the increases in property tax, well, I just don’t see how you can make your payments.”
Lauren pressed her fingers against her forehead in the hopes of quelling the ache that was increasing by the minute.
“I’ll cut down on the rest of my spending if I have to, but I can’t sell the house.”
“It’s going to take a lot more than better budgeting. You just don’t have the income anymore.”
“What about the money my mother left me?”
“We put it in trust for Chrissie and Jeff. Against my—”
“Better advice, I know. You’re beginning to repeat yourself. Couldn’t we get an extension on the taxes? Negotiate somehow?”
“With what? It’s not as if you have a new source of revenue. You’re already living on the advance for your next book—which you aren’t even close to delivering—not even now that the deadline has come and gone. And from what you’ve been telling me, there’s nothing else in the pipeline.”
“There must be something we can do! Help me out here, Clare. Please.” Lauren could hear her voice breaking, but she didn’t try to hold back. She couldn’t, even if she wanted to.
“I’m sorry, Lauren. Really, I am. I’ve looked at it from all angles and there’s nothing I can do. Unless you come up with more money soon, my only suggestion is to sell the house. Because even if you have your miracle, even if you get more money, you’re still not in the clear. An old house like yours, the repairs are endless. The bills won’t stop. They’ll just keep coming. They’ll soak up all your money and then some. Listen to me, Lauren. Sell the house.”
Clare slammed the phone down, more annoyed with herself than with Lauren. After more than twenty years in the business, she should be more tactful, more considerate, more kind when dealing with the financial and legal affairs of a woman whose heart had been ripped in two and whose life was broken—especially when the woman was also a friend.
But Clare had never been very good at holding hands and passing the Kleenex. Maybe because she’d had her own share of hard luck—and then some—when most kids were still wiping their eyes over Bambi’s mother and Simba’s father. Maybe because she’d learned early that no amount of hand-holding and Kleenex-wringing would pay the bills. Only hard cash would, aided by calculating law. That’s where she came in. The rest would take time—a lot of time.
But time was something Lauren didn’t have, at least not when it came to the house. Not that Clare thought Lauren should hang on to the house. Even with the crippling bills, Lauren was holding on to it harder than any life belt, as if it were the only thing keeping her alive now that her husband, her children and her creative inspiration were gone. Clare knew there were days, weeks even, when Lauren didn’t leave her cocoon. But that didn’t change the fact that no house—not even a gingerbread one with gaily painted walls, shining wooden floors, tower bedrooms and shingled turrets—could put Lauren’s life back together. Only Lauren could do that.
Still, Clare wished there were something she could do. There must be something she’d missed when she’d explored all the angles with her long-time colleague, the top-notch financial planner Lynne Pozzorni. Lynne had been disappointed with some of the choices Lauren had made and hadn’t hidden it from Clare.
“We women never learn, do we?” she had said, shaking her head in dismay and disapproval. “We want to be nice and kind and generous. We forget it’s a world of wolves out there—and our exes are the meanest and the cruelest. We must be genetically programmed for it. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
Clare wasn’t sure genetics had anything to do with it, but she knew what Lynne meant. She had seen it often enough with other cases. Divorcing mothers ready to forego everything but regular child support