The Halls, both in their fifties—him, a technology entrepreneur, her, a cardiovascular surgeon—had mutually filed for divorce after nearly thirty years of marriage, for the simple reason that they couldn’t stand each other anymore. Thankfully, their two children were grown, which meant custody wasn’t an issue, because the divorce proceedings had been bitter and contentious at every step.
This meeting, the purpose of which was to determine the value of Mr. Hall’s sizable rare notes, coins, and stamps collection, wasn’t shaping up to be any different.
Before Victoria had a chance to answer her client, Mrs. Hall jumped in.
“Oh, sure. Turn away, talk to her instead of me,” she said, pointing to Victoria. “That pretty much sums up our marriage. Only before, you would talk to me through the kids. Then they left home, and we didn’t talk at all.”
“Can we go back to that?” Mr. Hall asked sarcastically. “Because this conversation is reminding me exactly why we didn’t talk: because you bitch about everything. It’s like you don’t know how to have a fucking conversation if you’re not complaining about something.”
“Oh, sorry if I don’t get all excited about some stupid dollar bill printed in 1861.” Mrs. Hall pointed to the collection of rare notes that lay out on the counter. “Because for the last ten years, that’s about the only thing that seemed to get your motor running.”
“Gee, another complaint. Imagine that,” Mr. Hall said in mock surprise. “You know, you used to think I was cute for being so interested in U.S. history.”
“I also used to think you were cute when you were a size thirty-four in pants.” She smiled sweetly, gesturing to his stomach. “Things change, baby.”
Okay, time to cut this off, or they would be here for hours. Victoria managed to convince her client to wait in the living room as the other lawyer corralled Mrs. Hall into the sunroom.
Unfortunately for all of them, however, the appraiser had several questions about the collection. And every time Mr. Hall came into the kitchen to answer one of those questions, Mrs. Hall bolted out of the sunroom, determined to ensure that her husband didn’t screw her over “with any of his bullshit.” Convinced he was hiding part of the collection, she examined every drawer and shelf in the library and master bedroom, and also insisted they open the two safes in the home. All of which was furiously contested by Mr. Hall—and for no good reason, since, as it turned out, he wasn’t actually hiding anything.
Victoria finally got out of there around six P.M., and then fought Friday rush hour traffic back into the city for nearly two hours. By the time she rolled into her office to pick up some files that she wanted to review over the weekend, she was mentally and physically drained.
Given the late hour, she was surprised when she saw Will sitting at his desk outside her office. “Hey, what are you still doing here?”
He held up a white takeout bag in one hand, a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon in the other. “From the way you sounded when you checked in, I figured you would need it.”
“I’m so giving you a raise.”
He grinned. “Sweetie, I already gave myself a raise last month.” He followed her into her office, where she dropped off her briefcase and sank gratefully into her desk chair. He handed over the takeout bag—pork fried rice that smelled delicious—and then poured two fingers of bourbon into a couple of glasses he’d snagged from the break room as she told him about her afternoon with the Halls.
When she finished eating, she leaned back in her chair, a companionable silence falling between her and Will.
It was after eight o’clock, and the sun had just begun to set. Outside the window, the Chicago skyline was set against a brilliant backdrop of orange, red, and purple.
“It’s funny,” she said. “Just the other day I was telling someone how in the eight years I’ve been a divorce lawyer, I haven’t seen much that inspires me to try my luck at marriage.”
On the opposite side of the desk, Will had his feet propped up on the chair next to him. He turned his head and looked at her. “I’m guessing today didn’t improve that opinion much.”
Indeed, it had not.
Nineteen
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Victoria proudly told Dr. Metzel about her successful train ride the previous Sunday—an achievement she’d repeated just that morning by taking the subway to his office.