My Regretful Ex-Husband novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Facedown
Wren cooks dinner on the day she learns she is pregnant, signs the divorce papers Jonas brings home and leaves; at the gate her mother's care home calls to say the fees were cancelled.
"The pregnancy is four weeks along," the doctor said. "Everything looks normal."
Wren Hollister thanked her and walked out of the women's clinic holding the printed results in both hands.
She sat in her car in the parking structure and read the page four times.
Then she found the nerve to message her husband.
"Are you coming home for dinner tonight?"
Jonas hated being interrupted at work. In three years he had answered about half her messages, and usually hours late.
The reply came before she had started the engine.
"Yes. We need to talk."
Wren laughed once, alone in the car, because it was such a short answer and she was so relieved.
We need to talk could mean anything. But he had answered, and he had never answered that fast.
She bought lamb and lemons and a small cake from the market and drove home to Pryce House.
Her mother-in-law was already in the kitchen, in an apron over her silk blouse, rinsing herbs at the sink.
"There you are," Margaret said. "Give me that bag. You look tired, dear."
"I'm fine."
"Jonas called me from the car. He'll be home by seven, so don't let the lamb get ahead of him."
Margaret dried her hands and took the bag.
She was sixty-two, silver-haired, and had been kind to Wren every day for three years. She had even taught her how to fold the napkins the Pryce way.
By six, Wren had the table laid in the small dining room.
Margaret set out the good plates. Then she laid a fountain pen beside Jonas's place.
"He always wants something to sign after dinner," she said. "It saves him a trip to the study."
Wren put the clinic results on the table by her own plate.
She stared at the page for a while. Then she turned it facedown, because it felt too obvious, and because she wanted to say it herself.
At seven a black limousine rolled into the courtyard.
Jonas stepped out with his suit jacket hanging over one arm.
He was tall and dark-haired, and tired in the way he always was. He did not look at the house windows, where she was standing.
She went to the door and he walked past her into the dining room.
He did not kiss her. He didn't say hello.
"Sit down, Wren."
She sat. Margaret took the chair at the far end, poured herself a glass of wine, and said nothing.
Jonas put a thin gray folder on the table and pushed it across.
"Camille is back in Ravenport," he said. "She landed this morning."
Wren knew the name. Camille Dray was the woman who had left him five years ago without a word, before Wren ever met him.
She had never once heard him say it out loud.
"I need to see where this goes," he said. "I want a divorce."
The kitchen clock ticked in the next room.
"Tonight?" Wren said.
"The papers are drawn up. I'd rather it be clean."
She opened the folder.
It was all there. A house by the lake, two million dollars, a monthly payment for life.
On the table, her left hand had come to rest flat on the facedown page.
She could say it now. Four weeks. We're having a baby.
She looked at Jonas, who was looking at the pen.
He didn't want to stay. He wanted to have it over with before the lamb went cold.
"Wren, be sensible, dear," Margaret said gently. "Jonas has been under a great deal of strain."
"I'm sensible," Wren said.
She picked up the pen and signed the last page, in the box with her name already typed under it.
Jonas's head came up.
She tore the settlement sheets out of the folder, squared them, and slid them back across the table.
"I'll sign the divorce. I won't take the house or the money."
"Wren, take it," he said.
"No."
He looked at the signature for a long time. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else.
She slipped the gold ring off her finger and set it on top of the folder.
Then she picked up the clinic page, folded it in half, and put it in her coat pocket.
"Good luck with Camille," she said.
Nobody stopped her.
The housekeeper was standing in the hallway with a dish towel in her hands. She held the front door open without a word.
Wren walked down the long drive in the dark with her purse and her coat and nothing else.
At the iron gate her phone rang.
It was Fernwood Care Home, where her mother lived.
"Ms. Hollister, I'm sorry to call so late. The Pryce family office closed Ruth's account at six o'clock this evening."
Wren stopped walking.
The Pryce office paid her mother's fees on the first of every month. It had paid them for three years, and she had never asked Jonas about it.
"What does that mean?" she said.
"It means the fees are due in full by Friday," the director said. "Or we have to discuss moving her."
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