My Second Life Starts With Divorce novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Page Nine
Solveig wakes to the divorce papers on her anniversary, names her price in front of Warner's mother and walks out in daylight; a stranger texts her to stay off the street where she died.
The first thing I saw when I woke up was the divorce petition on the coffee table.
It had been squared to the edge, with a pen laid across the top.
I was on the couch in my cardigan with a crick in my neck.
I had fallen asleep waiting for Warner to come home from the office.
He had not come home.
He stood over me now in yesterday's suit, holding out a glass of water, the way he did whenever I slept on the couch.
"Solveig, sit up. We need to talk."
Today was our seventh wedding anniversary.
I sat up slowly, and I knew every word he was about to say.
I had heard them in this room on this exact morning.
Last time I signed with a shaking hand and walked out of this house before dark.
Then a wet road on Alder Street killed me.
"Savannah is pregnant," Warner said. "She wants to be married before she shows, and I won't be the man who tells her no."
His voice was flat and polite.
"I'll make it right with you. Just name your price."
A cup clinked in the doorway.
Savannah Lindqvist stood there holding my blue mug in both hands.
She had been my best friend since the first week of college, and she had slept in our guest room since March.
Her eyes were red.
"Cor, I wanted to tell you myself," she said. "I'm so sorry. I'll never forgive myself."
She set the mug on the table beside the petition.
It was my tea, with honey, exactly how I take it.
My phone lay on the arm of the couch, and her text from yesterday was still on the screen.
Happy early anniversary! Make him take you somewhere nice, you deserve a perfect night.
Last time, I had thanked her for the tea.
This time I picked up the petition and turned to the last page.
A yellow flag stuck out of page nine.
"What's this one?" I asked.
"Housekeeping," Warner said. "The house, the accounts. Initial where the tab is."
Last time I had initialed without reading, because I wanted it to be over.
I read it now.
Page nine moved my forty percent of Tilden Logistics to Warner for one dollar.
My grandfather's money had started that company.
The forty percent was in my name, and it was the one part of the company Warner could not sell without me.
The front door opened at nine o'clock exactly.
Bernadette had a key, and every anniversary she brought a lemon cake.
"Happy anniversary, my darlings," she called from the hall.
She came in with the cake box in both arms and stopped.
She looked at Warner's suit, and at Savannah's red eyes, and at the papers.
"Warner," she said. "What is this?"
"Mom, I was going to call you."
"About what?"
Nobody answered her.
Bernadette set the cake box on the sideboard very carefully.
"Solveig?"
I stood up.
Everyone in the room was watching me, and for once I wanted them to.
"Warner asked me to name my price," I told her.
"Solveig," Warner said, "don't make this ugly in front of my mother."
"I'm not making it anything. You asked."
I kept my eyes on him.
"I keep the house on Linden Street. Ten million dollars in my account by Friday. And page nine comes out."
Warner laughed once.
"You don't need those shares, Cor. They're worth nothing."
"Then you won't mind striking the page."
Bernadette had come around behind me and was reading over my shoulder.
I felt her go still.
"Warner," she said. "Why do you want shares that are worth nothing?"
He looked at his mother.
Then he looked at Savannah, who was looking at the carpet.
"Fine," he said. "It's a clerical page anyway."
He took the pen, drew a line through page nine, and initialed the line.
His hand was not quite steady.
He held the pen out to me.
Last time my fingers had gone numb on this same pen.
So I picked up the pen.
I signed every page I had read, and I did not sign the one that was gone.
Savannah put her hand over her mouth and sobbed.
Bernadette did not look at her.
She looked at me, and she said, "Call me tomorrow, Solveig. Please."
"I will," I said.
I packed one bag in ten minutes.
Warner did not follow me upstairs, and Savannah did not offer to help carry anything.
It was ten in the morning when I came down with my bag, and the sun was out.
A grey sedan sat at the curb across the street with its engine running.
I could not see the driver through the tinted glass.
I did not think about it.
My cab pulled up, and I got in.
The sedan was still there when the cab turned the corner.
My phone buzzed in my lap before we reached the end of the block.
It was a number I did not know.
Do not be on Alder Street tonight. Not for any reason. Please.
I had never said the name of that street to anyone.
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