Robert feigned shock at my heated response.
The mediator pumped a palm up and down, cautioning me to remain calm. “It was just an idea, Sophie. That’s why we’re here,” she said. “Let’s keep brainstorming to find something you can agree upon.”
At that moment I wondered if Robert had a connection to our mediator. I recalled his casual familiarity with the courthouse employees when he arrived. Divorcing a well-known attorney in a community as small as ours sucked.
I took a calming breath and fixed my attention on Robert for the first time, locking my gaze with his. “While we’re discussing financials,”I said flatly. “I’d like to know which investments you made that allegedly bankrupted us.”
He chuckled and waved one hand dismissively. “I’d have to talk to my broker to get the exact stock names. Investment strategies are complex, and not at all a science,” he added, implying I couldn’t possibly keep up if he offered further explanation. He swept his gaze to the mediator, eyebrows lifted in a plea for understanding.
She nodded, charmed.
“Please do,” I said, pulling their eyes back to me.
“What?” Robert asked.
“Do ask our broker,” I clarified, heavy emphasis onour. The money wasn’t his alone, and therefore, the person who moved it didn’t work for him alone either. “I want to know which specific investments emptied our accounts. More specifically, I’d like to request documentation outlining the movement of funds and their loss.”
“It’s always about money with you,” he said softly, though loud enough for the mediator to hear and make a note on her tablet.
I left frustrated and disappointed. When I reached the parking lot, he was waiting by my car, smiling.
I checked the area for witnesses or cameras before I approached, afraid I might need to document whatever came next.
“Have fun today?” he asked.
“Pardon,” I said, edging past him to open my door.
“This is all your fault, you know.” he said.
I dropped behind my wheel and closed the door. Then I covered my eyes with sunglasses to hide my fear.
Robert crouched, pointing his beady eyes through the glass at my side. “We had a good thing going, but you ruined it. Always wanting more,” he said loudly and shook his head. “You won’t even get spousal support now, babe. Then who will support your low-class lifestyle?” His gaze fixed on my nose piercing. “Better run and get your tattoos and hair dye fast, because the money’s about to run out,” he jeered. Hestraightened slowly and raised his hands wide at his side. “Wishing you all the best,” he called.
I imagined hitting him with my car.
If he managed to fool the courts and get away with all our money, I’d be sunk. Everything I’d worked so hard to keep afloat would be gone in a matter of months. I’d already sold all of Mom’s possessions with any significant value to pay off the property taxes, and I was working two jobs just to pay the utilities, buy food, and put gas in my car. I supposed I could sell the car, but I’d have to buy another to replace it, something older that would probably need repairs I couldn’t afford.
My fingers tightened painfully around the steering wheel as I reversed away from the space, then left Robert fading in my rearview mirror.
I hadn’t come this far to fail, and I couldn’t let him have the satisfaction of believing he’d ruined me. My forensic accountants promised to be in touch if they found evidence to suggest we weren’t really bankrupt. I hadn’t heard a word from them yet, which wasn’t good. There had to be a way to prove he was lying. But how?
The next few weeks went by in a blur. I put off cleaning Mom’s closets on the days I didn’t work at the restaurant and instead decided to freshen up the decor. I painted the living room a bright cream and my bedroom a soft pink. I hung frilly curtains in all the windows and placed tchotchkes on shelves and stands. The house felt more like home each day, filled with a curated collection of things that made me feel likeme.
I took a page from Chez Margot’s playbook and added plants to every room. Potted herbs on my kitchen windowsill. Ferns and succulents in macramé plant holders elsewhere.
I worked through lunchtime at the restaurant most days.
Thanks to the growing popularity of the Invisible Baker, from dinnertime until eleven each night, I baked and then, exhausted, I slept deeply.
I had Lucas to thank for the abundance of orders, though he still didn’t know I was the Invisible Baker. He only requested a few dozen pastries at first, but the number grew with demand. Soon customers waited at the doors for Chez Margot to open so they could get first dibs on macarons, éclairs, and pains au chocolat.
Lucas added signs to the display case, crediting the Invisible Baker. Orders for my small business quadrupled, and my social media following did too.
Deliveries were the trickiest part. I’d hired Alicia’s sons for after-school deliveries when I couldn’t do them myself—which was more and more often. I had no idea how I’d manage if business continued on this trajectory.
Tomorrow’s problem,I thought.
Today was Saturday, and my day off.
