“I’ve got you covered.”
“What about your retirement?”
“Prenups, Vivi dear. I finally learned to protect my assets.”
Oh.
Before I could finish contemplating how my mother had already forgotten more about divorce than I’d ever learn, the receptionist told me to go on back to the first office on the right. I wanted to bring Mom with me, but I was a grown-ass woman. She moved her hand in a shooing motion and picked up a magazine.
If the exterior of the house was Victorian charm, the inside of Paloma Carter’s office was sleek and modern. I sat down on a maroon couch that looked like something from an upscale IKEA.
“Hi, I’m Paloma Carter,” an elegant lady ten years my elder said. Her voice held a trace of accent, something similar to Salma Hayek. Her hair was cut in a glossy black pageboy, and I noted that her diamond studs were each larger than the diamond in my engagement ring. Her manicure? Impeccable. Apparently, I had gone into the wrong line of work.
“I’m Vivian Quackenbush.”
“Quackenbush?” The corners of her lips twitched upward, but she didn’t laugh.
“Yeah, I think I’ll be getting rid of that,” I said.
She shrugged. “It’s asyouwish.”
“Thank you for making time for me,” I said.
She waved away my thanks. “Your mother helped me find the perfect house on Maple Avenue, so I owe her.”
That and, if memory served, Paloma had presided over two of Mom’s divorces. Mom may have funded those diamond studs for all I knew.
She grabbed a notepad and came to join me on the couch. “Okay, Vivian. What’s your story?”
The tears came in spite of my best efforts. I apologized, but she simply passed the Kleenex and assured me she’d been there before. I stumbled through everything—even the chicken salad—and ended with the manila folder of incriminating pictures.
“I can’t say that I’ve ever represented someone with her own meme before,” she said.
“Well, I’m not sure I want to be a meme, but here we are,” I said with a shrug, sniffling away the last of my tears.
“Any kids?”
“One. He’s at college.”
She frowned. “We can’t get child support, but we’ll see what we can do.” She pointed to the folder. “Did he buyheranything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out, because you’re owed half of whatever it is. Do you have any assets that are yours alone?”
I hesitated. “Well, my father’s inheritance to me is in a separate account.”
“Good, good,” she said, making a note but not looking up.
“And the house is in my name but—”
She looked up sharply, causing me to pause.
“I’m told I can’t kick Mitch out. Something about tenants’ rights?”
“True, true,” she said, looking down to scratch out another note. “Hmm. When was the last time you had a job?”
“I can’t remember exactly. The early 2000s?”
