Her Better Half. C.J. Carmichael

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      Oh, for Pete’s sake! I was so sick of hearing about the “path to healing.” This path didn’t feel anything like healing to me. It felt like betrayal, and hurt and abandonment.

      “Getting fired wasn’t a sign, Gary.” Who in their right mind considered losing a job a green light to desert your wife and children to go backpacking around the globe?

      “How would you know, Lauren? Not to be cruel, but you’re not exactly in tune with your spiritual side.”

      Despite the air-conditioning, my internal temperature jumped up a few degrees. “Oh, really?”

      “You’ve never understood. Yoga isn’t about postures, or fitness, or even relaxing. It’s about spiritual growth. About achieving clarity and— Forget it. I can see you’re not listening.”

      “I am listening. It’s just that I don’t happen to agree. Why can’t you study yoga and achieve enlightenment here in Canada?”

      It was time for my trump card. “What about the twins?”

      But even that argument didn’t move him.

      “Jamie and Devin are almost grown up.”

      “They’re fourteen.”

      “Well, they’ve always been closer to you, anyway. They’ll be fine. They’re good kids.”

      “Yes. Good kids who deserve more from their father.”

      “What do you want me to do? Go out and get another job with another investment bank? Return to working twelve-hour days and six-day weeks? End up croaking from a heart attack at fifty like my old man?”

      I couldn’t stand the way he was talking to me. Like he was the intelligent, rational adult while I was the mental equivalent of a temperamental toddler. He was treating me and our marriage like an encumbrance to be gotten rid of in the same way as a bothersome outstanding balance on a mortgage.

      “Don’t you love me anymore?”

      The question just came out. I hadn’t planned to ask it. As I stood there waiting for his answer, I found myself remembering the girls when they were little, scrambling out of the pool after a swimming lesson, wet and shivering, waiting for me to wrap them in a towel.

      Now I was the vulnerable one, waiting for Gary to throw me something. If not a towel, then maybe a facecloth.

      “Lauren.” He sighed. “I’ll always love you. But things are different now.”

      I summoned my courage. “Is Melanie going on your backpacking trip, too?”

      His mouth tightened. “This has nothing to do with Melanie.”

      “So she’s not going?”

      He didn’t say anything.

      Damn him. The bastard.

      “I have an appointment booked with my lawyer this afternoon,” I said. “Where should I have him send the papers?”

      He straightened slowly. “You mean divorce papers?”

      The D-word hung in the air between us. I couldn’t believe I’d found the courage to deliver the ultimatum.

      Please, please, please, I found myself praying to an unknown, unimagined entity. Let Gary realize what I mean to him. What our family means to him.

      But he nodded, as if a divorce had been in his plans all along. Rather than trying to talk me out of legal action, he grabbed paper and pen and wrote down an address.

      Melanie’s no doubt.

      Gary added one more pair of socks to the pack, then closed the flap.

      “That’s it? That’s all you’re taking?”

      “You can sell the rest,” he said, as if all the belongings he’d amassed over the past twenty years—the gold cufflinks, the Cartier watch, the twenty Harry Rosensuits lined up on his side of the closet—meant nothing to him.

      I sank onto the bed. In stunned silence, I let Gary kiss me on the forehead. I watched him sling the backpack over his shoulder, then walk out of our bedroom without a final glance.

      “Don’t forget to write.” Ha-ha.

      I collapsed onto the down comforter and wondered how I was going to tell the girls when they came home from camp.

      CHAPTER 1

      Dovercourt Village, Toronto

       One year later

       I stood back from the moving truck and took a long look at my half of the semidetached house that would be our new home. If it had any redeeming features, I couldn’t see them. The place was old. Tired. Though I’d had the structure inspected and been assured of a dry basement and sound roof, the house looked as if a strong gale would send it toppling. Even the lawn and few scraggly shrubs appeared in need of resuscitation.

      How was I going to make this place a home, a welcome sanctuary from the world for my girls and me?

      The task seemed impossible.

      I felt lost. Ever since Gary had left, I’d been losing little bits of myself. They disappeared along with the people who had once constituted my world: my husband, our mutual friends, my in-laws and even my own parents. None of my relationships had emerged from this divorce intact.

      And now my home was gone, too.

      I sighed as I pulled out the envelope of cash for the mover. He accepted payment, handed me a receipt, then took off.

      I wished I could do the same.

      Toronto was a city of neighborhoods. Where you lived said a lot about you. My previous home in Rosedale had announced that I was part of the Toronto establishment—wealthy, privileged and entitled to the best the city had to offer.

      This house, in this neighborhood, said blue-collar worker, unconnected, struggling to get by.

      Those were hardly labels to aspire to. But a place in Dovercourt Village had been all I could afford within a reasonable distance of my daughters’ private school.

      Unfortunately, Gary and I had never been savers. We’d piled all his salary into our house and our extravagant lifestyle.

      So here I was. Or, more accurately, here we were. The new family unit—me, Devin, Jamie…that was it. Just the three of us now.

      I brushed dust from my hands and headed for the front door. It was original to the house, too, protected by an ugly screen door. I’d have loved to rip the screen off, but maybe we’d need the extra insulation when winter came.

      Inside, the foyer was so small it could hold no more than a couple people at the same time. With just two steps, I reached the stairs that led to the second story. I was heading for my bedroom, when I heard the doorbell.

      Had СКАЧАТЬ