Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [44]
Finally, I give up trying to sleep and turn on TV Land, which, as luck would have it, is playing an I Love Lucy marathon. Fading in and out of consciousness I listen to Lucy and Ricky argue, tease, and deceive each other and then make up. All is forgiven at the end of each episode. I try not to think about Lucy and Desi’s real life together, which I understand was plagued by domestic strife, conniving, and betrayal. Yet another married couple whose business and romantic relationships had gone sour. Not that the TV Land version of marriage was a picnic, but wouldn’t it be nice if every twenty-four minutes you could start over, take a marital mulligan, wipe the domestic slate clean?
Who was I kidding? Jake and I hadn’t been married long enough to make it to syndication.
The offices of Tyler, Fox, and Rosenberg are on the thirty-fifth floor of the Seagram Building. Perhaps because Jerry is anticipating that we may have to be rushed off to separate corners for pep talks, cool downs, or time-outs, he’s provided us with a large conference room. Jake and I, along with our respective lawyers, sit across from each other at a table that could easily accommodate twenty people. To my immense relief, there’s no sign of Nicola.
On the rosewood table between us is a tray with a coffee pot, some cups, and a plate of donuts. In case anyone feels like eating. Across the table Jake looks small and boyish, out of place in his khakis and blazer when I’m so used to seeing him in his chef’s whites or a tee shirt and jeans. He looks like he’s borrowed his older brother’s clothes for some big date. He gives me a curt smile and a brief nod, then immediately looks away. His lawyer has probably given him the same instruction mine has given me. Jake’s lawyer, whose name is Ethan Bowman, greets Jerry enthusiastically, shaking hands and patting him on the shoulder. They know each other well enough to ask after their respective wives, which I think is rather tactless given the fact that they are charged this morning with the severing of certain matrimonial ties, and ought not to be broadcasting their successful marriages under the noses of clients whose relationship failures, so obvious and recent, are paying their bills.
As Jerry advised, I don’t look at Jake except once, when the conversation turns to the disposition of the season tickets to the Met. At that point, I dare to meet his gaze. I’d gotten Jake a threeopera subscription package for his birthday the year after Grappa opened. For the first time in our professional lives, we were calling the shots and could count on taking the occasional Monday evening off. I splurged on Dress Circle seats, hoping that one day I’d learn to share Jake’s enthusiasm for opera, although I never had. I remove a medium-sized manila envelope from my purse and slide the package containing the tickets across the table to Jake.
“Here. You’ve missed the first one, but all the others are there. I didn’t use the tickets to Turandot, so maybe you can exchange them for credit. The subscription is in my name, but you can renew it in yours and still keep the same seats next year, if you want. I checked.”
Jerry gives me an annoyed look. We hadn’t discussed this in advance, and I can tell that he thinks it’s a bad move to just fork over the tickets when perhaps he could have used them to extract some other concession from Jake, but I don’t care.
“I don’t want them,” I say, with a shrug of my shoulders, to Jake, to Jerry, to Ethan, if he cares. Then, turning to look at Jake, I say, “I hate opera.”
“Thanks,” Jake says very quietly, not meeting my eye and making no move to claim the tickets.
“While we’re dealing with the disposition of the minor assets, my client, Ms. Rinaldi, requests that you reimburse