Murder at the Washington Tribune - Margaret Truman [42]
He glanced down at his shirtfront, back up at her and said, “I lost my job, Edith.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. A downsizing?”
“Something like that. They brought in a new management team, including a guy who ended up my new boss. An idiot. We didn’t see eye-to-eye from day one.”
A series of thoughts ran through her mind as their drinks were served. Peter made a lot of money working for the bank, and had received substantial bonuses during the time they were married. He had a 401K plan into which he invested the maximum amount allowed, and it was matched dollar for dollar by the bank. He was also tightfisted, she knew, someone who agonized over how much to tip in a restaurant, and who would go far out of his way to save a few cents on an item, often spending more in transportation to a bargain than what he saved. He wasn’t about to miss any meals.
“Enough about me,” he said. “I worry about you.”
“Why?”
“The way you spend your days and nights. There’s a killer out there preying on beautiful young women like you.”
“I don’t think I have anything to worry about Peter. In the first place, I’m not a beautiful young woman. In the second place, anybody tries to mess with me and he’s past tense. And third, there is no serial killer.”
“I read the paper,” he said.
“And you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”
He raised his glass. “It’s great seeing you again, Edith, here in this place that’s special for us. Remember?”
She picked up her bottle of beer, ignored the glass the waiter had brought with it, and took a swig. As she placed the bottle back on the table, he placed a hand over one of hers. “I really miss you, Edith.”
She pulled it back. “Peter,” she said, “are you actually suggesting that we drop the divorce and get back together?”
“I think so,” he said.
It crossed her mind that now that he was out of work, he might be looking for her to support him until he found another job. But she didn’t express that callous thought. Instead, she said, “That’s out of the question. It didn’t work, Peter. We both know that. We’re better off not being with each other.”
He didn’t reply.
“I thought you were serious about the woman you were seeing,” she said.
“There wasn’t anything there,” he said. “It was purely physical.”
On whose part? she wondered.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked. “Anyone you’re serious about?”
“No, I—I really don’t think that’s any of your concern.”
“Then you aren’t even willing to give it a try?” he said. “Even for a period of time, say a few months?”
She shook her head. “Afraid not, Peter.”
This time, her hand touched his. “It’s just better this way,” she said, withdrawing her hand and checking her watch. “Look,” she said, “I have to be up early, and I have a very busy day ahead of me. I’m glad we talked, Peter. I don’t mind staying in touch, but—”
“I talked to my lawyer today,” he said, motioning for the waiter.
“I meant to ask about that. When are the papers coming through? It’s been forever since we settled on the terms of the divorce and—”
“We have to talk about that,” he said.
“Talk about what?”
“The terms. My attorney feels they should be changed in light of my current financial situation.”
“Your current financial situation?” It came out in a burst of incredulity.
“I don’t have a job. The market is tight, especially in this economic climate. My unemployment benefits will run out. Besides, my attorney says that because you have a steady job and no one to support besides yourself, it’s only fair that you contribute money to me—or, at least, not expect me to pay alimony to someone like you who has a good job and obviously doesn’t need the money.”
“Your attorney is a scumbag!” she said, loud enough to cause the waiter, who’d brought the check, to frown and quickly walk away.
“Hey, hey,” he said, trying for her hand again, but it had joined the other one on her lap.
“This is why you got me to come here tonight, to try and get me to agree to change the terms of the divorce?”
“Keep your voice down,” he whispered.
“I’ll talk as loud