Chapter 8 — His Signature

Vincent read the conclusion again.

Then he began at the top, following every line with a finger as though careful reading might change it.

His attorney reached for the report.

Vincent pulled it back.

“Give me a minute.”

The man sat back.

Eleanor looked at me.

I stayed still.

“The dates,” Vincent said. “How did you get—”

“Does it matter to you now?”

“Of course it matters.”

“Then it should have mattered before you invited people to bet.”

His mouth twisted.

“I thought I couldn’t.”

“You were willing to be certain.”

“I had the procedure.”

“And never considered being wrong.”

He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead.

For several seconds, he couldn’t speak.

When he finally did, the words came out one at a time.

“I let him take you upstairs.”

“Yes.”

“I told them—”

“Yes.”

He stood abruptly.

His attorney caught the back of his chair before it fell.

“Vincent, sit down.”

But Vincent had turned toward the wall.

He braced a hand against it and bent his head.

I heard a sound come from him that I hadn’t heard at his father’s funeral.

I looked away.

Not because I felt sorry for him.

Because I was tired of watching him make my child’s death about his discovery.

Eleanor spoke.

“We should take a short break.”

“No,” Vincent said.

He turned back.

His face was wet.

“No. Don’t let her leave.”

“I’m not leaving yet,” I told him.

He sat quickly, as if sitting might keep me there.

“Tell me what you want.”

I drew the settlement folder toward me.

“A divorce.”

He stared.

“Claire—”

“And the financial settlement Eleanor sent to your attorney.”

His lawyer cleared his throat.

“We’ve reviewed the proposal. There are portions requiring discussion.”

“Discuss them.”

Vincent looked at the papers without touching them.

“You can’t expect me to do this today.”

“I expected you to open a door.”

He flinched.

I let the sentence stand.

Then I pushed the first page toward him.

“You don’t have to sign today. I can leave, and Eleanor can handle the rest.”

He caught the edge of the folder.

“No.”

“I won’t sit here while you argue that I should remain your wife.”

“I’m not arguing.”

“Then stop calling this a conversation about forgiveness.”

His attorney opened his own copy.

For the next twenty minutes, the men discussed assets.

Vincent listened badly.

He asked the same question twice.

He stared at my hands while his lawyer spoke.

Eleanor corrected the descriptions of two property interests and marked the changes for both attorneys.

I followed every alteration.

The estate.

The holding company.

The accounts already in my name.

His remaining interests in the businesses included in the proposed transfer.

There were obligations to settle. Documents to complete. The agreement would not turn signatures into finished transactions before we left the room.

I understood that now.

Vincent had depended for years on me not understanding it.

His attorney stopped at the section giving me authority to dispose of the transferred interests.

“You appreciate what this means?” he asked Vincent.

Vincent nodded.

“I’m asking whether you understand that she can sell.”

“I heard you.”

“She isn’t agreeing to preserve them for you.”

Vincent looked at me.

I did not soften the answer.

“No.”

He rubbed his jaw.

“You wouldn’t have to live there. I could find you somewhere else.”

“I don’t want you finding me anything.”

“I mean somewhere you’d choose.”

“I’ve chosen to leave.”

His eyes dropped to the report lying beside the folder.

“Where is the baby buried?”

The question caught me harder than I expected.

Eleanor turned toward me.

I could have ended the meeting.

Instead, I looked at Vincent.

“That is not part of this negotiation.”

“I’m the father.”

I let the silence settle before answering.

“You were the husband when I called through the door.”

He shut his eyes.

I slid the report back into its envelope.

He watched me put it away.

“Can I have a copy?”

“No.”

His attorney opened his mouth.

Eleanor spoke first.

“Any request for further documents can come through counsel. Today’s settlement does not depend on a paternity finding.”

The man nodded reluctantly.

Vincent barely seemed to hear.

He picked up the pen.

Then put it down again.

“If I sign, will you come back to see me?”

“No.”

“Will you answer my calls?”

“No.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

I looked at him.

“Whatever you do next, you’ll do it without me.”

He swallowed.

His attorney leaned toward him and spoke quietly.

I couldn’t hear every word, only enough to understand that he was making sure Vincent knew what he was signing.

Vincent nodded once.

Then again.

Eleanor waited until the conversation ended.

“Are you ready?”

Vincent looked at me.

“Do you want me to say it?”

“Say what?”

“That I ruined everything.”

“I want you to sign.”

For a moment, anger crossed his face.

The old Vincent was still there.

The man who expected tears to be rewarded, apologies to be accepted, his pain to interrupt everyone else’s decisions.

Then he glanced at the envelope in my bag.

The anger vanished beneath something heavier.

He signed the first page.

His name looked almost normal.

The familiar sweep of the V.

The long line beneath Moretti.

I had watched him sign birthday cards, property papers, receipts for flowers.

Now I watched him give up the things he had thought would keep me close.

At each marked line, his attorney checked the page.

Eleanor did too.

No hidden sheet.

No trick folded beneath another document.

I wanted him to know exactly what he was losing.

When he finished, I signed my parts.

Eleanor collected our copies.

Vincent stared at the pen.

“I can still change.”

I stood carefully.

Eleanor rose beside me.

“I hope you understand that changing doesn’t entitle you to another chance with me.”

He stood too.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“You can’t make up the baby’s life.”

He reached toward my bag.

Not to take it.

To keep me near him.

I stepped back.

His hand fell.

At the door, he said my name again.

I looked over my shoulder.

For the first time, I didn’t feel compelled to answer it.

Rachel was waiting in the car.

She saw the folder before she saw my face.

“Did he?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes briefly.

Then she leaned across the seat and hugged me as gently as she could.

I held on.

Not because I regretted anything.

Because it was over, and my body had not yet learned how to believe it.

Eleanor stood beside the open door.

“We still have work to do.”

“I know.”

“The filings. The transfers. The outstanding obligations. I’ll keep you updated.”

I nodded.

Then I took the estate documents from the folder.

“I want the house listed.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“And the businesses?”

“Find buyers for everything I can lawfully sell. I want clean transactions, not another reason to be tied to him.”

“We’ll work through them individually.”

“I don’t care about keeping his name on a building.”

Eleanor held the documents against her chest.

“All right.”

Rachel started the car.

I looked out at the city as we pulled away.

For years, I had measured places by Vincent.

His restaurant.

His club.

His office.

His house.

Now I wanted streets he had never driven down with me.

A room with a lock only I controlled.

A morning in which no one brought me a drink I was afraid to refuse.

At the recovery residence, Rachel helped me upstairs.

On the table beside the window, I put my copy of the signed agreement.

Then I took off my wedding ring.

There was a pale mark beneath it.

I turned the ring once between my fingers.

“What do you want to do with it?” Rachel asked.

I set it on top of the papers.

“Add it to the things I’m selling.”