Chapter 8: The Diner on Route 31
She'd texted that morning and asked if we could meet. Just the two of us, she wrote. Somewhere quiet.
I chose the diner on Route 31 because I knew it. Vinyl booths, coffee that came too hot, a waitress who called everyone honey. I got there ten minutes early and took the booth in the back by the window. My clutch was in my purse now, folded around the attorney's letter. The manila envelope was underneath it, still sealed except for the one open end I'd torn at the kitchen counter.
She came in at exactly noon.
She wasn't in white anymore. She wore a soft gray sweater and jeans, her dark hair pulled back the same way it had been in the ballroom, no makeup except a little mascara. She looked rested. Composed. She slid into the booth across from me and smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It was the same expression she'd worn standing behind me with the wine drying on my shoulder.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
The waitress poured coffee. I wrapped both hands around the mug so they wouldn't shake.
She waited until the waitress walked away. "I wanted to check in," she said. "About the envelope. I thought you'd have left it signed in his mailbox by now."
I didn't answer right away. I watched the steam come off my coffee. In the ballroom I hadn't known what that envelope was, only that it was heavy and that everyone was watching me hold it.
"I didn't sign it," I said.
Her smile thinned a little. "Why not?"
"Because I had it looked at."
She tilted her head. Her hands were folded on the table, nails pale pink, perfectly still. "It's a simple quitclaim. It just clears up the title so we can move forward. I don't understand what there is to look at."
That was the first time she'd said what it actually was. At the reception she'd only said it was an important document about the home where we both live, and the way she'd said it made it sound like a formality. Like something I should just do.
I reached into my purse and felt the paper there, but I didn't take it out yet.
"What's the plan for the house?" I asked.
She glanced toward the window, then back at me. Her voice stayed even, low enough that the table next to us wouldn't hear.
"We want to sell it," she said. "Or refinance. We haven't decided which is cleaner. Either way we need clear title. We found a new place over by the high school, three bedrooms, a yard. It's more appropriate for a married couple. We can't do anything while your name is on the deed. You understand that, right? It's not personal. It's just practical."
Practical. The word sat between us. That house wasn't practical. It was the place I'd lived for twenty-two years, where I'd raised my son, where I'd paid the taxes every November at the county clerk's window.
"It's my home too," I said quietly.
"I know you feel that way," she said. Her tone didn't change, but her eyes hardened, that same stern, controlled look from the ballroom. Like she was waiting for me to be reasonable. "But you agreed when you added him to the deed that it would be his eventually. We're just formalizing it. If you don't sign, we can't qualify for the loan. We'll be stuck."
The waitress came back to take our order. She ordered a salad. I said I wasn't hungry.
When we were alone again I pulled the folded letter from my purse and smoothed it on the table. It was from the legal aid office on Main Street, on letterhead, with the attorney's signature at the bottom.
"I'm not signing the quitclaim at a diner," I said. My voice was thinner than I wanted it to be, so I paused and breathed. "This letter says I have the right to remain on the deed and in the home. It says any transfer should be reviewed and should not be signed under pressure. I brought a copy for you."
I slid it across the laminate toward her.
She didn't touch it at first. She looked down at it, then up at me, and that sternness came fully back. No raised voice, no sharp movement. Just that still, unsympathetic gaze I'd seen over my shoulder in the chandelier light.
"You're really doing this," she said. "After everything he did to make that day perfect."
I kept my hands around my mug. "I'm keeping my home."
She finally picked up the letter, folded it once without reading it fully, and tucked it into her bag. She stood and slipped her wallet onto the table for her coffee.
May you like
"He's going to be so disappointed," she said, looking down at me. "I told him you'd understand. That you'd want what's best for him."
She didn't wait for me to answer. She walked out, the bell over the door jingling behind her, and I sat alone in the booth with the envelope still in my purse and the coffee going cold in front of me.
