She was reading up on rootwork one evening when the doorbell rang. Without pulling her eyes from the book, she’d opened the door.
“Well, hello there!” The handsome deliveryman was standing on the other side of the threshold with three stuffed grocery bags in his arms and a shit-eating grin on his face.
A week had passed since his last visit, and during that time, Harriett had given up clothes. “So sorry!” She’d reached for a bag and used it to cover her shame, certain he could see through her skin to her shriveled, old ovaries.
“No apologies necessary,” he assured her. “I’m Eric, by the way.”
She’d come to think of herself as a hideous crone. But Eric certainly hadn’t seemed scarred by the sight. Maybe, she thought, she’d been mistaken. Maybe that wasn’t how it all really worked.
It was the last day of her three-week vacation, and Harriett was basking in the sunshine when she heard a car pull into her drive. The sound of the doorbell didn’t rouse her, and she managed to ignore the persistent knocking that followed.
“Harriett Osborne!” a man finally called out. “Are you back there? Can you hear me?”
The man’s brusque intrusion into her thoughts jolted Harriett upright. He’d given up at the front door. Now she could hear him prodding at the vegetation surrounding the garden, looking for a way past her defenses. She snatched up her robe and held it to her chest. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“It’s Colin Clarke!” A long pause followed as Harriett racked her brain for a clue to the man’s role in her life. “I’m the lawyer representing you in your divorce.” He sounded concerned, as though she’d forgotten the president’s name. The man was important. She should have known who he was.
“Of course!” Harriett jumped to her feet and wrapped the robe tightly around her, but somehow couldn’t figure out what her next step should be.
“My office has been trying to reach you for days,” he called through the plants.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!” She had no idea where she’d last seen her phone. She didn’t know an explanation was required, so she didn’t bother to give one.
“Mrs. Osborne—” he started again, clearly worried.
“Ms.” She didn’t really say it. The word just slipped out.
There was a pause. “Ms. Osborne, may I come inside? Your husband and his attorney have an offer they’d like me to present.”
“Inside?” The house could use a good cleaning, and it reeked of pot.
“Is that a problem?” he asked, his voice now teetering on the line between concerned and frustrated. “Ms. Osborne, is everything all right?”
“I’ll meet you at the front door,” she said, though she was sure she’d regret it.
When she opened the door, she realized she’d screwed up. She’d met the man on her doorstep exactly three times, and each time she’d been in tears when they parted. She’d known Colin Clarke by reputation long before she hired him. Everyone said he was the best divorce attorney in Mattauk. He specialized in representing well-off women whose husbands had retained Manhattan heavy hitters. Clarke was famously cold and formal. He made it clear to his clients that they would never be friends. The questions he asked would at times seem brutal. He might need to know things they wouldn’t want to share. But if they were honest and forthright, he’d ensure they left their marriages with every cent they deserved. Now he was standing in Harriett’s doorway in a lovely Italian suit—and an expression that made it clear that he was not at all pleased with her.
It had been weeks since Harriett had cared much about her appearance. There were likely leaves in her hair and fur on her legs. Having walked around naked for days, the robe felt like a sober-minded nod to convention. But Mr. Clarke clearly did not agree. His eyebrows lifted as his head reared back. For a moment, she wondered if she might smell terrible, too.