My Husband's Divorce Attorney

Chapter 5

My calves burned, and my feet ached as I hustled in my stilettos to my destination.

Abandoning my parking spot in front of RTK & Associates had been unwise. Normally I was able to snag a parking spot in the private lot behind the Jones building, but today a moving truck had blocked the entrance to it. I ended up parking nine blocks away, which doubled the distance I had to walk.

Damn these shoes. Had it not been for them, I actually would have loved the walk up the Old Town street. The area had a vibe that tickled my creativity. Usually I found inspiration in every mural, statue, and window display that lined the road; but today I had to rush by every beautiful detail. This meeting was supposed to secure all my long-denied dreams; I couldn't be late, even though I now knew those dreams were impossible.

This area was where small businesses really seemed to thrive, an area where I had hoped to establish myself in. Old brick buildings for friendly old souls that wanted to make their customers happy. Mr. Jones, the dapper widower, was the only remaining original owner still left in this district.

Arriving at his building brought a mix of emotions with it. His late wife, Lila, was my dear friend. and I visited often before she passed. I had ventured into her boutique for some clothes but left with something unexpected: a new friend. Our tea and mentoring dates gave me a connection I had yearned for. She encouraged me to have big dreams and bigger passions.

She believed in me.

Lila was more supportive than my own mother ever had been. Two years with her hadn’t been nearly enough, and approaching her empty boutique now was heartbreaking.

I pulled on the door, but it was locked. Confused, I looked around and noticed a bright post-it note on the ground. I recognized the shaky scrawl facing up at me immediately.

“Meet upstairs instead. -K”

Before the news of the divorce last week, I had been in talks with Mr. Jones about renting the space to start my own photography and design studio. It was his idea for me to take over. I peered through the boutique glass front; no one was around. The space was perfect, with beautiful hardwood floors and exposed brick. I dreamt of it being my next blank canvas to create something uniquely my own, and something to make Lila proud.

Unfortunately it was a dream I could no longer afford. I needed every last dime from the house sale to secure a home for Ethan and me. Nyx had his own apartment by his university, so while I hoped to get a space big enough for him too, I had to be realistic. I needed a stable job, not a new entrepreneurial adventure.

But when I emailed Mr. Jones to back out of the deal and tell him about the divorce, his reply was cryptic. He insisted I come by the rental space--apparently, Lila had left me some kind of gift.

Backtracking to the alley between the units, I opened the door that led upstairs. While the building had two brick levels, the first unit had a rooftop apartment on top. Each step had my feet crying, but I would stand by my stubborn choice of moving my car. I’d choose physical pain over emotional discomfort every time.

I reached the top and knocked on the ornate wooden door. To my surprise, the door immediately swung open. Instead of finding the slow-going elderly Mr. Jones, I was greeted by a handsome man who was the spitting image of his father but with much lighter skin. His wide smile greeted me.

“Good afternoon, Miss Tiffany,” he said, then he turned to yell, “Pops, she’s here!”

I had only met Damon once, and it was at his mother’s funeral. He and his wife lived across the country with their children. Lila talked about her kids often, so I knew of them but didn’t expect them to know me.

“Tiff, come on in!”

The old man came shuffling out of a room, carrying a small box. Mr. Jones had stooped shoulders and wrinkled brown skin that was offset by his short, pure-white fro. He was adorably dapper in his suspenders, slacks, and blue paisley button-up shirt. It was a welcome, cozy contrast with the cold corporate office I’d just left.

“Stop carrying things, you stubborn old mule!” Damon said.

The younger man immediately moved to take the box out of his father’s hands. That’s when I realized that the moving van in the parking lot was for them.

“Are you moving, Mr. Jones?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Kendrick?” he said, furrowing his bushy brows at me. “Come on, let’s chat.”

I followed him into a large office. All its contents were boxed up. The desk was against the wall, and a large picture of Lila was hanging above it. I recognized the image immediately because I was the one who made it.

Seeing the glamorous canvas print was bittersweet. This was one of six mixed art pieces I made in a series called “Lila’s Smiles.” We created them together for a cancer awareness auction.

A pale white woman with long silver hair and a pink dress smiled back at me. She was happiness incarnate, and had been until the very end. The dress she wore in the image wasn’t real: it was a paper mache creation that I sculpted and painted an ombre pink. The papers that made the dress were her real hospital bills. Even after it was printed, I layered more bills onto the dress, making her gown literally pop off the canvas. The paper’s thickness was a financial topography of how many bills piled up while fighting the disease.

Kendrick saw me staring at the picture and put a hand on my shoulder. “I miss her, Tiff, so very much. This picture eases that pain and it is one of my most prized possessions.”

My eyes were watering, but it was from vastly different emotions than the ones that had consumed me earlier today. We both sniffled a bit and sat down on stacked boxes in the room.

“You never answered my question, Kendrick,” I began, but needed a moment to adjust to saying his first name. “Are you moving?”

“Yes, I am. I have come to a very important decision, and I need your help with it.”

“Of course. How can I help, Mr. Jones?”

The formal name came out of my mouth due to habit, and I expected him to bristle. Instead, he smiled. “I need you to take care of Lila’s home for me.”

I blinked while I tried to make sense of his words. Did he mean her old boutique or their actual apartment? My brain could not fathom the way he needed me to take care of it, and my unsure silence gave him space to continue.

“I’m old, Tiff. All the other Old Town founders have long retired, but Lila and I loved this place. Even after our children went and made their homes elsewhere, Lila loved it too much to leave. Her death has made me and the kids realize how much distance there is in our family, and that has filled us with regret. Damon has a guest house that I’m moving into. I’ll live there and watch my grandkids grow up. I want to be a part of their everyday lives.”

“I understand why you would want to go,” I said, immediately empathetic to the desire to be with your children, “but I am confused about what you want me to do?”

Now Kendrick crossed his arms and huffed a little. “I’m sorry about your divorce,” he said, but his voice didn’t really sound like he meant it, “but truly, I think it’s for the best. You and Robert didn’t love each other the way you needed.”

“Not everyone in the world is blessed with a love like you and Lila had,” I chuckled, surprised to hear him commenting on my marriage.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said slyly. “If you are splitting and you need a new path, I would like to hire you to be my property manager. You take over the complex, live in this apartment, get your feet underneath you, and eventually start a studio downstairs.”

A knot formed in my throat, and I couldn’t swallow. He meant for me to live here, in their home, and take care of it after he left. It was such a significant gesture that neither my brain nor my heart had even considered it.

This was perfect—well, almost perfect. Part of me still felt like someone was stepping in to take care of me, and I wanted to do this on my own. I was not so foolish as to tell him no, though.

“What if,” I began, then nervously took a breath, “instead of hiring me as a property manager, you sold me the building?”

His white eyebrows drew together, and his lips puckered as they pulled to the side.

“Can you qualify for a loan that large?”

“I—" My words stopped, and uncertainty threatened to make me retreat from the idea. Then I pressed on.

“After the house sells, I can put $250,000 down on a business loan to buy it, but I do not know how much I could qualify for on my own.”

His face split into a wide, warm smile. “This building has been paid off for decades, so I have a great deal of flexibility. If you sign a contract to keep my tenants’ rent the same, I’ll sell you the building for whatever you qualify for. I know people; we can get it worked out.”

I cried five times today, shedding tears for my marriage, my sons, my bad parking job, and for Lila. These new tears in my eyes were born from hope, and I was desperate for a life that filled me with optimism.

Mr. Jo— no, Kendrick stood up and held open his arms. Like a child, I stood and hugged him, sobbing into his chest. There was no way I could call him Mr. Jones anymore.

“Lila thought the world of you, Tiff. I know she would support this.”

My worries began to drain out of my body as satisfaction filled my heart. The money I would use to buy this commercial real estate was earned from my own creative work. This person helping me was a relationship I had fostered entirely on my own and from a place of authentic care.

Even though my tears were flowing, I was genuinely excited about my future.

But before I could get lost in the fantasy of my new life and my new home…

I had to go take apart my current one.