Page 20 of Letters From Victor

He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you asking me as your lawyer or as your friend?”

“Both.”

Lawrence crossed to a small sideboard and poured two fingers of whiskey into a pair of plain lowball glasses. He handed me one, and I took a long sip, savoring the smooth burn as it slid down my throat. Lawrence settled into the leather armchair across from me and slipped his glasses back on. He sighed heavily and finally spoke. “Victor, as your lawyer, I must advise against this course of action. The social and legal repercussions would be…significant.”

The whiskey warmed my chest. “It’s 1951, Larry. Times have changed.”

“Not enough.” He took a long drink. “If you do this, every aspect of your life will be fair game for investigation.” He shot me a knowing look. “Do you really want to open yourself up to that kind of scrutiny?”

Damn. He made a good point. “That’s fair.” I paused. “And if I’m asking you as my friend?”

“As your friend…” Lawrence blew out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy.”

“What would it take?”

“For starters, you need to decide if you’ll sue Dotty for the divorce or let her sue you. Essentially, figure out which one of you will take the blame. And on what grounds.”

“I don’t care about a black mark. I’ll take the blame.” I reached into my breast pocket for my cigarette case.

Lawrence held up a hand, gesturing to the case. “Please don’t smoke in here. My lungs got burned up pretty bad in France, and I don’t care to hack out what’s left of them this afternoon.”

“Of course,” I responded, shaking my head as I returned the case to my pocket. “Force of habit. It completely slipped my mind.” I threw back the whiskey instead. “Anyway, I can take the blame.”

“You could, but then Dotty would have to be the one to file for divorce. And I don’t think she’d do that. I certainly wouldn’t, were I in her shoes. When we drafted up your separation agreement three years ago, Dotty got a damn good deal—generous income, the Pasadena house, a new car every year.” He ticked the items off on his fingers. “She’d be a fool to give that up without a fight. Unless something’s changed between you two that I don’t know about.”

I shook my head again. “No, nothing’s changed.”

“It’s a good deal. Separate lives, no public scandal. All the freedom of a divorce without the stain of one. Why stir up trouble?”

I nodded slowly, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “I know it’s not ideal, and it won’t be easy. But there has to be a way.”

He leaned back in his leather chair, the springs creaking softly. Lacing his fingers together, he appraised me over the rims of his glasses. “Then you file for divorce, but you need grounds. In your case, you’ve really only got two options. You could claim mental cruelty, but that’s a tough sell. The courts tend to favor the wife in these matters. Adultery is your other option, but you’ll need hard proof—photographs, hotel receipts, love letters, that sort of thing. And even then, it’s no sure thing.”

“What about separation?”

“You’re thinking of desertion. And living in separate households doesn’t cut it.”

I stood and paced the width of the modest office a few times before turning back to him. “People get divorced all the time. There’s got to be a way.”

Lawrence was quiet as he sized me up. “What’s really going on here? Why do you suddenly want to go down this road?”

“What do you mean? Dotty and I have been on the rocks for a long time. You know that.”

He nodded and sighed. “Who is she?”

I pressed my lips together. “Who is who?”

He stood, walked over to me, and clapped me on both shoulders. “Victor, look at me. I’m not one of your employees or your lackeys. And I’m certainly not your mother.”

“No, you’re my friend.”

He dropped his arms to his side. “Yes, I am. And we’ve been through a lot. We shed blood together, and that means something.”

My mind flashed back to deafening mortar fire that shook the ground, blinding bursts of white-hot light in the pitch of night, and the snaps and whistles of gunshots.

“So who is she, Victor?”

11

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