The Life She Wants. Robyn Carr

attorneys had managed many a delay but eventually there was a trial—a circus of a trial—and she appeared to be the trusting, good wife, head held high. Richard’s mother and sister had not come to the trial and refused interviews. She’d always assumed they didn’t think she was good enough for Richard, but after the trial she changed her opinion. They must have known all about him. He was dark and empty inside.

      He never talked to her about it, at least not until the ugly, bitter end. When she asked about the investigation he just said they were out to get him, that business was tough but he was tougher, that they’d never prove anything. At the end there had been a few brief, nasty but revealing discourses. How could you? How could I not? How could you justify the greed? My greed? How about their greed? Do they have to justify it? They wanted me to do anything to make them money! They wanted me to spin straw into gold even if I had to lie, cheat and steal! Each one of them just wanted their payday before it all broke!

      The feds proved everything with ease. Employees cut deals and testified against him. Truckloads of documentation proved securities fraud, theft, mail fraud, wire fraud, money laundering... The list was long. When the end was near, when he’d attempted a getaway and been unceremoniously returned by US Marshals, when his offshore accounts had been located and identified, when he faced a long jail sentence with no nest egg left hidden away, Richard shot himself.

      Of course no one believed Emma had no idea. Apparently people thought he came home from the office and bared his soul over a drink. He had not.

      The Richard she knew was obviously a con man, a chameleon. He could be so charming, so devoted. But he always had a plan and always wanted something more. Why wouldn’t I marry you? You were an outstanding investment. Perfect for the role! It’s a well-known fact—people trust married men more than single men. He was a narcissist, a manipulator, a liar and cheat. He was so damn good at it, a person could feel almost honored to be manipulated and lied to by him. He had the looks of Richard Gere, the brilliance of Steve Jobs, the ethics of Bernie Madoff. Thank God he wasn’t as successful as Bernie. Richard had only managed to steal about a hundred million.

      What did she know? She knew he was private; he didn’t talk about work, which she thought was normal behavior for a powerful man. He was an amazing communicator socially and in business, but once he stopped courting her, he stopped telling her stories about his family, his youth, college, about his early years on Wall Street. She knew he didn’t have many old friends, just a lot of business contacts. She never met college pals or colleagues from his early professional days. He did routinely ask her about her day, however. He’d ask her about her schedule, her projects, what she did, who she talked to, what was happening in her world. When he was home, that is—he was often working late or traveling. The thing that set Richard apart from other, mediocre con men—he knew how to listen. People, herself included, thought they’d learned something about him when he hadn’t said a word about himself. But he listened to them. Raptly. They were thrilled by this attention.

      One nine-year marriage, a few years of which had been weirdly adequate, five years of which had been a nightmare. Now she wondered when the nightmare would end.

      * * *

      Emma drove directly to Lyle’s flower shop, Hello, Gorgeous, named for Barbra Streisand, of course. Lyle had been wonderful to her through this whole ordeal. He hadn’t been able to be in New York with her very often. Not only was it a great, costly distance but there was also the small complication that his partner, Ethan, had never been particularly fond of Emma, though he didn’t really know her. Lyle had made a couple of trips, however, and called almost daily during the rough patches. She understood about Ethan. But Lyle and Emma had been friends long before Ethan came into his life. For reasons unknown, Ethan had never warmed to her. Emma suspected good old-fashioned jealousy, as if Emma might bring out Lyle’s straight side or something. So Emma and Ethan had always had a rather cool regard for each other. But since Richard’s debacle, Ethan’s regard had gone from cool to frigid.

      But—and this was an important but—if Ethan went on about his dislike and disapproval of Emma too much, he was going to lose Lyle, and he might be bitchy but he wasn’t stupid.

      Emma stood outside the shop and took a deep breath before walking through the door. And of course, who should be behind the counter but Ethan. “Well, Emma, I see you made it,” he said as though it took effort to be kind.

      “Yes, thank you,” she answered carefully.

      “Rough journey?” Ethan surprised her by asking.

      “In every way,” she said.

      “Well, there you are,” Lyle said as he came from the back and rushed over to embrace her. “Would you like a cup of coffee or something before we head over to Penny’s house?”

      She shook her head. “I parked down the block in the only available space. I’d like to get going—I have a lot to do.”

      “Sure,” he said. He turned to Ethan. “I’m going to give Em a hand, visit with Penny a little. I’ll probably grab something to eat with them. I won’t be late.”

      Ethan lifted his chin and sniffed, but his reply was perfectly appropriate. “I think I’ll drop in on Nora and Ed. Sounds like a good night to get a little uncle time.”

      “Excellent. Give them my love.”

      Then, hand on her elbow, Lyle escorted her out of the shop. “I’m parked right here. I’ll drive you down to your car,” he said.

      “Oh, please, no,” she said, laughing. “My butt hurts so bad, I hate to even get back in the car. I’m going to walk—it’s only a block. And I have a cooler with some drinks for us. Listen, I don’t want to...” She tilted her head toward the store. “I don’t want to cause any friction. If you’ll just get me to the house and introduce me to your friend, I can manage from there.”

      “No worries, Emma. I explained to Ethan days ago that I was going to lend a hand when you got here.” He chuckled. “He was very adult about it. It’s time for him to pay his sister a visit anyway. They live a mile away and Ethan doesn’t visit as often as he should. I think I visit more than he does—we have a gorgeous niece. He can go over there and complain about me and my stubborn ways. Besides, I want to make sure you’re all right.”

      She smiled at him with gratitude. “I might never be all right again,” she said. “All I want right now is a little quiet and anonymity.”

      “Have you heard from Rosemary?” he asked.

      “I did her the courtesy of emailing her that I’d be moving to a small bungalow in Sebastopol and told her I could be reached through you. I don’t even trust her enough to give her my new cell number—I bet she’d sell it to the press. I take it you haven’t heard from her?” He shook his head and this came as no surprise. Rosemary had been in touch when she thought Richard was rich and powerful; after his fall from grace, she behaved as if she didn’t know him. “We haven’t made amends. She wasn’t exactly supportive.”

      “Your sisters should be helping you now,” he said.

      They had never done anything to help her. “We’ve never been that kind of family,” she said. Indeed, they weren’t family at all.

      “I can relate,” Lyle said.

      Emma knew Lyle had always had a hard time with his father, but at least his mother adored him. She gave his upper arm a squeeze. “Well, you’ve saved my life here. I’d be lost without this little place you found.”

      “It found me. Penny is elderly, but don’t use that word around her. She’s what we’d call spry. Almost eighty and still walking three miles a day, gardening and playing the occasional game of tennis. But the problem with living forever, the money thins out eventually.”

      “And she knows everything?” Emma asked.

      He nodded. “As you wished. She said, ‘We’ve all hooked up with the wrong person here and there, poor girl.’ This little bungalow is a sort of guesthouse, a casita, though her house, the main house,