Chapter One
ANN MARIE NEELAN
Chicago, 2008
As I reach the attorney’s office on the thirtieth floor, I’m disappointed by my reflection in the large glass panels that make up the entrance. My shoulders are slumped, and there are dark circles underneath my blue eyes. Nothing ages you like stress and sadness. I lift my chin and yank one of the door handles before seeing the word PUSH etched above it. A profound thud echoes through the corridor. Once inside, I can sense the receptionist’s disdain.
I approach him with a rueful grin. “I’m Ann Marie Neelan. I’m here to see—”
“Please have a seat,” he says.
I settle in an old leather armchair near a window overlooking Chicago’s renowned Michigan Avenue and look down at my unsteady hands gripping the folders in my lap as if my life depends on them, which it does. Despite everything, my fingernails are perfectly manicured in pale pink to match my lips, and my long dark hair is pulled into a low, tidy ponytail at the nape of my neck, because I’m not allowed to fall apart. I can hear my mother’s resolute voice: “Put your pearls on and fake it.”
I flip open one of my folders and pretend to care about its contents. Copies of e-mails, phone records, credit card receipts. All of which I’ve seen a thousand times in the course of the months that led me to where I am today. Broken promises, broken vows, broken hearts—mine, anyway—and a web of lies woven so expertly that I’m ashamed to be at the center of it all. My stomach turns.
Fifteen minutes later, an intercom buzzes and alerts the receptionist. He lifts the phone receiver and then places it back down. “Stewart will see you now.”
I hurry up and out of the chair. “Oh, great. Thank you so much,” I say with a smile and then disappear around a corner. I run a hand over my head, but I know there isn’t a hair out of place.
Stewart Fishman is hanging up the phone and motions for me to sit down when I enter his office. His desktop is large and very sparse, save for a phone, an electric pencil sharpener, a coffee cup, and a glass paperweight in the shape of a golf ball. His skin is wrinkled and tan, and his expression gruff, but there is evidence of what was once a handsome, youthful man. I watch as he adjusts a pair of reading glasses over his dark eyes, topped by a pair of bushy white brows, and studies me.
“You can put those on the desk.” He gestures to my folders, and I do as he suggests. “So,” Stewart begins, “I know we discussed your situation a little over the phone, but why don’t you brief me on everything now that you’re here.” His voice is low and comforting. All I want is to have someone else take control of my life and do my fighting for me.
I manage a smile. “My husband, Todd, moved out about six months ago, recently stopped paying the mortgage, and is threatening to stop paying the utilities if we don’t come to an agreement on selling the house ASAP. I can’t have it go into foreclosure.” I pause and take a breath. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in here, but it’s been hard with the boys being so young. I’m embarrassed by how blindsided I was by all his lies and cheating. There was a short period of time where I even thought maybe we could work things out.” I throw my arms up and shake my head.
“So, how did you find me?” He lifts his glasses and scans a notepad on his desk.
“My therapist, Monica Farlander.”
He gives a small, knowing nod. “OK, Ann Marie . . .” He looks at his notes again. “Neelan. Tell me about yourself. What’s your maiden name?”
“Haddad. It’s Lebanese.”
He writes down the name, furrowing his brow. “I’ve seen that name before.” He stares at the page and then looks away for a moment.
“It’s a common Lebanese name,” I add.
“What’s your mother’s name?”
“Catherine. She’s from Connecticut.”
He writes her name on the paper and then sits back in his chair, rests his hands in his lap, and looks me straight in the eyes. “Wait, is she a Downing?”
I’m a little surprised by his question, as people don’t normally make the connection without my telling them. The Downings are a renowned East Coast dynasty, and yes, my mother is somewhat related. Her father, Albert Clarke, was the elder brother of Hazel Clarke Downing, the matriarch of the Downing dynasty. “My mom is a Clarke,” I say. “Hazel Downing is my mom’s aunt.”
Before I know it, he leaps up out of his chair and places his hands on his hips.
I squirm in my seat. I can’t afford to meet with any more attorneys at this point. Todd has already met with so many of the other good ones in Chicago, barring them from representing me. “Maybe your firm has done a Clarke or Downing divorce before?” I ask. A fair question, considering the countless number of failed Downing marriages over the past four decades. My parents being one of those.
Stewart takes a deep breath, and his eyes go wide. “Your mother was a client of mine.” He starts waving a finger and pacing behind his chair.
“What?” My skin gets warm, and a lump of uneasiness lands in my throat.
“Catherine Clarke Haddad. CC, right?”
I nod.
“She was quite the beauty, that woman.” He pauses, reveling in the thought of her as so many people do, including me. “And a fighter, too. She made quite an impression on people,” he adds. “Do you have any idea what that family went through?” He looks away.
I’m about to answer, but he continues to speak, reliving the memory.
“What a horrible story that was.” He shakes his head and sits down, placing his elbows on the desk.
“Well, no divorce is without its issues, as I’m sure you know, but I didn’t think it was all that bad. I mean, the Clarkes and the Downings aren’t in the habit of discussing ‘unsavory’ matters, that’s for sure, but they—”
Stewart lifts a hand and points at me. “Oh my God.” His eyes penetrate mine. “All this time I’ve wondered what happened to that poor little girl.”
I eye him. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”
“Are you her only daughter?” he asks.
“CC’s? Yes, of course.” He must have me confused with someone else.
“This is incredible.” He looks me over as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
We stare at each other. Me, uncomfortable; him, astonished.
Stewart Fishman rubs his forehead and then briefly covers his mouth with the palm of his hand. His eyes become glossy. “I can’t believe you’re the little girl.”