Icing On The Cake

The wife seldom knows what prompts her husband to stray. The unfaithful male usually just makes life so miserable that it’s the wife who finally files for divorce. Not so for me. I didn’t know she existed until Ted left with the uncharacteristic preemptive strike of filing first. How ugly was that? There are corporate dissolutions with less toxic vapor trails than our divorce.

I’ll never forget Ted telling a judge that it was I who’d really opted out of our marriage by leaving advertising, and causing him to lose business. “Liz lost her nerve, her drive, her ambition. She gave up.”

What, was he nuts? At the time, General Mills was dangling a contract before No-Bagel Emporium for producing frozen artisan dough. That was my doing and he knew it. Ted was always about money and more money. He threatened to sue for his share of “my” bakery if I didn’t give up my interest in “his” company. His attorney claimed my leaving had cost the company. Business had fallen off so precipitously after I left that Ted was still recovering. Add to that, I’d borrowed from Talbot Advertising to pay for my new oven and mixers, while Ted had had to hire both an idea person and an office manager to replace me.

I didn’t have the time or interest to invest further in the kind of ownership fight that might scare off General Mills. I might have been good at advertising but I didn’t love it like he did. I was about to make it big on my own, and I didn’t want him along for the ride. Ted got the firm and I kept my thriving bakery.

Looking back, my choice seems like a lousy bargain. Or am I just bitter because the General Mills deal fell through?

So, how do I feel about Ted’s death?

I never wished Ted dead. Even in my worst dark days when I thought revenge had its uses, I never wished for his demise. Bankruptcy maybe, until I realized that with Sarah and Riley in high school and college ahead, I needed all the financial help I could get. Then there was that wish that all his hair might fall out overnight. Juvenile. But I can honestly say I hadn’t given Ted an ungenerous thought in years—okay, months.

I did notice with a certain satisfaction that he never looked all that healthy after we divorced. Happier, perhaps, but never healthier. He was heading for a fall. I just didn’t know how literally he’d take one.

Ted was afraid of heights. Even a quick rise in an elevator gave him the willies. He would never have gone near a ledge in all the time I knew him. But for her he went on a mountain bike trail ride in New Mexico, made the mistake of peering over the rim into the arroyo below, lost his balance and took a half gainer over the edge.

Some might say Ted had it coming. I think, wow, you just never know.

Chapter 4

It’s been a strange month. Ted’s death threw me, for all the usual reasons, and then some. You gain a new respect for life when one is snatched away by careless happenstance.

For instance, I’ve been driving a careful five miles under the speed limit. My response to the blare of car horns and ugly looks from fellow drivers is simply to smile and wave, as they are evidence of my very vital life. I always stopped for squirrels crossing the road. Now I stop, get out and shepherd them to the other curb. Live and let live, right?

I’ve made a few other changes. Pork paninis are behind me. And I decided to take a few risks.

I went to the bank this morning, with thoughts of expanding my credit line for equipment replacement and refurbishing.

“Your income has increased in recent months,” my account manager began, which seemed to be encouraging. “However…”

This is when I knew that what followed wasn’t going to make me smile.

So my Monday morning has begun with a fizzle.

As I am entering the bakery, it’s scant balm to my pride to see that racks of ciabatta and sourdough are emptier than usual at 10:30 a.m. You can’t exactly use photos of bread racks as evidence of improved sales.

“So, how did it go?” Celia asks as I slide behind the counter.

My neck warms. “Just because I was a few days late with a couple of mortgage payments last year I’m a ‘risk factor.’ Try back in six months was my consolation prize.”

“Oh.” Emotion registers in Celia’s fair skin as if she’s a mood ring. This mood isn’t a good sign.

I glance about to be certain we aren’t ignoring a customer, then grab Celia by the arm and pull her back into the corner. “Okay. What is it?”

“A couple of things. But first, just so you know,” Celia glances back toward the front then whispers, “we didn’t get a flour delivery today. Our check bounced. Shemar called and did everything but promise them his firstborn. We’re just going to have to find another way to pay the bill.”

We didn’t get a delivery? Our check bounced? I have the most loyal staff in the world. And so, of course, I swell with tears.

“There, there, Liz.” Celia pats my back but doesn’t offer a shoulder to cry on for she’s in a floury apron and I’m wearing my only decent suit, a Dana Buchman, so the bank wouldn’t think I’m as desperate as I am. “It’s going to be all right.”

“No, it won’t.”

“Yes, it will—”

“No, it won’t.”

“It will.”

“Won’t!” I sound like a hormonal fifteen-year-old.

“What’s up with Miz T?” Shemar frowns as he notices us huddled in the corner. “You’re not sweating the delivery?” He scowls at Celia. “Didn’t you tell her?”

“I was trying to.” Celia reaches out and pats my cheek.

“Tell me what?”

“I paid for it.” Celia flushes a natural pink.

An employee paid my bill? I feel worm high.

“It’s all good, Miz T.” Desharee has joined us.

Celia nods. “There’s even better news. When I went into the city this morning to pick up our cheese shipment at Murray’s I decided that we should stock up on an a couple of extra items for the Fine Arts and Crafts Show this weekend.”

She reaches into the cheese case and pulls out a piece that looks, with its rough moonlike surface and a bright orange interior, like a slice of cantaloupe. “This is two-year-old Mimolette! It’s rare to get a piece this old.”

Rare translates as expensive. “We can’t afford this now, Celia.”

“We can if our display snags us the attention we deserve.” Celia beams like a Girl Scout who’s earned a new merit badge.

“That funky cheese will catch attention. No doubt.” Shemar waves off the strong smell with a hand.

Desharee scrunches up her face and backs off. “Looks like maggots been at it.”

“Actually, cheese mites do make the rind craggy. But the cheese has a sweet, dense, caramelized taste that matches perfectly with a microbrewery dark lager or chocolate malt, and slices of our eight-grain country loaf.” Celia is in expert mode. “I also picked up wedges of Hoch Ybrig and Pont l’Eveque. No food scout will bypass us with these on the shelf.”

“That’s a long shot.” I can’t keep the sour grapes mood out of my tone.

“No, It isn’t.” Celia beams. “I heard talk at Murray’s that food scouts will definitely be checking out vendors at the local fairs this weekend!”

Desharee turns to me. “What’s a food scout?”

“Consultants that major food companies hire to evaluate new food products in the field.” Desharee give me a “speak English” look. “It’s like when professional sports teams send out scouts to check out a high school pitcher or college quarterback for possible recruitment.”

Desharee’s usually bad-mood expression brightens. “Straight up?”

Celia nods. “Haven’t you heard? Liz almost had a deal with General Mills four years ago. She was going to be famous.”

“Actually,” I say dryly, “they were going to hire a celeb to front the line.”

“Celebrity endorsements? I’m all over that!” Shemar flashes me a really sexy grin.

“Why not?” Celia says with an enthusiasm ungrounded by experience.

Another chance at the big time! My mind boggles with possibility. I know better. I really do. I’ve been burned. But there’s something about a dream lost. It’s the sexiest thought on the planet: what might have been.

While I’m daydreaming Celia gives Desharee a short history lesson in food franchising.

“This is how franchising starts. The modern potato chip originated in a restaurant in Saratoga Springs, New York. Cracker Jacks first showed up at the Columbian Exposition at Chicago. And the Hidden Valley Guest Ranch near Santa Barbara, California, originated Valley Ranch. Oh, and Dave started Wendy’s.”

“What about KFC?” Shemar folds his arms together. “That old dude in the lame white suit started that?”

“Yes. So you see it’s completely possible for our little bakery to hit the big time.” Celia is nothing if not a positive thinker.

“Aw-ite!” Shemar snatches up a ciabatta, slaps the flat side of the rounded loaf against one buttock and starts rotating a bump and grind like a hottie in a video. “We def-initely calling our new item the JLO Loaf.”

I burst out with laughter. Then we all start boogying around, as if it’s a done deal.

Okay, so maybe we’re thinking too big. While the Fine Arts and Crafts at Anderson Park is a great fair, Naomi’s rhubarb pie isn’t likely to become the next Stouffer’s frozen pie. Still, I’ve been approached by corporate before. So, why couldn’t I…?

“Liz, there is something else.”

Celia’s suddenly somber face pricks my elation. “You got another of those registered letters from Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein.”

She reaches under the counter and pulls out a slick plastic envelope. “This time they sent it by private courier.”

“Thanks.” I take it gingerly, as if it might be contaminated.

This isn’t the first letter I’ve received from Ted’s attorneys since his demise. Sarah and Riley got them, too, and say it concerns the reading of Ted’s will. I can’t bring myself to open any of them. The firm handled Ted’s side of the divorce. Probably I’m being pressured to sign some papers returning my share of Ted’s IRAs when I’m fifty-nine and a half, or something equally depressing.

When Celia and Shemar and Desharee have moved discreetly away, possibly with thoughts that I might open it, I toss the package aside. Sarah and Riley are attending the reading of their dad’s will today. They can tell me what I need to know.

A while later the notes of “She Works Hard for the Money,” playing on my cell phone interrupt me mid-preparation of a special order for heart-shaped scones. The readout says Sarah. “Hi, sweetie.”

“Mom, where are you?”

“Where would you expect me to be at this time of day?”

“At the reading of Dad’s will.”

“I told you there’s no need for me to be there.”

“Dad’s attorney thinks there is. He’s refusing to read the will until you arrive.”

This I need like another hole in my head. “I’m really kind of busy. Tell him I said to go ahead without me.”

There’s a pause, then Riley’s voice comes on line. “Mom, get over here now!”

“Jeez! Okay. I’m coming.”

I give three seconds’ thought to changing out of my baker’s white back into the Dana Buchman I carefully hung out of harm’s way, but why bother? I am what I am. If this is so bloody important, what does it matter what I look like?

Chapter 5

“I’m glad you could join us, Mrs. Talbot.”

The attorney of record, Lionel Dunlap, and I face each other across the conference table in the law offices of Dunlap, McDougal and Feinstein. He doesn’t glance at his watch but he doesn’t have to. Sarah has already told me that I’ve held up the proceedings by a billable top-attorney hour. Wonder who’s paying?

Maybe I should have rethought my optional Dana Buchman. Every other person present seems to have realized the sartorial significance of the moment.

On my right, Sarah, prim and serious as her tweed business suit and tortoiseshell glasses, clutches my hand. At my left elbow sits Riley in a man’s pin-striped seersucker suit sans shirt. The flexible dancer’s leg folded against her chest puts considerable strain on the one button holding closed the jacket. A colorful batik fabric snugly wraps her head. I hope my urban Amazon aka vegan counter-culture purist hasn’t shaved her head, again.

To one side and a little behind, she sits between two men-in-black-Halston attorneys. So far, we’ve avoided making eye contact. That’s because she’s wearing, yup, a mafiarina-style mourning veil. Yet her widow-black Carrie Bradshaw-goes-Goth micro sheath exposes enough leg to distract even me. If possible, she’s even tanner, with deep red undertones. Swinging from the toes of her crossed leg is a Moschino black-heeled sandal with a crystal-encrusted suede-flower ornament. The pair would pay my flour bill.

“Shall we begin?” Lionel is an old-school lawyerly type, In an impeccable custom-made suit, terribly expensive and understated. Doubtless he would never wear anything as vulgar as a designer label. “For the record the date is Monday, September12. The last will and testimony of Edward Duncan Talbot…”

I’m still at a loss as to why my attendance is such a big deal. Surely, Ted left everything to her and our girls. If he did leave me anything, it’s probably something completely useless like a case of eight-track cartridges. Hmm. Collectors’ items could be sold on eBay for cash. If that’s why she brought in the former law review, to stop me from owning the Bee Gees and K.C. and Sunshine Boys, she can have them.

My attention swings back to old Lionel just as he reads aloud, “…I devise and bequeath to Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot all goods and possessions…”

My first thought is, of course he left everything to his wife. Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot? “Me?”

“Oh, Mom!” whispers Sarah.

“Holy crap!” echoes Riley.

“What!” she gasps, and jumps out of her chair like a goldfish jerked out of her bowl.

“This is, of course, a mistake,” begins one of her attorneys as the other snags his client by the elbow to draw her back into her chair, “one, unfortunately, not uncommon in instances of divorce and remarriage.”

“Teddy would never do that to me. He made another will.” She points at Lionel. “Tell them.”

Lionel nods slowly. “While it is true, Mrs. Talbot—”

“For the record, I’m Mrs. Talbot, too.” I may be in shock but I’ve watched enough episodes of Judge Judy to know that if you don’t protest these little items at the time, they can come back to bite you in the ass. “The Elizabeth Jeanne Talbot referred to in the will, that’s me.”

I can’t see the expression behind her veil but I can hear it in her voice. “But you’re not Teddy’s wife, I am!”

Sarah grips my arm. “Mom, what does this mean?”

I lean toward her to murmur, “Who the heck knows?”

Lionel waits to see if there will be another volley before saying, “As I was saying, while it is true this office apprised Mr. Talbot repeatedly of his need to alter his will after his second marriage he never in fact signed the new document.”

“What does that mean?” We all hear her whisper to her attorneys. After the more subdued whispers of counsel she wails, “But how could Teddy do that to me?”

I can answer her question, though I wouldn’t dream of it.

“Dad didn’t like the idea of wills,” Sarah offers.

“What exactly do you mean, Miss Talbot?” Her attorney looks like a tiger that has scented prey. “Do you have knowledge that your father was coerced into signing this will?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Riley snarls. A tigress in her own right.

Reluctantly I decide to weigh in on the topic.

“I’m surprised but not shocked that Ted didn’t make a new will. This will is the result of the one and only time I could drag him to an attorney to make one. We’d just been in an accident. We escaped with a few cuts and bruises, but a totaled vehicle. It brought home to us the fact that the girls were just eight years old and would require legal guardianship if something happened to us.”

“There! That’s proof that Teddy would want his family, his new family, taken care of,” she says to no one in particular.

Not looking her way I say, “Ted viewed having a will as tantamount to signing a death sentence.” I’ve read that this is not an uncommon reaction even among smart, upwardly mobile men. “Mr. Dunlap can confirm that Ted paced like a caged bear the entire time.”

Lionel nods his head. “He was a very impatient man.” Of course, Lionel did present us with enough estate-planning and trust options to rival the choices on a Starbucks menu.

But I’m happy to take his side and give him a big smile. “As I remember it, Ted cut the conversation off by saying, ‘Just give us the stripped-down, vanilla, no frills version. I die, Liz gets it all. She drops dead, it’s mine. We both die—Jesus H. Christ! Liz’s mother, Sally, gets guardianship of our girls. Okay?’”

Again, Lionel nods.

One attorney for her says, “Mr. Talbot may not have crossed all the t’s and dotted all the i’s, but certainly his intent was clear in his decision to have a new will drawn up.”

“Mr. Talbot might be forgiven for thinking that the courts would understand when he named his wife he meant whichever wife held the title at the moment,” says the other.

“Which-ever?” Riley snarls. “You make my father sound like a serial bigamist.”

I lay a soothing hand on her forearm, then again engage old Lionel’s gaze and smile. “There is no mention of a ‘wife.’ I am named in the will as sole beneficiary.”

Lionel smiles back. For a member of the firm who dug my financial hellhole during the divorce, he seems almost amused by this turn of events. “It is not the usual wording for a will. I pointed that out to both of you at the time. Naming a beneficiary without a designation of the relationship can prove legally difficult should one’s situation in life alter at a later date. However, as I have said, this is a legitimate will in accordance with New Jersey law.”

Her mouthpiece says, “New Jersey law provides for a widowed spouse in ways that cannot be circumvented by any will.”

Lionel’s expression sobers. “Quite right. Mrs. Brandi Talbot is entitled to a significant share of the deceased’s estate. Providing there are no other documents to supersede it, such as a prenuptial agreement.”

She gasps. “Teddy would never have asked me to sign anything like that.”

“You mean my mother will have to share?” Riley demands, as if it’s her and not me who has come into this dizzying windfall of unexpected possibility.

“In a word, yes. Possibly as much as a fifty-fifty share.”

“Share?” She tosses back her veil. Her face is flushed, her eyes tight, and her mouth thinned by anger. “You were Teddy’s attorney. Do something!”

Lionel says dryly, “Without evidence of the possibility of tampering, duress or diminished capacity on the part of the signer, a lawfully executed will should stand up in court, aside from the aforementioned widow’s portion.”

While watching her squirm has been fun, the last thing I need around my neck is another millstone business. “What if I refuse the bequest?”

Lionel leans back and steeples his fingers. “If I may, Mrs. Talbot, I would strongly caution you to consider every possible ramification for your long-term future. The Talbot estate is estimated to be worth in excess of fourteen million dollars.”

Now it’s my turn to gasp. “Fourteen mill-ion?”

Lionel picks up a bound folder. “This is a recently complied list of assets of Mr. Talbot’s estate.”

When I don’t reach for it Sarah whispers, “Know thy enemy, Mom.”

This feels like an invasion of privacy to which this Mrs. Talbot is no longer privileged. Scan it only for the essentials, I tell myself.

Okay, Talbot Advertising is estimated to be worth thirteen million. I knew Ted was doing well after the bobble in profit caused by my leaving the firm. But, this well? Jeez!

For one wild moment I envision myself rolling in a king-size bed full of crisp green dollar bills, feeling as flush as Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal.

The next, I feel the sting of a hundred paper cuts from those bills. This can’t possibly be real. No court is going to give me Ted’s company. The buzzing in my head is not, I realize, caused by evaporating euphoria but the next line of words swimming before my eyes.

“Well hell!” Ted had a second retirement fund the size of which my lawyer suspected but could never discover. Worth one point three million. Mental note to me: never hire cheap when it comes to divorce.

“A time-share in Vail?” I look up at my girls. “Did you know about this?”

They look off in different directions.

“That’s in my name,” she answers smugly, then leans in and whispers to one of her attorneys.

He nods then addresses Lionel. “The Vail property is in Mrs. Talbot’s name as sole proprietor.” He slips some paperwork onto Lionel’s desk. “In addition, you have before you paperwork to prove she is the sole owner of her house and its contents, two cars and a string of tanning salons.”

“What tanning salons?” I glance at her hard-body bronzed thighs with new understanding. That day with Celia at the tanning salon. Oh, no. That was her tanning salon!

She smirks. “Teddy said he wanted to invest his portion of the divorce settlement in something people could actually benefit from. So I suggested tanning salons.”

My vision blurs. So, Ted took his portion of the divorce and invested it for her?

“The hell he did!” I toss the papers as if they’d suddenly burst into flame. “He—I…the bastard! What kind of—of—?”

“Mom, you’re stuttering,” Sarah points out unhelpfully.

“Don’t let this weird you out, Mom,” Riley adds in solidarity.

I swing my head toward Riley but I can’t focus on her face. My eyeballs are jumping as if I have a tic in both at the same time. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

When I’ve subsided into my chair Lionel says, “Mrs. Brandi Talbot claims the aforementioned items seem to be in order. Therefore, the estate mentioned in the will would seem to include only Talbot Advertising and Mr. Talbot’s retirement fund. His insurance has been left in trust to his daughters.”

“How much?” I ask this after a second’s hesitation because I know my girls are reluctant to.

“The insurance in is the amount of one million dollars to be held in trust until Ms. Sarah and Ms. Riley Talbot reach the age of twenty-five.”

“Holy shit!” Riley says this in an unusually subdued voice.

“I would suggest,” Lionel says, “that both Mrs. Elizabeth Talbot and Mrs. Brandi Talbot seek counsel, who will look for a solution that will keep this out of the courts.”

“You’re advising arbitration?” Sarah is taking notes. My daughters have assumed the sisterhood alternative to her suited sharks.

“It would behoove both parties to consider it.” Lionel is one cool customer. “A protracted legal battle will tie up assets on all sides for the foreseeable future. An equitable agreement reached before the will is filed for probate would greatly simplify matters.”

“Like hell!” She folds her arms under her rib cage, drawing attention to what money can buy. “My attorneys say I should fight this.”

The other man in black, who until now has been mostly silent, speaks. “There’s every possibility that there will be a second claimant against Mr. Talbot’s will.”

The hair on my head snaps to attention. Oh, that’s right! She and Ted…

My gaze tracks down her front to where her dress wraps like cellophane about her torso. It’s been two months since…could it be?

Unflappable Lionel says, “You have informed these offices of Mrs. Brandi Talbot’s potential for procreation.” Who, but an attorney, talks like this? “The real question is—”

“Are you pregnant?” Riley, who has been hunkered down in her chair like a military combatant, springs to her feet and approaches her. “Well, are you?”

She dips her head. “Possibly. It’s still too soon to know.” She lifts eyes swimming in tears. “It’s what your father wanted. We were talking about it the day—”