Within two years of working at Salon de la Danse, her classes became so popular that there was a six-month waiting list if you wanted to learn to salsa, rumba, or swing. People of all ages were clamoring for Rachael’s dancing excitement.
But when Rachael was home with Greg, the only excitement was the argument du jour. It became obvious that their marriage wasn’t going to last, at least not without a lot of door slamming, yelling, and sulking.
Finally, after an uncomfortable dust-up at the country club, Rachael’s family intervened and encouraged her to get a divorce. They could see the pain in their daughter’s eyes whenever she and Greg would meet them at a social event or dinner. Her father took her aside and said, “Sweetheart, your mother and I have been talking.” That sentence was always a warning signal, but this time it worked to her favor. “We can see how unhappy you are, Rachael. I know your mother and I pressured you into getting married and having a family. But we never expected it to make you this miserable. It’s the last thing we want. We will help you with whatever resources you need, particularly a good lawyer.”
Rachael was shocked and elated. Never in a million years did she think her parents would approve of a divorce. You made your miserable bed and now you have to lie in it was a much better summation of their take on life. But getting married hadn’t really been her choice. She had been pressured into it. Yes, her parents wanted stability for her, but they hadn’t counted on the misery that went with it.
Aaron Newmark was a man of his word and provided Rachael the counsel of the best divorce attorney in the state, Lloyd Luttrell.
She and Greg tried to keep the divorce civilized, although Rachael was always seething when it came to Greg. Over the course of their marriage, Greg had spent a good chunk of Rachael’s trust fund buying luxury cars and expensive designer clothes. That, too, caused a great deal of contention. He said it was important to look rich. No one was going to trust a poor-looking accountant. He had a point, but he had carried it much too far. He was supposed to be the breadwinner and she the dutiful wife, whose half-million-dollar bank account was at his disposal. As soon as the smell of divorce was in the air, Rachael’s father and her lawyer tied up all of her assets so Greg could no longer treat them as his personal piggy bank. They sold the elaborate McMansion they had bought with part of Rachael’s trust fund and put some of the money away for Ryan’s college education. Greg was lucky to get out of the marriage with the fancy designer shirt on his back.
To that day, Rachael had never had a total grasp on how much of her money he had milked. She knew she was complicit by not paying attention. But still. It was not his money to spend.
Once the divorce was final, Rachael used the rest of the money from the sale of the house to buy the dance studio from its owner. She renovated the space and hired more instructors, and the studio doubled its clientele in less than a year. It helped that she was located near a senior-citizen community with most residents only in their midfifties. Part of the studio’s service was planning dance parties for organizations. Rachael had finally hit her stride.
The women stared at Rachael. Nina was the first to speak. “Wow, he really took advantage of your family’s money.”
“Oh, that’s not all.” Rachael tossed her head back. “He was cheating on me the whole time.”
Screams of “What?” “Are you kidding?” “You can’t be serious!” went around the table.
Rachael crossed her arms across her chest. “No, I’m not kidding, and yes, I am serious.”
“Holy smokes!” Amy broke in. “How did you find out?”
“It all came out after the divorce. A few people knew about it, but no one had ever told me. And frankly, I do not care. I had no physical interest in him at all.” She paused. “Probably ever.” She burst out laughing. “Talk about stupid choices.”
Frankie chimed in and lifted her glass. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!” The rest followed suit, uttering words of cheer.
It was now Frankie’s turn to catch the women up on her escapades. She had moved to New York after graduating from the University of Miami. She auditioned for musicals and got a few small parts in Off-Broadway shows, but that and temp work paid very little, forcing her to live with a variety of roommates, two to three people at a time. One summer, Frankie rented a bedroom in a large two-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. They had divided it up so that Dave and Laura would have the living room as their space, Marilyn would have the other bedroom, and they shared a ridiculously small kitchenette. It wasn’t ideal, but it was doable for the few months she was there.
Finding a suitable place to live was a full-time job. She eventually moved into a duplex with a work associate and stayed for several years until she was able to afford a modest studio apartment in Gramercy Park.
Frankie and Rachael had stayed in touch and met for lunch a couple of times a year, so they were familiar with each other’s horror stories. Rachael was getting impatient and urged Frankie, “Cut to the chase. We want to hear your stories. I know you have a few lulus.”
Frankie took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to hear the gory details?” Nina and Amy urged her on. Frankie confessed that she had been through a boatload of relationships, affairs, heartbreaks, and deceptions. New York. Lots of men. It was easy to meet someone at a bar, club, event, or concert. Learning about someone was another story, especially with most New Yorkers her age coming from all parts of the country and the rest of the world. She often thought it was ironic that someone could be in the biggest city in the country and still feel lonely and isolated. That’s probably why she was eager to have something meaningful with someone. Too bad she had made a lot of lousy choices in her pursuits. Frankie continued, “Then there was the medical intern who had not one but two other girlfriends.”
“Two?” Amy gasped.
“Yes, two.” Frankie took a sip of her drink.
“How did you find out?” Amy was curious.
“I had spent the night at his apartment. The next morning, he left before me. I opened the door to the linen closet to get a towel.”
“Oh sure. You were spying.” Rachael poked her.
“No. Honestly,” Frankie continued. “I was getting a towel and noticed a small container on one of the shelves.” She took a sip of her drink. “It was a diaphragm.” Another sip, waiting for a reaction from her friends.
“A what?” Amy blurted.
Nina patted her hand. “Oh, honey. It’s one of those contraceptive contraptions that women use so they don’t get pregnant.”
“I know what a diaphragm is. Duh,” Amy shot back. “I was kidding.”
Nina patted her hand again and turned to Frankie. “So what did you do?”
“I did what any other red-blooded woman would do. I took it with me and threw it in a dumpster several blocks away.”
The women were doubled over in hysterics. Frankie continued, “I never said a word to him. I figured he would be squirming enough when she went looking for it.”
Nina was laughing so hard, tears were streaming down her face.
“Did he call you?” Rachael tilted her head.
“Yes, he did.” Frankie played with the small straw in her glass.