Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN IN THE WHITE DRESS
Eric had withdrawn $31,600 from the joint checking account two days before serving me.
He classified it in the banking memo as:
Household restructuring.
Priya laughed when she saw that.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes lawyer laughter means:
Please continue documenting your own problem.
We requested records.
Eric’s explanation came through counsel.
The money covered:
Temporary housing.
Attorney fees.
Moving expenses.
And “anticipated marital transition costs.”
Part of it had actually gone to a resort in Charleston.
I knew why when a mutual acquaintance sent me a photograph six weeks later.
Eric.
White linen jacket.
Champagne.
Beside him stood a woman in a white dress.
Her name was Tessa Morgan.
Thirty-nine.
Luxury real-estate agent.
I knew her casually.
She had once come to our Christmas party.
The caption said:
FINALLY MARRIED MY BEST FRIEND.
I stared at the screen.
My divorce was not final.
Not even close.
I called Priya.
“Can he legally remarry while we’re still married?”
“No.”
“Then what am I looking at?”
She asked me to send the image.
Later we learned there had been a destination ceremony.
Flowers.
Photographer.
Reception.
Vows.
Rings.
But no valid marriage license had been completed because Eric was still legally married to me.
People nevertheless called Tessa his wife.
Eric encouraged it.
I did not contact her.
I did not contact him.
I did not post anything online.
I simply added the photograph to the file.
Three days after that ceremony, I was sitting in bed reading when my phone lit up.
11:23 p.m.
Eric.
I almost let it ring.
Then something told me to answer.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, nothing.
Then:
“Nora.”
His voice was shaking.
In the background, a woman was crying.
Tessa.
“What happened?”
“Tell me what you did.”
I sat upright.
“What are you talking about?”
“The bank.”
“What bank?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Eric, I genuinely don’t know what you mean.”
Tessa sobbed something I could not make out.
Eric lowered his voice.
“You froze everything.”
“No.”
“You called them.”
“I called my lawyer.”
“Same thing.”
“No. It isn’t.”
He started breathing harder.
“The closing attorney says there’s a fraud alert on the property.”
My body went cold.
“What property?”
Silence.
“Eric?”
“Our house.”
Our house.
“What closing attorney?”
Another silence.
And suddenly I understood.
He had tried to do something with our home.
Without me.
“What did you do?”
I asked.
Funny.
He had called demanding the same answer.
Now neither of us sounded smug.
Finally Eric whispered:
“I was refinancing.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Nora—”
“Both our names are on the house.”
“I had paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
Tessa cried louder in the background.
Then she said something clearly enough for me to hear:
“You told me she signed it.”
Everything inside me went still.
I asked:
“Signed what?”
Eric hung up.
The next morning, Priya called me before eight.
“Nora, do you know anything about a quitclaim deed?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That was a terrifying use of the word good.
She continued:
May you like
“Because your signature is on one.”
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