Disclaimer: I disclaim. There. Done.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Horrible Day Among Horrible Days was coming to its end. Somehow, Lorelai moved to the back porch, and Luke followed. It was odd, she thought, how he followed and persisted when he chose. After a year, she could not grasp why he bothered. She felt great sympathy for Rachel, of a sudden. With such confusing actions and reactions from Luke, what woman knew where she stood? She'd thought she'd known, and been wrong each time.
"Is there anything left to say to each other?" asked Lorelai, as darkness began its slow fall. She watched her dog bound enthusiastically in chase of dust motes around the back yard. "We almost had something great. We blew it. We don't have anything but memories. Notes. Home invasions."
"A ramp?" asked Luke irrelevantly.
"Stairs. Dog. Duh." Lorelai shifted slightly on the wicker rocker. Luke had taken up position on the porch rail, scowling as he prodded it for weaknesses. "Back on point."
"The horoscope. I kept it so I could show it to you someday. Tell you I gave you coffee, now go away. For a sort of joke. I forgot I had it till I was cleaning things out after the divorce from Nicole, make sure no more alien socks."
"Oh," sighed Lorelai, and wondered why she didn't feel worse about that. "Well, it makes more sense than you pining around like I was your Ava Gardner. Why not just tell me that to start?"
"You started talking about pining," admitted Luke. "Didn't wanna ruin the moment."
Lorelai shivered, although the June night was balmy. That was something he had said too often, in her opinion. The wedding dress was a moment he couldn't ruin. The return of Rory was a moment he couldn't ruin. And so, instead of a few ruined moments, they suffered this.
In that spirit, she offered, "I didn't go to the twins' christening because I couldn't ruin her moment. Their moment. Whatever. Bad enough I trashed Lane's wedding reception, y'know?"
They watched Paul Anka run happily about, snuffling the warm night breezes.
"Was it bad? No, I mean, yeah, of course it was bad, but…" His fingers brushed hers. "You're okay? Physically?"
It was the one thing they hadn't discussed, and Lorelai flinched, clutching her cup of tepid green tea until her knuckles whitened. "It hurt. I felt fine, physically. Then I woke up in the middle of the night. I threw up. It felt wrong. The wrong kind of sick. When I tried to stand up, I…"
His hand crept near hers.
Lorelai pushed it away with a violent rush of words. "I screamed. I couldn't stand up. I couldn't stop shivering. I think I passed out or something, I don't remember the ambulance. I woke up in the hospital, Hartford Memorial, and I knew. I felt like I did after Rory was born. That kind of leftover soreness. But not like after Rory. It was… Empty. Like those Christmas ornaments you always rant about, the glass ones that are hollow inside. Because they break so easily."
She heard a faint, "Oh God," and continued, not to hurt him, or herself, but to simply be done. He kept trying to fix them, but he didn't seem to want to be a them. This last bond could now be undone, and perhaps at last she'd feel as if she'd been and done enough.
"They had to do this thing, to make sure all the bits were out, and I was knocked out for it. To be safe. So nothing could, y'know, get worse." She swallowed bile at the memory. "We didn't tell Rory. Only my dad knows. I had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. I didn't wake up when I was supposed to. My breathing wasn't right, either. That's why I… That's the real reason… I mean, when I realized I was pregnant, yeah, but then, after that… That's why I stopped going to Al's and eating cheeseburgers. It wasn't how I ate, I know that. And sometimes people react to anesthesia. But eating smarter makes me feel…" She trailed off.
"In control?"
Lorelai nodded at Luke, not that he could see her very well. "At least I felt less scared. And it was grieving. Like I was feeding the baby even though it was gone." She choked back a sob. "They… I'd heard a heartbeat. I wanted you to be there so much, that first time, but I was making sure it was real, and then… They can't tell sex. They wanted me to give it a name. I didn't know what to do. I picked Stevie. Y'know. Stevie Wonder, Stevie Nicks. Goes with either."
She waited for judgment, banter, deflection. Whatever Luke threw at her, she knew she could survive it. She had so far.
"It was probably a girl," said Luke, his voice ragged. "Stephanie. Stevie for short."
How she ended up holding onto him, both crying incoherent and thick and messy, Lorelai didn't know. She did, however, dimly grasp that she needed this, and so did Luke. To heal, there had to be tears.
When they calmed, she whispered, "There's nothing left."
"There's us."
"There never was much of an us."
Paul Anka scrabbled up, throwing himself against her legs. She knelt, hugging the dog tight for protection and comfort alike.
Luke reached across the dog, to pull her into a loose embrace. Wearily, Lorelai allowed it. For a moment, she could lean on someone, and it was good. She had to remember it wouldn't last. That was the important part.
"No," said Luke, somewhat angrily, she thought, as she pulled back. "No. I'm not going anywhere. There's never a good time. A right time. There's just whatever time we have. I finally get that." When she said nothing, because she didn't want to assume she knew what he meant, Luke concluded, "I know we can't start over, but we can maybe… Maybe learn each other. Over. Again."
Lorelai bit her lip. Would this tell her why she'd lost him? Would knowing help?
After full dark had descended, the best she could give was a shaky, "We'll see."
GG GG GG
Richard adjusted his tie. A moment later, his daughter re-adjusted it. "Dapper," she decided with false cheer. "Ready?"
"Morituri te salutant."
Per usual, his daughter took him by surprise. "Speak for yourself, I'm not dying today. And who are we saluting, exactly?"
"Well, I can't recall the proper form for We who are to divorce salute you," huffed Richard. "Would it be divortium or repudiamus?"
"I love you, Dad."
The unexpected word-bomb sent warm thrills through Richard. "Why, Lorelai," he said softly. "What on earth brought that on?"
"Only you," smiled Lorelai with glass-shell cheer, "would wonder which Latin word is best to make a joke." She tweaked his tie. It was new, a gift from her on Father's Day. He found it absurdly sweet that she had given him such a typical present, yet managed her own twist on it. The pattern was of white dots on green that, upon second look, were golf balls. Richard quite honestly loved it. There was something fun and subversive in making a polka-dot-seeming tie into a golf-themed tie.
"Also," his daughter continued, "you could use it. Moral support."
"Your mother…"
"C'mon, I may have my problems with both of you," scoffed Lorelai, and. "But we're working on them. Mom, not so much. Now, Rory sends her love."
Richard smiled mistily.
"And Sookie promises magic risotto Sunday."
Richard grinned in anticipation of a delicious Sunday meal.
"You sure you don't want me in there?"
He squeezed her hand impulsively. "I'm not sure, but I am certain you shouldn't worsen your relationship with your mother. It's merely formalities. She signs, I sign, the judge signs, however it's done, and it's off to the club for a light lunch. Off you go to your physical."
The glass of his daughter's smile fell to shards. "Yeah. That. Okay. Let me know if…"
"And you too."
She nodded, flinching visibly when she heard her mother's voice echoing down the courthouse hallway. "…Is it really necessary to be taken through a labyrinth to some smelly little…"
"Your cue," said Richard dryly.
She fled out the nearest door labeled "Exit", and her heels clacked on the stairs.
Richard's own attorney appeared, from the same stairwell, without a drop of sweat on her face. "Mr. Gilmore."
"Miss Mather. Shall we?" He opened the door for her, and was unsurprised when Emily sailed through it without a word to him. Mr. Hutchinson, her attorney, lagged a step behind. He granted a terse nod to Richard.
The courtroom was not a grand venue. It smelled sad, thought Richard, like it wanted fresh air and a bit of sun. At the very least, new carpeting, to offset the heavy gleam of the woodwork.
Normally, Richard would have greeted the man behind the desk with a polite, "Donald, how are you?" Since the circumstances were what they were, he opted for a polite, "Judge Schuyler."
The judge didn't dawdle. "The attorneys assure me the parties have agreed to the separation of assets and division of property, but I have a question before we finalize this matter."
A chill ran through Richard.
"I am aware that divorce is a deeply personal event, made distressingly impersonal by the law. I am also aware that it is not the first time the couple in question has separated. I must ask, before I grant this petition in full." He looked down his nose at them. "Is reconciliation impossible, as defined both by the law, and by common sense?"
Mr. Hutchinson stood and said crisply, "Your Honor, my client finds herself irreparably wronged. There is no reconciliation possible."
Richard nodded, moist-eyed, and Miss Mather rose. "Your Honor, no reconciliation."
"Very well, then. Gilmore versus Gilmore, a most generous settlement to the second party…" The judge flipped to another page in the pile of documents. "Miss Mather, is your client certain he wishes to pay alimony in that amount?"
"My client foresees working part-time as a consultant in his field, Your Honor, and doesn't expect financial hardship as a result of his generosity."
Richard inwardly winced at the pomposity of it all. He knew Emily, that was all. She received half of their joint investments, half of the proceeds of sale of property in Martha's Vineyard, and the stately old mansion, but her perception would be of receiving forty percent of everything to which she felt entitled. Alimony granted her the smug little smile of victory she now wore, as taking sixty percent.
"All signatures in order," announced the judge. "Very well, the petition is granted, the paperwork will be available at the clerk's office within ten business days, I wish you well, next case."
The word that came to Richard was anti-climactic. No dramas, no tears, nothing but a tedious meeting, of which he had known many. As for the ten thousand a month to Emily in alimony, well, Richard was no fool. Nor was his attorney.
He smiled a little, wondering how long it would take Emily to realize she held the title, and therefore the expenses, of the big Hartford property. One thing when he paid the property taxes, and quite another when she needed to do so. That was approximately ten thousand dollars a year she'd find did not appear by magic. As for neighborhood association fees, that was another six thousand. She also would have to pay for its insurance (hardly onerous, given he'd negotiated it). The auto insurance, of course, was its own problem. His antique cars meant he had quite a burden there, between storage and insurance alike, yet Emily would find that another annoyance when it came to her two beloved Mercedes-Benz sedans.
Yes, it was true he had leaned a great deal in this last year, about cleaners and cooks and such, and was grateful for Emily taking care of such things all their marriage. He had, however, needed to purchase a new home, while still paying the taxes on the old. His new home was less than a third the size of the Hartford property, and he'd discovered he quite preferred it. Emily, meanwhile, had enjoyed that property without paying fees and taxes. It was time, in Richard's opinion, for Emily to learn about a few things.
Among them, a property assessed at nearly a million dollars was a lovely thing on paper, but he foresaw trouble, and home devaluation. Richard knew insurance, and when insurers became investors in shady securities based on shaky mortgages, chaos would ensue. Risk assessment expertise told him that. The only question was when. No genius, but no halfwit, Richard was already pulling into much safer investments, much stabler funds, and the house had been part of that equation. His was in a neighborhood of less repute, but historically less volatility. The majestic Gilmore mansion, by contrast, could drop to half its current assessed values. Not all the neighbors were as financially sound as Richard, and one foreclosure or under-market sale would affect the whole street.
The creep of economic hard times came slowly to the finest and wealthiest, but it did come. His much more modest home would lose value sooner than the Gilmore mansion, but also recover it more readily. People could always afford to buy less. The market for more? Oh, that was far trickier.
It was unkind, but Richard knew he had essentially made certain Emily would be struck harder by economic disarray. She would rely on a broker or such, far more than he did. How often she had said, "Richard, must you talk business?" Well, he knew business enough to realize that the currents were shifting, and it was time to adjust his sails to suit the seas. He preferred to do so well before storm clouds appeared. If Emily did not, then so be it.
Another thing he'd learned, this last year, was that while he loved Emily dearly, he was less and less able to like her.
In the corridor, the attorneys and clients parted ways, leaving the exes momentarily alone together.
"Well, Richard," said Emily crisply, smoothing her hair unnecessarily. "I hope you're pleased."
"My dear," he sighed heavily, "if you think this pleases me, then you truly do not know me any better than I apparently know you."
With a polite nod, a rumbling, "Good day, Emily," Richard walked calmly away. It was not easy. It was, however, simple.
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AN: *Morituri te salutant: According to Suetonius, what gladiators said in the combat ring. Or not. "We who are about to die, salute you," is the usual English translation.
All information on approximate home values, taxes, and insurance is roughly valid for the Old Money types of Hartford, Connecticut, at that time in 2007. The economic downturn of 2008 hit their housing markets quite hard, and information on claims from the period is also accurate, per reports in Connecticut newspapers of the time. Connecticut remains less-than-recovered from the 2008 crisis.
As to why Richard ruminates as he does on such things.
In this chapter, we're entering the beginning of the financial end in 2007, and so Richard would in fact be reading the early warning signs of major meltdown. A conservative investor such as himself, with knowledge of what corporations were up to, would be quietly guarding himself and his assets (ahem).