Page 1 of The Love Dose
Chapter One
Caroline
Mrs. Page?”
I blink, snapping out of my daydream. For the past three minutes, I’ve been glued to my phone, drooling over a Maui beach house with ocean views. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, I’ll magically transport myself there. Anything to escape this conversation.
I glance around the office—shiny wood paneling, leather chairs, oil paintings of people who definitely have hefty trust funds. I feel like I’m trapped in an episode ofLaw and Order. I wonder how many hardened criminals or bitter ex-wives have squirmed in this very seat.
Howard Flannery of Flannery and Baker leans back against his ornate desk—the kind of desk that makes you feel like you should be sipping champagne, holding a tiny dog, and plotting a hostile takeover. He’s the best in the business, which is why I’m paying him more per hour than I spend on shoes. And I spend a lot on shoes.
Howard clears his throat. “Caroline, are you with me?”
I sit up a little straighter, feeling the tiniest hint of embarrassment. I’m supposed to be this polished Upper West Side widow, handling things with grace. Instead, I’m zoning out like a teenager in math class. “Sorry. Got a bit distracted. What were you saying?”
Howard gives me a familiar look. It’s the “this woman has too much money and not enough common sense” look. I’ve seen it a hundred times before.
“They found a doctor to back up their claim that Bernard wasn’t of sound mind,” Howard says, continuing as if I hadn’t mentally checked out.
“It’s a lie. They paid the doc off,” I say, trying to keep the deep resentment for my step kids out of my tone. By the look of Howard’s frown, I’m failing miserably. “Bernard was sharp as a tack until the end.”
“Maybe we should go over his last moments again.”
I hold up a tired hand. “We’ve been through this ad nauseam. The story doesn’t change.” I peer at my attorney. “Because it’s true.”
He nods, and for some reason, that irks me. Maybe it’s because the wheels of justice are turning slower than a geriatric turtle. I’m drained, fed up. It’s become a battle of attrition, Bernard’s kids wearing me down.
Only now do I notice the poinsettia in the corner of the room. Adorned with a sparkly silver bow, the plant is a perfect specimen of red and green holiday cheer. What a crock. I haven’t had time to even think about the holidays. At this point, it’s going to be a Christmas miracle if anyone gets more than a text with a snowman emoji.
“Would it help if I got another doctor to attest that Bernard was fine?” I ask, trying to sound calm.
Howard sighs. “We already have both his main physicians ready to testify on our behalf, but as we’ve discussed, it’s not enough. The bigger issue is the speed of your marriage and how short it was.”
I bristle. “Oh, right. Because apparently, falling in love quickly is a crime.”
Bernard and I didn’t have an affair, but the rumor mill is working overtime. Sure, we tied the knot faster than you can say, "prenup," but Bernard explained to me how he’d waited his whole life for true love and had no intention of waiting a minute longer to be with me.
What people find incredible is that he never asked me to sign one at all. The truth is, he didn’t care. He wasn’t some clueless old man. He was sharp, charming, and spontaneous. The kind of man who’d sweep you off your feet . . . and then die in the middle of dancing the Lindy. No, seriously. That happened.
Though Bernard was clear on what he wanted, my dead husband’s kids are sure I married their father for his money then killed him off.
Okay, they aren’t explicitly saying that last part but the implication is there. Bernard and I went dancing, jet-setting, eating our way through New York like we were on some high-stakes food tour. How was I to know he had a history of heart disease?
“It’s not your fault,” Howard says, and I appreciate the attempt at reassurance. We now know Bernard kept his heart condition a secret so he could enjoy the time we had. And I don’t blame him. We had eighteen incredible months together.
Until he keeled over at the Fred Astaire Ballroom. We were a shoo-in for second place at the Gotham Dance-Off.
“So what now?” I ask, bracing for more bad news.
Howard takes a breath. “Bernard’s kids are taking this to court.”
I’ve heard this before several times but they never pulled the trigger. Something feels different this time. The bile rises in my throat. “Of course they are. Why mourn when you can sue?” I mutter, mostly to myself. It’s like a never-ending game of ‘Let’s Torture Caroline.’ I lost my husband and now I need to prepare for battle. The string of incredibly bad luck continues.
Howard sucks in his lips. There's more. He leans forward, looking serious. “There’s another option. They’re offering you the Manhattan apartment and the Mercedes if you forfeit any further claims to the estate.”
I see a crack in his usual confident demeanor. Alarm bells sound off in my head. He slides a piece of paper across the desk as though it’s a live grenade. I lean forward and glance at it. There’s no money offer at all. “Is this a joke?”
Howard shakes his head. “Hardly.”
