Till Divorce Do Us Part

By Barb McIntyre

Three couples. Three divorces. Six new lives.
Viola's husband has filed for a divorce because he has finally accepted the fact that his need for travel and adventure is stronger than his love for her.
Jason and Annabelle, his next-door neighbour, have filed their divorce applications because they found out that their spouses were having an affair.
While recovering from the shock and adjusting to their new lives, everyone involved will make surprising discoveries about themselves, as well as about the people they loved and thought they knew.
The Palais de Justice, or the Courthouse if you're one of the five percent of Quebecers who speak only English, is located in the historic district of Old Montreal. This modern, black metal, granite, and glass high-rise is where people go to settle issues with neighbours, where victims of domestic violence can get help, where a judge and jury will decide whether you are guilty or innocent, where marriages begin with joy and love, and where they often end with sorrow and anger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667891927

Book preview

Shape Description automatically generated with low confidence

Copyright © 2023

by Barb McIntyre

Kingston, Ontario

This is a work of fiction.

All the characters and events are imaginary,

and any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

ISBN: 9781667891927

eBooks by Barb McIntyre

74 Lakeview Avenue

Things are not Always as They Seem

Here in the Hereafter

Not Just Another Wrinkled Face

Crooked Paths

Jan’s Families

The Problem Children

The Seventh Commandment

Lost Time

40 Cliff Crescent

The Musings of an Old Lady

The Lives I Could Be Living

New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.

(Ancient Taoist adage)

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FORTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE

Paris, France

It appears that the ‘until death do us part’ promise in the wedding vows does not mean what it used to. Philippe Petit, speaking fluent English with a heavy French accent, was telling the other two men at the table about Brian, an American who had been seconded to the Paris branch of the company for two years and was in the middle of a painful divorce.

The table was covered with spotless white linen. The glasses they drank from were made of crystal. The never-intrusive but always-attentive waiters wore tuxedos, and soothing music could be heard in the background.

His wife explained that in today’s wedding ceremonies, they are not talking about the death of the bride or the groom, Philippe continued. They are talking about the death of love, the death of the marriage itself. And as far as she is concerned, their marriage is dead. It seems that in this brave new world of ours, marriages can die, and they have a much shorter life span than people.

Philippe, the manager of the French branch of a multinational corporation located in Paris, had eyes that were so dark it was hard to distinguish where his pupils and irises began and ended. His dark hair was close-cropped, and he wore his usual, perfect three-day stubble.

The man on his left, Ian Stewart, was the manager of the British branch located in London. Ian spoke with a mild Scottish accent, and his large, square, black-rimmed glasses stood out on a somewhat pale face framed by thick, salt-and-pepper hair and a short white beard.

The third man at the table was Jason Cornell, the manager of the Canadian branch located in Montreal. Jason’s wavy, light brown hair framed a clean-shaven, still boyish face, and the two thick curls that bounced on his unlined forehead whenever he moved his head belied both his forty-four years and the daily stressors of his fast-paced, pressure-filled job.

Jason and Ian were in Paris for a two-day planning session that was being held in one of the conference rooms of the Paris branch, and Philippe’s secretary had booked their table three months in advance.

Two things struck Jason’s mind when he met Philippe. One was that the man’s parents would have guaranteed that their son’s nickname would be his initials throughout his school life if they’d lived in Montreal. And the second was the memory of a video he’d discovered on YouTube while waiting for his wife, Jodi, to get ready to go out. It showed another Philippe Petit, this one a French high-wire artist, walking a tightrope between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, in New York City, on August 7, 1974.

While Philippe was talking, Ian had put his fork down, picked up his glass, taken a small sip of wine, and savoured it. Neither of the other men noticed his short, satisfied smile, a silent approval of the wine’s almost purple colour and excellent taste.

He put the glass back on the table before saying, It’s not so much what she thinks about the marriage vows that bothers me. It’s the thought of the poor bugger walking in on her in bed with a neighbour.

It’s the part about her moaning louder than he’d ever heard her moan that got to me, Jason said, shaking his head and setting the two curls that he had been trying to control ever since he could remember in motion.

The men ate in silence for a few moments.

Ian swallowed a mouthful of salmon and said, I can’t remember where I read it, but I do remember the line ‘love is an acute condition, not a chronic one.’ It was a cynical comment. The man who said it was in an unhappy marriage. But he was wrong. It’s both. It’s biology. It starts off as an acute condition caused by a sudden infusion of hormones that affect clear thinking. Then the level of love hormones starts to fluctuate, and the condition becomes chronic but with recurring acute periods. It’s like my arthritis. One minute I’m completely and happily pain-free the next, I’m downing handfuls of painkillers and groaning whenever I move. Then, suddenly, the pain is completely gone. I have no need for pills, and life is good again.

He chuckled as he spread a small amount of butter on a piece of his roll. And I wouldn’t want my wife to know that I equated love to an affliction.

It has been known to cause both mental and physical pain, so I suppose the definition fits, Jason said.

Ian nodded, Tiger Woods got battered with a nine iron. I’d call that physical pain.

And Brian is certainly suffering mental pain, Phillippe said. The man was useless at work for at least a week. I had to check his output each evening and correct his errors. Fortunately, he’s now able to concentrate, a least in the office.

Philippe, who’d been a history teacher before changing careers, continued in a somewhat lecturing tone. We need to remember that, historically, marriage was an institution among the wealthy, arranged by parents as part of their political and economic strategy. It was said that couples would ‘grow into love.’

Marriage is connected with love in many instances in the bible, Ian said. Interestingly enough, as far as the bible is concerned, one of the reasons men should marry is to avoid fornication or sexual immorality.

Philippe smiled politely. I would not touch that statement with Tiger’s nine iron.

Philippe’s atheism and Ian’s Christian beliefs had resulted in a few heated discussions when they first met. The men had tacitly agreed to avoid the topic, but Jason often felt that it could flare up at any time, so he jumped into the conversation quickly. Then there’s Prince Charles’s famous, ‘Whatever in love means.’

That poor bugger knows exactly what in love means. And he knows he didn’t feel it for the woman he was forced to marry. He’s a modern-day example of Philippe’s political strategy marriage, Ian said.

Jason nodded. Charles’ and Diana’s lives would have been so much better if they’d been ordinary people and allowed to marry because of, to quote you Ian, an ‘infusion of hormones.’

Philippe swallowed a sip of wine and said, Balzac, the famous French author and playwright, once said, ‘Love is like the wind; we do not know where it will come from.’ He shrugged. "And, to continue the man’s thought, we do not know where, or if, it will go.

And, as far as the unfortunate Brian is concerned, it would be a much different story if he and his wife were French. We French are much more tolerant of what you English call extramarital affairs. The simple act of sex with someone else does not necessarily mean the end of a marriage.

You mean it wouldn’t bother you if you found your wife in bed with another man? Ian asked, his wine glass stalling halfway up to his mouth.

Philippe shrugged. Madelaine would never let me find her in that position. She would be discrète.

Discreet. Jason corrected Philippe’s pronunciation.

Discreet, Philippe, who had asked the men to correct his pronunciation whenever necessary, repeated. Thank you. Madelaine and I are both discreet. And we know it means nothing.

Jason’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Philippe with eyes wide open in amazement. So, it’s not a problem if you sleep with other women, and she sleeps with other men?

Philippe shrugged. We have a good life. We satisfy each other, but we are human. Do not tell me that the two of you do not get, sometimes, an itch that your wives are not able to scratch.

I won’t say I’ve never had that itch, Ian said after another sip of wine. But it doesn’t last. And you know that we’re both God-fearing Presbyterians. It just wouldn’t do. It’s not something I even let myself think about.

Jason speared a bite-sized piece of crisp-tender asparagus with his fork and said, It’s not a religious thing with me. I’m not a ‘stick it out no matter how unhappy you are’ guy. I’m not against divorce. If the marriage isn’t working anymore, if you’re not making each other happy, getting a divorce is the right thing to do. It gives both of you a second chance. I actually like Brian’s wife’s explanation a little. But I am a ‘forsaking all others’ guy. I did promise to be faithful. He grinned. And, to be honest, my Jodi’s a very effective itch scratcher.

And you believe that she feels the same? Philippe asked as he signalled to the waiter for another bottle of wine.

My Jodi would never cheat on me, Jason said, in his usual decisive voice, as he cut into his filet mignon. She’s not that kind of woman. Plus, she’s a little naïve on that score. I’ve seen men hit on her, and she doesn’t even realize they’re doing it. The woman has no idea how attractive she is.

CHAPTER TWO

At that very moment, a seven-and-a-half-hour flight away, in Westmount, an affluent suburb of Montreal, Jodi was having her third orgasm, and Aiden had followed her up the wide staircase only twenty minutes earlier. The freestanding grandfather clock, made of solid English oak, that had been in Jason’s family for four generations, had struck twice as they walked past it, and its echoes had followed them into the expensively furnished and meticulously maintained gold and cream guest bedroom.

They hadn’t needed to close the door. Jason wasn’t due back from Paris for two days, and their son, Pete, was away at university.

Their usual meeting place, the enlarged and carefully refurbished shed Aiden used as an office, exercise room, and hideaway, had had its biannual pest control spray, and was off limits for twenty-four hours. The old shed, which had served as living quarters for the succession of nannies that had cared for the previous owners’ two children, had been the key factor in Aiden’s choice of this home.

Just over a year earlier, a zoning bylaw had been amended, and a developer had been given permission to build a four-story apartment building, with six units on each floor, across the street from his and Annabelle’s home. Instead of looking out at well-maintained, older, two-story, stone or brick houses set well back from the street and surrounded by mature trees and large, well-kept lawns, they would see nothing but a flat concrete building that was close enough to the street for pedestrians to be able to admire the paintings on the apartment walls.

Annabelle, a partner in her father’s law firm, had fought the zoning change and succeeded only in having the height limit reduced from six to four stories. The couple had immediately put their house on the market. It sold a month later, at four-fifths of the initial asking price, and the couple moved into the house next door to Jason and Jodi three weeks later.

Aiden wrote his first book while teaching high school English. It had briefly reached number five on the best-seller list, so he’d quit his teaching job and concentrated on his writing. Annabelle’s income was more than sufficient for their day-to-day living. His second book had received lukewarm reviews and disappointing sales, but both he and his agent had great hopes for his third book. He’d decided that this shed, surrounded on two sides by the thick, thirty-year-old cedar hedge that covered one side and the back of their property and hidden from the house by two old pine trees that were even older than the hedge, was just what he needed. This small space would give him the quiet solitude he needed to finish his next best seller.

It had been the wide staircase that led off the spacious foyer, the large, up-to-date kitchen, and the oversized garage that had persuaded Annabelle to buy the house.

Jodi didn’t really mind the shed. There was something thrilling about hurrying down beside the hedge that was twice her height. She loved feeling the soft, fragrant needles against her skin as she slipped into the small space between her potting shed and the hedge and then through the well-hidden, s-shaped gap in the hedge Aiden had created for her.

The shed had unadorned, light wood-panelled walls, a grey-tiled floor, and a white wall unit that provided both heat and air conditioning. Aiden’s oak desk, which had been used by his father and his grandfather, faced an uncovered window that looked out at the hedge he could touch when the window was open. He’d been both surprised and pleased to discover that finding the right words came more easily when he stared out at nothing but green foliage. His never-closed laptop and a printer vied for space with ever-changing, neatly-stacked piles of paper on the scarred desktop. The tall, narrow, matching bookcase beside the desk was filled with neatly arranged books interspersed between high school track trophies, his well-used baseball mitt, the Ford mustang lx model car, with ten-hole trooper wheels which his father had helped him put together when he was twelve, the old, slightly rusted German binoculars his grandfather brought back from the war, and several unopened packages of printer paper.

The all-white bathroom was small enough that you could reach the sink and shower taps while sitting on the toilet. The all-white kitchen area had a small sink and a mini fridge stocked with beer, cream for his coffee, and several energy drinks. There were a few microwaveable meals in the small freezer compartment, and an oversized single-cup coffee maker beside the small microwave took up almost all of the rest of the space on the counter. The small overhead cupboard held only a box of coffee pods, a box of energy bars, a few mugs, glasses, plates, and a bottle of whiskey. A small table and two chairs made of wood that almost matched the walls stood in front of the kitchen unit.

There was an elliptical trainer and a bench press, along with a selection of weights, in the corner opposite the bathroom and a long grey futon, that flipped easily into what Aiden thought of as a comfortable bed, along the wall opposite the door. The antique wooden chest in front of the futon had also belonged to Aiden’s father and now served as a coffee table, as well as a storage unit for the pillows and bedding Aiden used when he needed a nap to boost his creativity or when Jodi came over.

There were things Jodi didn’t like about the shed. She didn’t like its lack of natural light. She’d chosen her house because it had the most, and the biggest, windows of the eleven houses the real estate agent had shown them. Nor did she like the slight odour of Aiden’s daily, hour-long workout that lingered just under the minty scent of his Eucalyptus bath gel or the, as far as she was concerned, none-too-soft mattress on the futon.

She was never aware of any of these things while they were having sex. It was only afterwards, while they lay satisfied and spent, talking about anything and everything, that these deficiencies even occurred to her, and they were nowhere near bothersome enough for her to limit her time with him.

They had been no more than friendly neighbours until two months ago when they both insisted that the other had made the first move. It was just sex. It didn’t change the way she felt about or take anything away from Jason. It didn’t mean she loved him any less. She certainly didn’t love Aiden. It was just sex. And one day, she was certain, she would have had enough, and they would be just friendly neighbours again. She was equally sure that he felt the same way. It was just sex, meaningless, toe-curling sex. They were scratching a mutual itch that would one day disappear as suddenly and as mysteriously as it had appeared, and Jodi certainly intended to get the most enjoyment possible out of it until that happened.

Aiden Buchanan’s short, slicked-back hair was in style again, and he was seriously thinking about covering up the touches of grey that seemed to have appeared overnight.

Jodi’s tall, thin body, smooth pink skin, and high cheekbones gave the impression of a much younger woman as they lay snuggled together in Jodi’s sunlit guest room; their breathing gradually returning to normal.

So, I keep meaning to ask you. Is Jodi short for Judith or Josephine? Aiden asked as he brushed a few strands of her long, fine, straight, blonde hair away from his carefully-sculpted, dark stubble.

Jodi pressed herself against him and gently ran her fingers up and down his chest as she said, Neither. My older brother, George, was named after my father’s father. My mother’s father’s name was Joseph. But, because I’d been a very difficult delivery, they knew my mother couldn’t have any more children, and they tried to get as close to Joseph as they could. Mom wanted Josie, and Dad wanted Joanna. Jodi was their compromise. You?

Named after my father’s brother, who died in a car accident on the day I was born. But I have to say I like the name a lot better than the one my mother wanted to give me.

And that was?

Aloysius. My father’s middle name. My mother loved the sound of it, but my father didn’t. It was one of the few arguments he won.

Jodi giggled softly.

Oh, I’m going to trim the hedge opening tonight. You should have told me it was getting a little tight.

Jodi’s giggle turned into a full laugh.

What’s so funny?

Somebody’s not keeping up with the latest slang. She tsked playfully.

Educate me.

Actually, the expression is ‘trim the hedges,’ and it means to shave the pubic area. She slid her fingers slowly down his abdomen. You’re a bit overdue. I could help.

Don’t need help. I’m a big boy.

I know, she said as she started to caress his penis.

I’m afraid you’re wasting your time, Babe, he chuckled. My main man’s out for the count.

CHAPTER THREE

As Jodi stripped the bed and put the sheets and the clothes she’d been wearing before Aiden arrived into the washer, she couldn’t help remembering the one other time she and Aiden had had sex in her house. The difference was that there was no need to hurry the cleanup this time. Jason’s silver Audi was not going to pull into the driveway anytime soon. He’d called her from his Paris hotel room just before he left for dinner. He was an ocean away.

Jodi had never forgotten the feeling of panic she’d felt that first time. She still remembered the fastest shower of her life, feeling the blast of cold water because she hadn’t had time to wait for it to warm up. She remembered quickly erasing all traces of Aiden from her body while frantically going over her steps of the last few minutes, reassuring herself that Aiden hadn’t left anything in Jason’s office and that she’d erased all traces of them in the guest room. Even though Jason never went into that room. Even though she knew he’d be distracted and in a great hurry to get to his office.

Jodi had been working from her home office that day. The small corner room at the back of the house was all that had been left of the main floor den after the previous owners had doubled the size of the kitchen and turned the powder room into a full-sized bathroom. They’d used the room for storage, but Jodi knew it would be her room as soon as she saw it. It felt comfortable. It was light and airy for such a small room. But mostly, it reminded her of her grandmother’s sewing room.

Jodi had spent hours sitting on the old linoleum floor, filling in her colouring books or dressing and undressing her dolls while watching her grandmother guide material through the ancient, noisy Singer sewing machine. When her grandmother wasn’t at the machine, she’d rock back and forth on her armless rocking chair and mend torn clothing or knit beautiful sweaters. Sometimes the sweaters were for one of Jodi’s dolls.

The room had been her sanity when Pete was a baby and ideally suited to her slowly growing business once he started going to school. The large oak dressing table she’d found at a yard sale when she was sixteen was still in use. Jodi had removed the cracked mirror, spent a good part of one summer sanding, staining, and polishing it, and had used it as a desk ever since. The two deep drawers on either side, that had held her books and papers throughout high school and university, now held the ledgers and bits and pieces of paperwork she picked up from her client’s offices, in varying states of organization, and returned as meticulously organized as her personal files and ledgers. The shiny desktop was always bare except for her iPhone, her laptop, the file she was currently working on, and a Bluetooth speaker. She brought her laptop upstairs and used the state-of-the-art printer in Jason’s second-floor office when she needed paper copies of her work. The two offices and the guest bedroom, which was used only a few times a year, were the only rooms in the house that were always meticulously neat.

Jason thought the room was too small for the big desk, along with the old brushed nickel floor lamp, with the slightly cracked glass table that held the coffee cup Jodi almost never finished, and the past-its-prime, comfortable recliner, where she often sat to read and think. He thought the room needed smaller, modern furniture. But Jodi thought it was perfect.

Jodi had worked in the head office of a large chain store every summer after high school, gradually taking on more and more complicated bookkeeping tasks. She graduated from university with a minor in literature and a major in mathematics and statistics and found a well-paying job as a data analyst for a firm of chartered accountants.  She found that she didn’t enjoy the work or the people she worked with and was relieved to have an excuse to quit when Pete was born. She and Jason had agreed that she’d be a full-time mother until Pete started school.

Her business actually began when Pete was three, but Jodi saw taking over her mother’s hairdresser’s books as a favour to her mother. She bought the latest version of bookkeeping software and was thrilled to bring the financial side of the woman’s business out of the dark ages. The woman’s praise brought other clients, and they brought even more clients. By the time Pete started high school, Jodi’s workload had increased to twenty-five, very enjoyable and profitable, hours a week. And that was enough. It gave her time for all the other things she wanted to do, and it wasn’t as if they needed the money.

Her clients included a number of hairdressers, dance teachers, a fitness instructor, a few small, family-operated convenience stores, two small bake shops, and a used book store. She loved the interaction with her clients when she picked up the necessary paperwork. She enjoyed chatting with the ones who were organized, but she loved listening to the ones who handed her plastic bags of unsorted receipts and invoices even more.  She loved putting things in order. She loved it when everything was neatly arranged and when the numbers balanced, especially when the numbers balanced. And she loved her alone time in the little room, managing the accounts, as well as dealing with inventory, payroll, and suppliers while instrumental piano and guitar mixes played softly in the background. She