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Emma dropped her fork. Her green eyes widened and her red lips parted. “Do you want a divorce?”
Marilyn crossed her arms and leaned them on the table. She studied the sanitized gray and white room. The blue soda vending machine in the corner gave the space its only splash of color.
Her eyes returned to Emma. “I don’t know. When I imagine my life without him ... I’m still in love with him.”
“Then why did you ask for a divorce?”
Marilyn shook her head in a helpless gesture. “I traveled three thousand miles to escape the media scrutiny of being the Devrys’ daughter. Then I married an NBA player. Now I’m being scrutinized as Rick Evans’s wife.”
“I’ve always admired you for wanting your own identity. But you have to make the decision about a divorce for yourself. Don’t let the media make it for you.”
Marilyn clenched her fists. “The media is the reason my marriage is falling apart.”
Emma gave her a searching look, the remnants of her salad apparently forgotten in front of her. “I agree. I’d never have married someone who lived in front of the camera. It was bound to cause a strain on your personal life. And now it’s hampering your career.”
Marilyn leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs. “I never wanted to choose between my marriage and my career.”
“I know. All I’m saying is that, if you really do love Rick, there’s got to be another solution to your problem rather than a divorce.”
Marilyn pulled her hand over her hair. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. But if your marriage is worth it, you’ll figure something out to save it and your career.”
Marilyn swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I’m still in love with Rick. I just don’t want to share him with millions of NBA fans. And I don’t think being married to a professional athlete should make my private life fair game.”
Emma leaned into the table, moving closer to Marilyn. “Well, no matter what happens, I’m here for you.”
“I know, Em.”
They were as different as oil and water, but somehow they’d maintained a friendship that had spanned sixteen years. Emma’s advice against marrying a professional baller had been the only time they’d seriously disagreed. Had she been right?
Emma grinned. “If you do get that divorce, you should go for the house and a big alimony.”
Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need alimony. I have a job. And I wouldn’t ask for the house. It was his before we got married.”
“So what? You both live there now.
And, if he paid you alimony, you wouldn’t have to work.” Emma returned to eating her salad with newfound gusto.
Marilyn glanced at her soup. She still wasn’t hungry. “I enjoy working. I love what I do.”
“I suppose you love Arthur, too.” Emma’s voice was dry.
Marilyn’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the grouchy hospital administrator. “I could live without his micromanaging everyone.”
Emma’s green eyes glowed with triumph. “And you would—if you fought for alimony.”
“I’m not going to ask for alimony.” Marilyn’s tone was final. “My parents had wanted me to marry a doctor. I became one instead. I’m not going to give up my career to sit at home, waiting for Rick’s check.”
“I would.” Emma shrugged again. “But it’s your choice.”
Marilyn shook her head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Yes, they were oil and water. Sometimes it surprised her that they were friends.
4
The last time the press had written about the Monarchs, they’d skinned the team alive. Warrick had been sleeping alone for the past month because of the press. So why was he sitting in the Miami Waves Arena’s conference room Saturday morning, waiting to start this interview with Kirk West of the New York Horn instead of preparing for tonight’s game?
Troy Marshall.
