Innocent Spouse by Carol Ross Joynt

Hinckley Pilot 35,
Penguin
, and how beautifully he spruced her up.”
    Penguin?
A Hinckley Pilot 35? We didn’t own a Hinckley, and the sailboat we did own, a little eighteen-foot day sailer, was named the
Carol Ann
. There had been a Hinckley Pilot 35 at the yard a year or so earlier. Howard took me out on her one beautiful sunny day, put her enthusiastically through her paces, even brought a picnic lunch, andwhen I was happily relaxing he announced she was for sale. “Should we buy her?” he asked. She was a lovely black-hulled gem, and I knew he considered Hinckley to be the ultimate in boatbuilding, but we already had a sailboat.
    “No,” I said. “Not now. We don’t need another boat.” And, as far as I knew, that was that.
    I dropped the newsletter and called the yacht yard. I thanked the yard manager for the nice tribute to Howard.
    “I’m going to ask you a question that may sound dumb, but please answer me honestly.” He was silent. “You mentioned the Hinckley Pilot 35,
Penguin
, in your write-up.” I paused. “Do we own that boat?”
    “Well, yes, you did. Mr. Joynt had her here for a while. He had a lot of work done on her. Made her really sweet. Sold her at a good price, too.”
    “He sold her?”
    “Yeah. Sold her up in Maine. That was earlier last year.”
    Clearly, when Howard took me sailing on the boat and asked me whether we should buy her, he already had. That’s why the fabrics that covered the cushions and bunks down below were from a manufacturer we used for our home. At the time, I considered it an appealing coincidence. What a dunce!
    The discovery rattled me. The IRS, a surprise sailboat, big loans from his checkbook, guys who have tabs at the bar, “the Bank of Howard,” two sets of books—how much more didn’t I know about my husband? One stage of grief is denial, but it’s tough to be in denial when there’s so much evidence to the contrary.
    To ease my pain and confusion, I would lose myself in Spencer. He needed me but I needed him, too. I felt normal when I was alone with him, even if our moments together were anything but. I’d tuck him into bed each night and curl up beside him. “Tell me stories about Daddy,” he’d say, and I’d try to pull something up to enchant him. While I talked he would suck his thumb, hug his cuddle toy Baby, and stare into the middle distance. When I stopped he would plead, “More! More! Tell me another story, Mommy. Tell me about Daddy.” Sometimes he would cry and I’d hold him until the tears were dry and he was asleep.

Ch apte r 8
    N OTHING IN MY background prepared me for the three-ring circus my life became after Howard’s death. Lawyers and the IRS in one ring, Nathans and
Larry King Live
in another, and in the center ring, my son and our home life. The big top was lit up, it was showtime virtually round the clock, and I had to lead the action in each ring simultaneously.
    For the moment, the lawyers at Caplin and Drysdale got the most attention. We spoke often over speakerphone. Much of our conversations had to do with their discussions with Deborah Martin at the IRS. The message was clear: I was not gaining ground.
    At
Larry King Live
, I tried to keep the productive pace I was known for before Howard’s death. In early 1997, I was in the middle of negotiations for several big-ticket projects: Rosie O’Donnell, who’d started a new TV talk show the year before, the notorious Leona Helmsley, who’d been mum since she got out of prison for tax evasion, fashion mogul Calvin Klein, and the Christie’s auction of Princess Diana’s dresses. These were front-burner gets. I had another dozen or so long-term projects: Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John F. Kennedy, Jr., Doris Day, Sting, the Duchess of York, Marv Albert, Kathie Lee and Frank Gifford, the pope, and Queen Elizabeth. My get list, particularly the pope and Queen Elizabeth, made friends laugh, but I assured them that in the talk-show game we were motivated by the