“No worries.”
The stylist danced around the chair. There was no other way to describe it. Grace wasn’t facing the mirror but she felt the drafts of air as Sherry passed by and circled her, hands and scissors flying.
“There. Never use a blow dryer on your hair. Let it dry naturally.” Sherry daubed some shiny stuff on her hands and worked it through Grace’s locks. The scent was lovely, like coconuts.
“Can I buy some of that?”
“Sure. And the matching shampoo and conditioner. Curly hair is thirsty hair. Come back for a trim every five weeks, no later.” She fluffed Grace’s new do.
That was another minus of having short hair, regular haircuts, but Grace would make up her mind once she actually saw it. Her head felt markedly lighter and people were smiling at her as they passed by, giving nods of approval. Even other customers. After feeling like an afterthought much of her life, and sometimes like something stuck on the bottom of a shoe, it felt pretty darn good.
Beckett’s face flashed behind her eyes as she closed them so Sherry could apply yet another “sweep of color” to her face and the enormity of what she was undertaking crashed down before she could push it away.
“Hey! What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Sherry patted her cheek and looked anxiously into her face.
Sucking in air, Grace got herself under a modicum of control. She wanted to slide to the floor and weep, but if she did, she’d never stop. She bit her lower lip until it quit trembling. “Sorry. I got a bit lightheaded there for a moment.”
“Geez. You scared me. You went so white.”
“It’s been a long day,” she replied, trying for a smile. She was so tired of late, and her sleep had been broken last night. Beckett had snuck out of the room, waking her from her sex doze, and of course, she couldn’t go back to sleep until he returned to bed. And then she’d fretted, second-guessing herself before womaning up—planning for the morrow.
“Another couple of minutes and it’ll be over,” Sherry promised. She applied a drift of mascara and a hint of lip gloss, standing back to survey Grace. “You look freaking amazing.”
Cautiously, she swiveled the chair and risked a look in the mirror. A stranger looked back, someone with shiny, artfully tousled locks that complemented beautiful skin and mysterious eyes. Even the plain, blue t-shirt looked less drab. “Oh.”
“I know, right? I mean, you’re a really pretty girl but you don’t do anything with yourself. Like you’re hiding yourself away. The hair will be easy to manage, I’ll give you a quick lesson. And the face—the kit is included and you have good bones to work with. I’d probably hit a boutique if I were you, get some clothes that fit and make the most of what you have.”
Willing back the images of all those beautiful models she’d seen with Becket on the ’Net and in magazines, she studied herself. She’d never measure up, but she looked okay. And it didn’t matter who he broke his marital vows with any longer. She had an appointment with Mr. Harper in under thirty minutes to fix that.
It might be a long time before she shared a bed with another man, if ever, but her need for her husband felt corralled and subdued as if someone else had taken charge of it. So, it no longer controlled her.
“If I have time, I’ll go shopping.” Funny how her father’s company produced the most amazing fabrics in the world and she was like the poor relation when it came to wearing any. But then, she didn’t have the body for the outfits produced from those fabrics, not like the models Beckett’s company hired to showcase their on-staff designers’ outfits. Now, that was a marriage made in heaven, Langdon, and Kilmer. She hoped they were happy together.
Slipping from the chair, she followed Sherry to the till, wincing a little when her jeans rubbed her waxed parts. The bill was probably astronomical, but she didn’t look at the amount, telling the stylist to add a twenty percent tip and handing over her card.
“Beckett Kilmer. Kilmer Designs, right?” Sherry’s eyes lit up. “I know the name. I wish I could afford even one of his lines.”
Grace smiled and held it on her face with an effort, punching in her PIN. “Thanks.”
“Are you his…”
“No relation at all. Just part of the team. And a lowly one at that. This is a … bonus.” That reference made her want to scream with laughter, and she saw Sherry watching her with confusion creasing her brow.
Grace quickly accepted her receipt and shoved it and the card into her purse, heading out with a wave. “Thank you! I’ll call for an appointment. Five weeks.”
“Great.” Sherry’s voice echoed out into the street.
Checking the time, Grace strode toward the lawyer’s office. Strode. She hadn’t thought she was capable of striding, and her pace faltered before she got a grip. She had a little time and there was a boutique…
Who was she kidding? Like clothes would make this woman. Even her new look didn’t cheer her anymore. It was all fake, superficial, and wouldn’t withstand scrutiny. Except it had to because she wasn’t going to let him—or her father—treat her badly any longer. Damn it.
Her emotions were up and down like a yo-yo and she’d better pull things together if she was going to see it through. She sought out that core of determination and drew on it. Why would she continue to be treated in a fashion she would personally never confer on anyone else?
“Mrs. Kilmer?” The receptionist greeted her, evidently puzzled. Probably a good thing she hadn’t changed her clothes. The older woman squinted and gave her head a tiny shake. Maybe she wrote the change in appearance off to the vagaries of today’s woman. “Mr. Harper is free now.”
The lawyer rose to a crouch behind his desk when she entered his office, and the receptionist shut the door firmly behind her. He offered his hand. “I’m Steven Harper. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kilmer.”
“I’m here to get a divorce.” She projected the Grace she’d come to be.
He blinked, as if such frankness wasn’t usual. “I see.”
“As soon as possible.”
Pulling a legal pad toward him, he asked for identifying information, jotting it down. “May I ask what grounds you are basing your request upon?”
“Irreconcilable differences.” She’d heard that on a legal show and knew it applied.
“I see.” He paused, then asked delicately, “Was there … abuse involved?”
“What? Abuse? Oh, no. Nothing like that.” Beckett never raised a hand to her and how did one describe callous neglect? Though she supposed his words were abusive, used like weapons. But that didn’t matter anymore, being in the past. “I … we simply don’t get along, have nothing in common.”
“Any children?”
“No.” She swallowed. “No.”
“What have you considered for financial support? I know your husband’s name. He’s a wealthy man. We should work out alimony per month or as a lump sum—”
“I don’t want anything.” She didn’t need it. Didn’t want anything from Beckett aside from the one thing he’d never give her. The stress of not thinking about him all day, focusing on the inane grooming and transformation of her physical self, rose up and smacked her in the face.
“Mrs. Kilmer?” Harper got up and rushed around his desk when she put her hand over her mouth, willing her stomach not to revolt.
She had to stop losing her shit like this, to quote Charity. Waving him away, she fished in her purse and powered on her phone. She’d call her friend after this appointment and ask her to meet up. She should have asked her to come along today. “I’m fine. Long day, and this is … difficult.”
“Of course.” The lawyer returned to his seat and took up his pen. “You’re financially stable, then?”
“I am.” Her mother had seen to that, undermining Grace’s father at the last. She’d never be rich but could live comfortably, if simply, and planned to find a job in any event. “I’ll have no problem covering your fees.”
“Then a divorce can be quite simple as long as your husband doesn�
�t demur.”
“He won’t.” She could envision him punching the air with glee, right before he informed his father—and hers—that Grace had once again met all expectations. Fail army. But the companies would move forward, her father and his having ironed out the vast majority of their differences. They appeared something close to friends now, and there was no longer a need for a pawn. Plus, Beckett had lots of years left to make a baby, just not with her.
He could legally take up with one of those models, without any censure, not that her father had taken any issue. If her mother had lived, would Grace had made the same mistake, or would Mom have cautioned her, having chosen an unavailable man herself? And a cheater too.
Mr. Harper outlined a process that should free her from her marital prison within the space of several months and she listened numbly. “I’ll prepare the papers and once you sign them, I’ll file them in court. Shall I mail them to you for signature or will you want to pick them up?”
“Mail is fine.” She’d leave them for Beckett on his desk in the den so he could peruse them and get his lawyer to take a look, but it seemed pretty cut and dried.
“What address?”
“I gave you the address.” She froze. How stupid. She wasn’t going to be staying in that house for much longer. That big, empty, cold house. “Oh. Come to think of it, I’ll come here to sign them. Then they can be mailed. To my husband. Where he lives. And I’ll leave you a retainer today.”
Harper named a figure she barely raised a freshly waxed eyebrow at. Freedom at any price. She wouldn’t use his card—it was childish to use Beckett’s account for the makeover, if satisfying—she’d pay for her own divorce. She’d write a check from the slender stack she kept tucked in her wallet.
Beckett was indeed a wealthy man, and he probably didn’t even know about her small trust fund. They’d built nothing together since their marriage—that house wasn’t even on her radar—and he’d have no claim on her money as she wouldn’t have on his.
While his receptionist prepared an invoice and receipt, she went to her contacts to call Charity, stilling when she noted the number of missed calls and texts. One was from her father, but the majority from Beckett.
She approached the screen like a rabbit eyes a snake and read a few.
Where are you? Call me.
Grace, I’m getting worried. Call me!
For Christ’s sake, Grace, call me.
Honestly confused, then worried, she blinked and scrolled through the rest. Her father’s message was disgruntled and as peremptory.
I expect you to call your husband.
A wave of relief made her belly hollow. Her father was her only surviving relation if one didn’t count some distant cousins, and she didn’t, but obviously, Beckett’s calls weren’t related to something going wrong with her dad.
She dialed her voicemail and nearly dropped the phone at the tirades. Beckett never phoned her. She might receive a brief text if it was compulsory for her to accompany him to an event that required his actual wife on his arm. But she’d never heard his voice on the line since the period of time when they … dated.
The last call advised her he was notifying the police and she fumbled to a chair in the waiting room. The cell chimed and she squeaked before she recognized the name. “Hello, Charity.”
“Good grief, woman. I get off work and my phone lights up. That husband of yours wants to know where you are.”
He’d called Charity? Grace would have doubted he even knew her friend’s last name. But her father did… He disapproved of her friend but Grace grimly defied him, the other woman a hint of sanity in her otherwise unbalanced world. “I was at a spa.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good then.”
It was. Women went to spas all the time. Even women who were married to someone who despised them and never talked to them anymore aside from in bed during sex. And then only because passion apparently made him chatty. A chatty horndog, because the man had sex with countless women yet still had it with her. “I had my phone turned off.”
“And you’re surprised he called.” Charity didn’t know the fullness of Grace’s humiliation but was aware she wasn’t happy. It was impossible to hide her feelings from her friend, but she hadn’t revealed all her shame.
“I am. I was also at a lawyer’s office. I’m still there. Here.”
Seconds ticked by, and Grace felt them pulse in her temples until Charity asked, “Does he know about the lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
“We should get some dinner.”
How like Charity not to interrogate her over the phone. “I’d like that.”
“You’d better call him first.”
She didn’t want to, but she wasn’t a child either. She’d always been a thoughtful, considerate person and this new, resolute Grace still retained those qualities. She hoped. Just not to the extent where people trampled over her at will. Those days were over. “I’ll call.”
They settled on a place for dinner and decided to meet shortly, despite the early hour, but Grace knew they had a lot of talking to do—over drinks. She might have to take a cab home but unburdening oneself required considerable lubrication.
Charity lived on the opposite side of the city, near the hospital where she worked as a tech in the imagery department. A full-bodied, black woman with an irrepressible sense of humor and a tendency to slip into what she termed “rapper” with a smirk, she’d have been a far closer friend if Grace had allowed it.
After making her way back to her car, she sat inside and stared out the window, gathering her courage, yet wondering why she needed to do so. It was ridiculous to feel guilty about not being available for a call from her husband, such a new development, and equally ridiculous to hesitate to call him back. She tapped his contact number and waited.
Once upon a time, she’d stored it under a romantic label, her prince charming, but now the contact simply read: Beckett Kilmer. Formal and stark. The way their life truly was.
A recollection of her one and only call to his office assaulted her and she warred with the gut-wrenching sensations called up by the memory.
Why are you calling me at work, Grace? Anything you have to say to me can wait until I get home.
“Grace?” Beckett’s voice sounded loudly in her ear, filled with impatience and frustration. For an instant, she remained caught in the past before curbing her cursed reminiscence.
“It’s me.”
“Are you … all right?” Concern, twice in two days. How odd.
Confusion furrowed her brow. “I’m fine.”
Heavy breathing filled her ear and she wondered if the faint creaking sound was Beckett setting his jaw. “Where the fuck have you been?”
“Excuse me?” He’d never sworn at her before, with the exception of once saying she was a conniving little bitch. That too had been over the phone, a clearly drunken Beckett venting his spleen. As far as humiliation went, that took first prize.
“I’ve been calling.”
“I see that. I’m returning your call. Calls.” She heard her prim, proper tone, even as her hand shook. Strong, resolute. No longer his wife. No longer under his thumb.
“Look… Just come home. We need to talk. In person.”
Did she want to talk to him? She did not. Certainly not right now. “I’m going out for dinner.”
“What? No. Come home.”
“I’ll be home around eight.”
“Jesus Christ, Grace. I want you to come home now. You’ve been gone all day and no one knew where you were.”
She couldn’t help it. A dry cough of a laugh rasped into the phone.
“What’s so funny?” His incredulity echoed in her ear.
“No one ever knows where I am. What’s changed?” Put bluntly like that, it made her irrevocably sad and she swallowed a lump in her throat before dismissing the self-pity.
“Jesus.” Beckett cleared his throat. “I came home early and you weren’t here. I had no idea where you mi
ght be.”
And didn’t that sum up the nature of their relationship? He knew nothing about her. Hadn’t wanted to learn. Rebuffed all her overtures until she gave up. “I do things. Go places.”
She didn’t go far, the one interest she pursued kept close to her chest because she had no idea what Beckett or her father might say. Actually, she did. And she didn’t have the energy to stand up for herself back then when they disparaged it.
“Grace, something has to change. I… Things have to be different.”
The new Grace shouldn’t feel anything in response to his statement. Nothing. If Beckett wanted change, so be it. It didn’t matter to her. It didn’t hurt. Why would it? Their marriage was a sham and he’d obviously had enough. She’d gotten out in front of him, in any event, a hollow victory. “I know. And I’ve taken the initiative.”
The lightheaded feeling was back, and she was so glad to be sitting, even if the car was getting stuffy.
“Initiative?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you later.”
“Just come home. I’m serious.”
As a heart attack? Because she could hardly breathe for the ache in her chest. She somehow moved past it, taking slow, deep breaths. “I’m having dinner with Charity, Beckett.”
“She said she didn’t know where you were.” His tone was accusing and full of suspicion.
“She didn’t. She called me just as I turned my phone back on.”
“Why was it off?”
“Because no one calls me and I didn’t use it earlier today.”
Silence echoed through the airwaves. “What if your father needed you? Or if I did?”
“For what?” She was suddenly overcome with the bizarre desire to laugh and bit her knuckle to suppress the sound, tears pricking at the back of her eyes.
“Fuck. This is going no place.” She could visualize him raking his long fingers through his hair in frustration. She’d seen that emotion often enough, been on the receiving end of it at the beginning of their marriage, and decided she was done talking.
“I’ll see you around eight.” She tapped the hang up icon on his protests and ignored the phone when it rang again. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the case and fought the desire to throw it out the window.
Love Changes Everything (Romance on the Go Book 0) Page 3