by T. L. Hart
“Jennifer, I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind.”
“That’s a hard point to argue.”
I knew better than to talk to him about my sessions with Dr. Carey and Andrew. He’d have Jennifer locked up in a very expensive, very lovely loony bin if he caught a hint that we thought Cotton Claymore had moved inside her head. Thank God and doctor-client confidentiality protocols that my therapists would never be talking to Gregory. What a mess that could stir up.
“However,” I continued, “losing some of my memory is hardly the same thing as being crazy.”
“It’s not just that.” He glanced at me, then away, barely making eye contact. “After the accident, the doctors all said it would take time, but you can’t expect to get back to your old self by running away from home, from reality.” He sighed. “I’ve been patient with you and, quite truthfully, it hasn’t been a picnic for me. I haven’t had any kind of normal life these past few months. The visits to the hospital and that rehab place were a nightmare. No companionship; no social life. I’m not complaining, but you have no idea how hard it’s been waiting for you to get it together. My whole routine has been shot to hell and now you’re going to complicate things more by threatening me with a divorce.”
“Forgive me if I can’t feel your pain, Gregory.” This guy was such a prince. “You missed a few hours at the office and had to reschedule a couple of golf games before you found out I wasn’t going to die. Maybe someone will nominate you for sainthood.”
“When did you get to be such a bitch, Jennifer? You were always so sweet and loyal.” He looked like a seal pup waiting to be clubbed. “I don’t think I should be punished for your condition. It’s not my fault.”
I almost felt sorry for him. I suspected I’d always been a bitch, considered it one of my better qualities, actually. A smart mouth and a smile on the side worked miracles if you knew when to use them. I did, but obviously little Jennifer had better manners. Gregory probably did feel like a bloodied martyr now that I was getting my feet back under me. Maybe Jennifer’s way would work better since he was more accustomed to kid gloves than a buzz saw.
“I’m sorry, Gregory.” The lie sounded almost sincere. Like his ego would care about truth as long as it got stroked. “I know this has been hard on both of us. I know I’ve changed. That’s why I’m suggesting a divorce. It’s not your fault.” That at least was true. “We can’t help what’s happened, but we also can’t pretend things could ever be the same again.”
“But you still might get better, in time. You could get back to being yourself.” He didn’t sound hopeful—or particularly saddened by the possibility that I might not. “There are other considerations, as well. Financial ramifications, property—the sort of things I’ve always handled for you…for us. A divorce will play havoc with our tax situation. I’ll have to call Dick Williams at the CPA firm and get him started on a game plan.”
He was beginning to sweat, a few beads popping out on his forehead, just between his eyes. I wasn’t in any shape for a lecture on marriage and the intricacies of joint filing with the IRS, so in the hopes of distracting him, I tossed out an alternate plan, a meaty bone for him to worry instead of me.
“How about a legal separation—just to give us time to see how things shake out?” He still looked inclined to argue, so I added hurriedly, “You could still handle all our assets, keep track of the financial things until we come to a final decision.”
He went for it like the greedy dog he couldn’t help but be.
“That could be a workable idea.”
I could almost see him dancing in his blackhearted fantasies, though he tried to keep the enthusiasm from bursting out. Poor Jennifer, I thought. Hopefully, wherever she had gone, she hadn’t had good enough sense to know what a piece of work she’d been married to. No wonder she’d taken the chance to get out when the big red thing mowed her down.
“Yes,” Gregory went on in a more sepulchral tone. “We could try that.” He absently wiped the sweat bullets from his forehead and lowered his shoulders from up around his ears. It was as though the weight of the world had eased by a cosmic ton. “Maybe we do need a little space. Take some time to consider where we’re going.”
He sounded as if this were a new concept instead of the oldest cliché in the breakup book. I gladly nodded my assent. Whatever it would take to get out of this tomb was good enough for me.
“Thanks for being so understanding,” I said sweetly, squelching my delight with how easy he was making things. “I’ll start looking for a place tomorrow.”
“There’s no rush, Jennifer. Take all the time you need,” he said grandly. “This separation wasn’t my idea in the first place.” A sudden expression of horror washed across his face, draining it of color. “My God! You don’t think anyone will think this is my idea, do you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Our friends. The people at the office.” He reached out and touched his laptop, lightly brushing his fingers across the cold plastic security blanket. “It wouldn’t be fair if they think I did this to you. After the accident and all.”
“Maybe we could put a statement in the paper, explaining it for them, sort of an official separation-Gregory absolution announcement.”
“Don’t be flippant. You may not care, but I have a career, a reputation in the community to consider.”
“Oh, I doubt if our living in separate houses is going to lead to the downfall of modern civilization.” Lord, what a drama queen he was turning out to be. “The Dow probably won’t crash down around your ears over this. Even with Alan Greenspan gone, I think the economy will survive our little trauma.”
“People will talk though,” he said importantly. “There will be gossip.”
“If Brad and Jen and Angelina lived through it, so can we.”
“I just want things to be handled the best way.”
“Whatever Gregory.” My patience was wearing transparently thin. “Do we have to keep talking? We’re giving me a headache.”
“There’s no need to keep sniping at each other,” he said, flipping open his faithful computer and punching the power button, signaling the end of the discussion. “I’ll take care of the financial things on my end and you can send me the bills.”
“I want to handle my own bills, thanks. I’ll need some money to get started.”
“Have it your own way, then.” His attention was already back on the screen. “You have the passbook to your trust fund and your checking account in your desk. What else do you need for now?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
I didn’t look back to see if he was listening. Instead I walked slowly out of the room and headed for my desk, a desk I had never bothered to explore further than the Rolodex and address book. Don’t run, I ordered myself. Don’t look too eager.
I may have speeded up a bit when I was sure I was out of his sight, but it wasn’t exercise that made my heart beat so hard when I had the bankbooks in my fingers and skimmed the paperwork. All in my name—well, all in Jennifer Strickland’s name—numbers with lots of zeros following them, even by Dallas standards, lots of zeros.
“Thank you, Jennifer, honey, wherever you are,” I whispered. “We can kiss that bozo goodbye. We’re rich!”
Chapter Twelve
Being rich makes coming back from the dead so much easier. I don’t remember what Cotton Claymore was worth, and I doubt I was poor, even then, but for sure I wasn’t this kind of go-for-a-Big-Mac-in-Paris-if-the-mood-strikes-me rich. A talk with my banker—I have my own banker—cleared up a lot of questions about all those zeros in Jennifer’s passbooks.
John Allen White was born to be a banker. Really. His father and grandfather were bankers and had established an empire for him to run. There was probably a genetic predisposition to understanding spreadsheets and interest rates. One of those genes that have a linkage to thinning hair and the ability to wear a two thousand-dollar suit without looking self-conscious.
John seemed
to find it odd at first that I needed him to explain everything about my accounts, but a fragile blonde with a story about a dreadful car accident and an imminent divorce made him very chatty and very eager to keep me happy. He was the modern incarnation of chivalry, patiently giving financial advice, offering to take me to lunch if I had further questions and promising his help in any way short of detailing my car. I’m sure the possibility of me moving all those zeros out of his vault never crossed his mind, but I think I could have gotten a toaster out of the conversation if I’d asked for one.
* * *
The next few days were a whirlwind of shopping that would have made Jennifer and all her old North Dallas shopping buddies proud. Clothes, dishes, furniture—all bought in a frenzy that left me exhausted and had American Express calling to make sure I was the one authorizing the purchases. The amount didn’t faze them; the stores weren’t the kind of places they were used to seeing, I guess. Jennifer had been more of a designer-driven buyer than I was now, but I had a lot of fun.
Moving back into an old life isn’t quite as easy as moving into a new home, but there are similarities. I didn’t know where all the pieces in my head fit together or if they would ever really fit together any more than I knew how the furniture I ordered would work in my new apartment. Oh well, sometimes you have to jump in and let all the details take care of themselves.
I did love the new place though. It was big and airy, faintly industrial in design with exposed venting pipes in the kitchen and tall windows that looked down from the second-floor balcony onto the green trees of Lee Park. The furniture I found was funky and mostly modern Italian—curvy sofas and tables chosen as much for the fun of the shapes and colors as their function. Not a speck of beige in the place.
I loaded up on plants too. Palms for the balcony and inside, a virtual garden of green and flowering baskets. The house in North Dallas didn’t harbor so much as a silk philodendron. Maybe plants required some sort of commitment to nurture that the marriage couldn’t support. Maybe Gregory had allergies. Who knew? Tending the plants made me feel alive as I watered and touched them. Good enough reason for me.
Gregory would absolutely hate this apartment, would look down his aristocratic nose at the lack of elegance. I glanced around and smiled. Yes, it was perfect.
And wouldn’t Gregory have a fit if any of his friends found out his soon-to-be-ex-wife, no matter how crazy I am, lived in such a neighborhood? Though it was in an expensive complex on Turtle Creek, the building itself was a little seedy, a few blocks from the newer and trendier high-rises that were becoming the rage. It was a stone’s throw from all the gay bars and eclectic stores and strip shopping center restaurants.
It was perfectly acceptable for North Dallasites to come downtown to eat at the famous Mansion on Turtle Creek or to have drinks and a night of fun at one of the hot restaurants strung up and down McKinney Avenue, but when the news got out that I was living in a rented apartment in Oak Lawn, Gregory would die of embarrassment.
His pride had taken a hit with the separation, and he was playing wounded husband to the hilt. I don’t think he had been invited out for drinks and golf so much in years. I’m sure there was lots of male bonding and shrewd advice on the best divorce lawyers and suggestions for second-wife choices. Most of his pals had plenty of experience in that area.
It was important for me not to take anything from the house I had shared with him—nothing that ended up in my new apartment, that is. I had no intention of leaving it or throwing it all away though. The movers must have thought I was crazy, but they didn’t say a word—just loaded all the stuff into the truck and delivered it directly to the warehouse for Outreach Oaklawn’s donation center. It offered me a backdoor entry into Cotton’s old world, coming in as a wealthy benefactor, wanting to give items for redressing, reselling, restoring.
A short, square woman with short-cut silver hair and a no-nonsense attitude met us at the ramp to the back door, clipboard in hand.
“Hold on a minute before you guys start unloading all this stuff.” She motioned for the workmen to stand back and looked at me, astute enough to have picked the person in charge to interrogate. “Looks like you hijacked half of Highland Park here. Sure you got the right address?” I got the once-over, ending with a growl of grudging acceptance. “So’s this your loot?”
“Mine to dispose of, let’s say.”
“Let’s keep it simple and just say it’s yours. Okay lady?”
“Okay. I’d like to donate everything here to the Outreach. And I would like to volunteer to work a few days a week as well.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Whatever needs doing.”
“Uh-huh.” Another sharp-eyed head-to-toe before looking me straight in the eyes. “And I’m betting you have a lot of on-the-job experience?”
“Just because I’m rich doesn’t mean I’m helpless,” I said, not letting her buffalo me with the sarcasm. “Or stupid.”
“Never thought you looked stupid. We don’t get too many volunteers from your part of town. At least not without a charity ball and press coverage.”
“I live four blocks from here, and all my ball gowns seem to be in this truck.” I stuck my hands in the pockets of my too-new jeans and gave her my best bluff of street-tough. “Sorry the press isn’t following me today, but unless I need a note from the society page editor to file or clean, I’m still here to help.”
“No,” she said, only the dull red on her cheekbones acknowledging her rudeness. “Okay.” She wiped her hand on the rear of her pants before sticking it out to me. “We always need free help around here. I’m Molly Rayner.” Her hand was as square as the rest of her and callused, but her grip was surprisingly gentle. “They keep me out here because my manners are a little unpolished.” A lopsided smile transformed her from gruff to halfway charming. “Maybe more than a little today.”
“Jennifer Strickland.”
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Strickland.”
“No,” I responded too quickly. “Strickland is about to be out of date, so just call me…my name…”
While Molly stood looking at me, a polite social nod caught in expectant waiting mode, I was at a total loss as to what to say. I had a new chance at life—a new identity—and damned if I wanted to spend the rest of it as Jennifer Strickland or Jennifer Anything for that matter. Jennifer was a name for a social type, a country clubber, Gregory’s wife.
“Not Ms. Strickland. You can call me J.C.” It was a spur-of-the-minute decision—J.C. for Jennifer Catherine. “J.C. Winters.” Winters for Jennifer’s late parents. A little bow for all those zeros in the bankbook. And C. for Cotton, for me.
“J.C. it is then.” Molly christened me, giving my new name a solid welcome into the world as she printed it on her clipboard. It was official now. “You’ll need to check in at the front office and let them assign you wherever they need help most. Ask for Aggie Burke.” She turned back to the guys loitering by the truck and motioned for them to start unloading. “See you around, J.C.,” she said without another look in my direction. “Thanks for all the loot.”
I turned to go, smart enough to know when I was dismissed. It stung a little, being casually brushed off from the place I’d spent so many years in as Cotton, but I welcomed the discomfort. It meant I was remembering some of the feelings of my old life. Every day a bit more.
Even if I didn’t remember Molly, I had no doubt her reactions would have been different if I were in my old body. Yes, I thought smugly. I would bet big money Molly wouldn’t have been so cocky if her old boss had been standing nearby.
“C’mon, fellas, let’s get cranking.” Molly’s voice was loud enough I knew she meant it to carry. “Move these boxes inside. I want to get first pick of the ball gowns. I really hope there’s something with bugle beads.”
That’s a bet I would have lost.
Chapter Thirteen
When I met Aggie Burke for the first time, I felt as if we had been friends for years—which
as it turns out, we had. This time around, she was the first person I actually remembered on sight since my accident.
First of all, it was weird walking into Outreach Oaklawn. I felt I should know what to expect, but there was no rush of fond memories washing over me as I pulled open the front door. There were so many interviews and articles about my determination to get funds and get it opened, how it was my creation, that I fully believed it would feel familiar. No such luck.
The huge old building had been a warehouse at one time and still had that kind of urban sprawl ambiance. The bottom story of floor space was divided roughly into an unsymmetrical four areas. At the front entrance were office cubicles with the requisite chairs, desks and computers where three women were working, talking on the phones and typing. A couple of rambunctious little boys were playing tag around the desks, having a grand old time.
To the left of the offices was a storeroom, outfitted like a small general mercantile, rows of canned goods, diapers and formula prominently displayed. A few people were choosing items and pushing shopping carts. And, in a surreal touch, a wizened old lady in overalls was standing atop a ladder swabbing the things on a top shelf with a giant pink feather duster. She was singing at the top of her lungs, a really not-bad rendition of “Chain of Fools.” It echoed through the air, bouncing off the walls before being absorbed in the vast main building.
Right in the center of the Outreach was the largest part of the ground floor area, a kitchen and dining area with several long rows of tables. To one side was a long row of countertop filled with bins of silverware, trays of plastic drinking glasses, paper napkins and big metal bowls piled high with apples, oranges and bananas. Two large glass-front coolers held cans of juices and bottles of milk and water. No one was in the cafeteria’s eating area, but I could see people working in the kitchen, and an aroma of what smelled like beef stew permeated the air.