Grace was forced to smile.
“You hear anything from the asshole?” Rochelle asked.
“Not a word,” Grace said.
“Are you okay for money?” Rochelle asked.
“For now,” Grace lied.
Rochelle knew it for the lie it was, but didn’t call her daughter out on it. Instead, she sighed and gave Grace a sideways glance. “I think you better give your Uncle Dennis a call.”
* * *
When she couldn’t access her blog, Grace reluctantly called Ben, leaving a voice mail when he didn’t pick up. Three days later, Ben still wasn’t returning Grace’s phone calls. But he’d been a busy little worker bee during that time. He’d changed the PINs for their joint checking and savings accounts, and although she’d gone to the bank in person, twice, and argued with the branch manager, she still couldn’t make them understand that her estranged husband was freezing her out of her own hard-earned money. He’d canceled her AmEx and Visa cards. And when she’d gone to her gym to try to work out some of her frustrations in a Zumba class, she’d been greeted with the unwelcome news that her membership had been terminated, since the gym was no longer able to debit her checking account for her fees.
“Call Dickie Murphree,” her Uncle Dennis said, when she finally got him on the phone. “I finally got smart and hired him the second time around. He’s the best divorce lawyer in town. Didn’t the two of you go to high school together?”
“Dickie! Of course,” Grace said, her black mood lifting, just a little. “That’s a great idea. Dickie took me on my first real car date. I haven’t seen him in a couple years.”
“Give him my best when you call,” Dennis said. “And tell him I hope I never have to see him again. No offense.”
She called the law offices of Murphree-Baggett-Hopkins twice a day, for two days in a row, each time asking the receptionist to please have Dickie call her about an urgent matter.
“He’s in court,” the receptionist told her. “I know, but I’m an old friend,” she said, giving the woman her maiden name. Might as well start getting used to it again, she thought glumly.
Things really were getting pretty dire.
As much as she dreaded another confrontation, she had to talk to Ben. Aside from business matters that had to be settled, she needed more clothes, her treasured interior design books and magazine files, and the macro lens for her camera. Also panties.
Finally, she decided on an ambush. Grace dressed carefully for the outing, as carefully as she could considering the fact that her hastily packed suitcase contained three faded T-shirts, two pairs of yoga pants, her jogging shorts, and a pair of skinny white jeans that she hadn’t actually been able to fit into in two years.
Now though, the jeans zipped with ease. Heartache, she thought ruefully, was the ultimate diet aid.
She tried calling Ben one more time, and when her message went directly to voice mail, she resolutely got behind the wheel of the Subaru and drove the ten miles to Siesta Key, her stomach roiling so badly that once, a mile from the house, she had to pull off onto the side of the road to barf on a white oleander bush.
On the way over, Grace rehearsed her lines.
“Hello, Ben. I know you’ve been avoiding me, and you’re probably still furious about me driving the Audi into the pool, but hey! I’m still furious about finding you and J’Aimee doing the nasty in the front seat, so why don’t we just call it a tie and figure out a way to get through all this with some courtesy and civility?”
She thought that was an excellent opener. And she would follow it up by letting him know that he would absolutely HAVE to unfreeze the bank accounts and credit cards and restore her access to the blog.
“It’s my business, Ben. It’s called Gracenotes, for God’s sake. Your preventing me from participating in it is foolish and shortsighted.”
That would get him. Ben was all about business. Since he dealt with all the blog’s advertisers, he would certainly want to keep them happy to keep the ad dollars flowing. Right? Surely he would be reasonable, now that he’d had some time to think things over rationally. Right?
Up ahead, Grace spotted the thick emerald green embankment that meant she was approaching Gulf Vista, their subdivision. A stately row of royal palms, underplanted with thick beds of asparagus ferns, lined both sides of the road, and a classic arched white stucco bridge crossed over a canal. A hundred yards ahead, she spotted the security gate and felt a sharp, unexpected wave of panic so strong that she had to clutch the steering wheel to keep from turning around and fleeing in the opposite direction.
Stop this! She told herself sternly. This is a business transaction. No need for emotion. Be strong.
She pulled the car alongside the electronic card reader and swiped her plastic key card through it, waiting patiently for the heavy iron gates to slide open.
Nothing. The gate didn’t move. She wiped the card on the leg of her jeans, a trick she’d used many times when the finicky card reader refused to open sesame.
Grace tried three more times with the same results. Despite the fact that she had the Subaru’s air-conditioner thermostat on the subarctic setting, she could already feel sweat beading up on her forehead. Her mouth was dry, but her hands as they gripped the key card were clammy.
The driver of the black Lexus behind her car tapped his horn impatiently, but Grace had no place to go. The gate wouldn’t open, and there were two more cars behind the Lexus.
The driver tapped his horn again. Finally, near tears, Grace rolled the window down and leaned out to address the situation. “I’m sorry,” she called, waving her key card. “It’s not working. Can you back up so that I can back up?”
The driver, an older man with silver hair, gestured impatiently. Finally, all three cars backed up so that Grace could get out of the line. She parked her car on the shoulder of the road and went to the guard shack, whose dark tinted windows obscured those inside. She felt limp and defeated, and she hadn’t even gotten to the house yet, a destination she was already dreading.
She tapped on the guard-shack window, and finally a uniformed security guard, a middle-aged guy with a graying military crew cut, opened the door. She was grateful for the cold blast of air-conditioning. The guard stepped outside and Grace recognized him at once.
“Oh, hi, Sheldon,” she said, favoring him with a smile. “I’m so glad you’re on duty.” She held up her key card. “I’m Grace Stanton. My key card won’t work. Can you fix it for me?”
He frowned slightly, taking the card, turning it over and over to examine it closer. “Looks okay.”
“I know, but it won’t work,” Grace said.
“Hang on a minute,” Sheldon said. He stepped back into the guard booth and closed the door. A mosquito buzzed around her face, and she swatted it away. The sun beat down on her head, and she was sure she was about to melt.
The door opened, but only an inch or two. The security guard’s friendly smile had vanished. Now he glowered at her. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”
“What?” Grace said, startled. “Why not?”
“I can’t discuss it,” Sheldon said, and he started to close the door again, but before he could, Grace grabbed the doorknob.
“Wait a minute,” she said, feeling her face growing redder by the moment. “What’s going on here? Why won’t you fix my key card?”
He glanced around, to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. As if!
“I can’t help you because your card has been deactivated.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Grace said. “Is this because of … my marital situation? Did my husband call up here and tell you people to keep me out? He has no right! I live here. At 27 Sand Dollar Lane.”
“I don’t make the rules, ma’am,” Sheldon said. “All’s I know is, according to the computer, you are no longer listed as a resident of Gulf Vista.”
“He can’t do that,” Grace said, her teeth gritted. “Please! Look, I don’t want to make a scene…”
&nb
sp; “Then don’t,” Sheldon said. He held up a walkie-talkie. “My supervisor told me to tell you that if you have a problem with the card situation, you should contact an attorney. Until we have some kind of a legal document stating otherwise, I can’t let you in.” He reached around and gently removed Grace’s hand from the doorknob. “Sorry.”
Grace heard a light beep of a car horn. A white Lincoln rolled up beside her and the passenger-side window slid down. Anita McKenna, an older woman she knew slightly from the country club, gave her a friendly smile. “Hi! It’s Grace, right? Are you having car problems? Anything I can do to help?”
“Anita! Hello,” Grace said eagerly, stepping closer to the car. “Actually, I am having a little issue…”
There was a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Sheldon standing directly beside her. “Mrs. Stanton? My supervisor thinks it would be a good idea if you would just move along now.” He held up his walkie-talkie again.
Grace felt her spine stiffen. “I was just…”
Anita McKenna looked from Sheldon to Grace. “Oh,” she said. “My goodness. I didn’t realize.” The window slid up again, and the Lincoln breezed through the gate.
* * *
She called Dickie Murphree’s office twice more on her way to back to Cortez. Finally, his receptionist allowed her to leave a voice mail message.
“Dickie,” she said, fighting back tears. “It’s Grace Davenport. I’ve been calling and calling. I really need to talk to you. I’ve left Ben. Maybe you saw it on the news? Now he’s frozen our bank accounts, cut off my credit cards—he’s even fixed it so I can’t get back to our house to pick up my clothes and things. Please, Dickie. Please call me.”
Grace was pulling into the crushed-shell parking lot at the Sandbox when her cell phone rang. She saw that the caller was Murphree-Baggett-Hopkins.
“Hello?”
“Hiya, Gracie,” Dickie said. “I just got your message. Sorry it took me so long to call you back. I’m in trial this week, and the damned judge just now cut us loose for a lunch break. How’s your Uncle Dennis?”
“He’s fine,” Grace said. “He sends his best. Look, Dickie, if you listened to my message, you know I’m in big trouble. When can I come see you? To talk about my situation?”
“Welllll,” Dickie drawled. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Grace asked, stunned. “Uncle Dennis said you’re the best divorce lawyer in town.”
“Hell of a guy, your uncle,” Dickie said, chuckling. “He sure gets himself in some damned interesting jams, doesn’t he?”
“Why isn’t it a good idea for me to come see you?”
“Awwww, Grace,” Dickie drawled. “You know I think the world of you, don’t you? We had some good times, way back there in high school, didn’t we? You broke my heart when you threw me over for that basketball player, sophomore year. What was that guy’s name? He went on to play college ball at FSU, didn’t he? It was years before I got over you.”
“That’s sweet, Dickie,” she said impatiently. “His name was Calvin Becker. Could we discuss current affairs? Like my divorce?”
“The thing is, we can’t talk, Grace,” Dickie said. “It ain’t even really proper for me to be talking to you right now, but I figured I owe you an explanation.”
“What are you explaining?” Grace asked.
“That I can’t represent you. Because I already agreed to represent Ben.”
Grace put the phone down in her lap. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the steering wheel, utterly defeated.
“Grace?” Dickie’s voice rose faintly from the phone. “Grace? Are you there?”
She pushed the disconnect button.
5
“I take it things didn’t go well with the asshole,” Rochelle said, pouring her a large glass of iced tea and pushing it across the bar. “Drink that. It’s sweetened. You’re losing weight so fast it’s starting to scare me.”
Grace took a sip of the tea and sucked on an ice cube. “I never got to see Ben. I couldn’t get through the security gate. He had my key card deactivated.”
“Bastard,” Rochelle said, pouring her own glass of iced tea. The lunch-time rush hour was over, and only two people remained at opposite ends of the bar, one watching the Rays game on the TV, the other staring intently down at his smartphone.
“Did your uncle’s lawyer ever call you back?” Rochelle asked.
Grace stirred her tea with a straw. “Dickie Murphree. Yeah, he called. But I can’t hire him.”
“Why not? Just because you dated years ago?”
“I can’t hire him because Ben beat me to it,” Grace said, lifting her eyes to meet her mother’s. “Yeah. Ben has already hired the best divorce lawyer in town. Face it, Mom. I’m screwed.”
“No, you’re not,” Rochelle said. “The Yellow Pages are full of divorce lawyers. You can’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting a lawyer. We just need to find you the right one.” She drummed her fingers on the bar’s scarred wooden surface. A minute later, she disappeared into the kitchen.
When she reemerged, she handed her daughter a well-worn business card.
“Mitzi Stillwell, Attorney at Law?” Grace asked, lifting one eyebrow. “Who’s she?”
“A lawyer I know,” Rochelle said. “Give her a call.”
* * *
Mitzi Stillwell didn’t waste much time with niceties. She’d been practicing domestic law for a dozen years, and she generally believed her clients needed the truth more than they needed coddling.
She listened for fifteen minutes while Grace recounted her tale of what she now thought of as the meltdown, nodding and occasionally jotting some words onto a legal yellow pad.
“So,” Grace said, when she’d finished. “What do you think? Can you help me?”
Mitzi tapped the pen against the legal pad. “You walked away from your own home—even though your husband was the one screwing around on you?”
“Yes,” Grace said.
Mitzi cocked her head and a strand of gray-flecked dark hair fell across one eye. She was in her early fifties now, but when her hair started graying twenty years earlier, she’d chosen not to color it—just to give herself the look of an older, more experienced jurist. At home, she favored bright colors and clothes designed to show off the figure she worked hard at maintaining, but in the courtroom, Mitzi mostly chose expensively tailored business suits in neutral colors, with just enough feminine detailing to remind her clients—and prospective jurors—that she was a woman in charge.
“You know, Grace, it’s supposed to work the other way around. You’re supposed to kick his butt out of the house.”
“Sorry,” Grace said. “I’m new at all this. It never occurred to me to ask him to leave. Anyway, after I sank his car, I’d pretty much made the statement I needed to.”
Mitzi laughed. “I’ve handled hundreds of divorces over the years, but you’re my first client to drown a car.” She half stood and bowed in Grace’s direction. “Awesome. Although probably not prudent.”
She sat down again and looked at her notes. “How are you for money?”
“I’m broke,” Grace admitted. “Ben froze our bank accounts. He canceled my credit cards. I had to borrow money from my mom to buy gas to drive over here today.”
The lawyer nodded. “Nothing unusual about that. We’ll have to try to get the court to order your husband to come to a temporary financial agreement between the two of you.”
Mitzi doodled something on her legal pad, then considered whether or not to share some unhappy news with her client. She hesitated to pile more bad news on Grace Stanton, whose life had taken an ugly turn for the worse ever since she’d drowned her husband’s sports car two weeks earlier.
Grace caught the meaning of her lawyer’s pitying glance.
“What?” Grace said, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. “You’re giving me that look.”
“What look?” Mitzi asked.
�
��It’s the look doctors give their patients before they tell them they’ve got an incurable disease. The look my college professor gave me right before he announced I’d pulled a D in statistics. The look that Ben gave me right before he admitted that night with J’Aimee wasn’t the first. Come on, Mitzi. Spit it out.”
Mitzi sighed. “Your divorce case has been assigned a judge, and we’ve got a date for an initial hearing.”
“But that’s good news, right? The faster we get things settled, the faster I can get my life back on track.”
“It would be good news,” Mitzi agreed. “Except that you drew Stackpole.”
“Who’s he? One of Ben’s old drinking buddies?”
“If only,” Mitzi said. “If we could prove he had some kind of association with your ex, that would be grounds for recusal, which would be great. But I doubt Ben and Cedric Stackpole have ever met.”
“Then, why is he bad news?”
“Because,” Mitzi said, “Cedric N. Stackpole Jr. is unofficial head of the He-Man Woman Hater Club.”
“Why?”
“Nobody knows. Stackpole just hates women in general and women plaintiffs specifically.”
“But, he’s a judge. I mean, judges are impartial, right?”
“Supposed to be,” Mitzi said. “Only Stackpole never got that memo. He’s a notorious misogynist. I’ve been lucky. I’ve only had one other divorce in front of him in the past.”
“How did that go?”
Mitzi’s eyes strayed to the row of framed diplomas on the wall opposite her desk. “Hmm? Don’t ask. My client got shafted. Her husband abandoned her and her two small children, left them basically penniless while he lived it up, funneling their marital assets into a dummy corporation. We had clear proof that he’d hidden assets, but Stackpole refused to hear a word of it. But because she finally had to go out and get a job to support herself and the children and eventually hooked up with a decent guy and allowed him to move in with her and the kids before the divorce was final, Stackpole decided she was an unfit mother. Gave the ex custody of the kids, forced her to move out of the house and sell it and split the proceeds with the ex, who was already a millionaire several times over.”
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