Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “Okay, everybody’s safe and accounted for,” he said finally. “C’mon, Dad, it’s late. Let’s go home. I’ll come back in the morning and bury the coyote.” Wyatt took the shotgun from his father and placed it in the cargo hold of the cart, then climbed behind the wheel. Sweetie hopped up onto the bench seat beside him.

  Nelson lowered himself into the cart, looking down at the dog in surprise. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Sweetie,” Wyatt said, backing the cart up and heading down the path toward the house. “She’s gonna be staying with us for a while.” He reached over and ruffled the dogs’ ears. “I think she’ll fit in nicely around here, don’t you?”

  The old man regarded the dog with a practiced eye. “Got a lot of poodle in her. Maybe some schnauzer or cocker spaniel. Poodles used to be great hunting dogs, before they started being bred as silly show dogs. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t,” Wyatt said.

  “Where’d you say you got her?”

  “A woman in my divorce-recovery group found her in an abandoned house. She’s living with her mom right now, over in Cortez, but the health regs don’t allow a dog to live in a bar, so I said Sweetie could stay with us until Grace moves into her own place.”

  “Cortez?”

  “Yeah. Her parents own the Sandbox. You remember that place?”

  “Sure. Used to take you there when you were a little kid, after we’d been over at Holmes Beach. You used to love their cheeseburgers. This Grace, is she Butch Davenport’s daughter?”

  “Yeah. Did you know him?”

  “Everybody in Manatee County knew Butch Davenport. He was quite a character. Is he still around?”

  “No, he passed away a few years ago. Rochelle, Grace’s mom, runs the Sandbox now.”

  “And what’s your connection to this Grace person?” Nelson frowned. “You going out with her? Hanging out in dive bars like the Sandbox with her? Before your divorce is final? You better hope Callie and her lawyer don’t get wind of that.”

  “Callie is living with her boyfriend, and has been for months now, so I don’t think she has anything to say about my personal life. Anyway, like I just told you, Grace is in my divorce-recovery group. The whole group goes to the Sandbox after our meetings, just to sort of unwind. I have a beer or two and come home. End of story.”

  “But you like this girl.”

  “I do,” Wyatt nodded. “She’s a nice person. You’d like her, too.”

  “You sleeping with her?”

  Wyatt felt his face burn. “Jesus, Dad! No. Where’d you get an idea like that?”

  Nelson shrugged but said nothing else.

  Wyatt pulled the golf cart under the carport and switched it off. Nelson unfolded himself from the seat, grunting with the effort, clutching the side of the cart for balance, swaying a little as he stood, trying to catch his breath.

  And it struck Wyatt again: his father was aging before his eyes. The vagueness, forgetfulness, especially in the evenings, these had crept up and even accelerated since Wyatt had moved in with him. Nelson had always been strong—even into his sixties; he was fit and used to hard physical labor. Now, though, his gait had slowed and his energy level was diminished. It was all he could do to putter around the gift shop or the office a few hours in the morning before he returned to the cottage for a nap and endless hours of television.

  He followed Nelson into the cottage, making sure the old man got safely into his bed before walking around the cramped cottage, switching off the lights and the television. The thin walls seemed to close in on him, choking him with claustrophobia. Sweetie followed close on his heels, seemingly sensing Wyatt’s restlessness.

  He held the back door open. “Come on then, let’s go for a midnight ride.”

  * * *

  As the cart jolted along the shell pathway, the headlight picked out the shaggy, overgrown landscape. Just like his father, Jungle Jerry’s was aging, and not gracefully. Even the moonlight did not become it.

  In his mind, Wyatt ticked off the unending items of maintenance that needed tending to. The gift shop’s roof was leaking badly. He’d patched it so many times himself that the patches outnumbered the original asphalt roofing. The crushed-shell parking lot was pocked with potholes and washouts, and half the neon in the Jungle Jerry’s sign had burned out.

  In the park itself, dead or half-dead trees stood, waiting to be trimmed or cut down. The flower beds were choked with weeds and vines, and the abundant rain-forest plants swallowed whole sections of the pathways. His earlier visit to the amphitheater reminded him that half the benches there were rotted or splintered and all of them needed painting or replacing. The aviaries his grandfather had built decades ago for the tropical birds were rusting and were too small by current-day standards.

  And that was just the physical plant, Wyatt mused. With only three employees—him; Joyce, his bookkeeper, ticket taker, and gift-shop manager; and Eduardo, who helped out with maintenance and landscaping—there were never enough bodies or hours or funds to get everything done.

  Probably, Wyatt thought, he should have been smarter about all this. Six years earlier, not long before Bo’s birth, a developer had offered to buy the park from the family for what seemed like a stunning amount of money—three million. His parents had considered taking the money and making the deal, but Wyatt, young and stupid and full of plans and dreams for the family business he intended to nurture for his unborn son—had urged them not to sell. How could they let a shopping center and yet another condo complex erupt on this gorgeous garden his grandparents had worked so hard to create?

  Even then, Jungle Jerry’s was struggling. They weren’t losing money, but they weren’t making much money either. Wyatt was certain he could turn things around. He’d taken marketing classes in college, had all kinds of ideas to drag the park into the twenty-first century. Callie had been furious with him. How could he be so stupid? All that money would have set them up for life! She’d raged at him for weeks after his parents turned down all that delicious money.

  And then, before he could even get a Web site designed for the park, the economy tanked. Their attendance figures plummeted, and developers quit calling. Every month, the aging park went deeper into debt.

  Wyatt steered the golf cart through the empty parking lot, hanging onto Sweetie’s collar to keep her from flying off as the cart jounced through the potholes.

  He fought the urge to surrender to the melancholy mood of the evening. Not everything in his life was crap. Earlier in the day he’d won one tiny battle against Callie. Starting tomorrow, he would have Bo for the weekend. He glanced over at Sweetie, sitting erect on the golf cart beside him. And maybe, just maybe, he would find a way to convince the dog’s real owner that he wasn’t such a total jerk after all.

  33

  She’d set her alarm for 6:00 A.M. Her to-do list for Mandevilla was long and getting longer, and she was eager to get to work. Grace opened her laptop and clicked on the comments section of TrueGrace.

  This was her favorite part of blogging. Styling, photographing, writing, editing, and coming up with new ideas fed her creative soul, but hearing from readers was what kept her motivated. When she’d first started writing Gracenotes, she would stay up for hours after publishing a post, clicking and refreshing, anxious and nervous to see if anybody out there in the darkness was reading her work.

  Now, she gasped. More than three dozen readers had left remarks about her last post. She clicked over to her dashboard and saw that over two hundred readers were now subscribing to the blog feed, meaning they would be automatically notified whenever Grace posted a new article.

  A typical post on Gracenotes, where she had 239,000 subscribers, would have generated a couple hundred comments. But she was starting over now, from scratch, and each and every one of these readers and commenters were like gold for TrueGrace.

  “Yay,” she said, in a small voice. Then, louder. “Oh hell yeah, yay!”

  Scanning the comments, her sm
ile grew wider. “Go, Grace,” said Justamom32. “Love your new blog. So much more approachable and attainable,” commented Wild4Style.

  Of course the naysayers showed up for the party, too. “I liked your old blog better.” Or, “Why don’t you take some photography classes and get yourself a decent camera?” And, “Not much new or original here. All your ideas are tired and clichéd.” All of the negative comments, not to her surprise, were anonymous. Her finger hovered over the delete button for a moment, but then she read a note left by Rinquedink. “Hey, Grace, don’t let those bitches get you down. Haters gonna hate, taters gonna tate.”

  Ben had always monitored the comments on Gracenotes, deleting anything that even smacked of criticism. No, Grace decided, she would only delete comments that were obscene, libelous, or obvious spam. She’d let her readers make up their minds themselves on what was spurious.

  The final comment made her laugh out loud. “I’ve deleted that fraud, faux Gracenotes, from my feed. You really are the one, true Grace. Wishing blessings for you and the ex-husband genital herpes.” It was signed CindyLouWhoo.

  When she got out of the shower, Grace checked her e-mail and saw that she had responses from six of the bloggers she’d contacted to request a place on their blog roll. The first message she clicked on was from a lifestyle blogger who called herself Eleganza.

  Eleganza’s real name, as everybody in the blogosphere knew, was Kennedy Moore. She’d been a contributing editor at several of Grace’s favorite, now-defunct shelter magazines, including House and Garden and Southern Accents.

  Grace knew Kennedy’s backstory by heart. She’d been an interior designer, like Grace, and then, in the late eighties, after her children were off to college, had gone to work in the magazine world. Along the way, she’d weathered a divorce, remarried, and, within the past five years, lost her adored second husband and then her job at Southern Accents.

  Kennedy had reinvented herself as one of the first professional lifestyle bloggers, writing witty, original posts; posing question-and-answer sessions with big-name designers; and sharing photos of the transformation of Hedgehog Cottage, her own small farmhouse in rural Connecticut. Eleganza, which featured her very personal take on interior design, cooking, entertaining, and affordable luxury, was hugely influential in Grace’s world.

  Grace held her breath as she clicked on the e-mail.

  Congratulations, Grace, for landing on your feet again. The little house on Mandevilla is a gem, and I can’t wait to see what clever tricks you’ll come up with to make it shine. I was sorry to hear of the end of your marriage, but as I know all too well from past experience, endings are really all about beginnings. I’ll be happy to add you to my blog roll. As soon as you get one of your rooms furnished, please send me pics and we’ll discuss you doing a guest post for Eleganza. All best, K.

  If the room had been larger Grace would have turned a backflip. A guest post on Eleganza was at the top of her blogger bucket list. Kennedy Moore’s blog was the biggest-drawing lifestyle blog in existence, with more than three million subscribers. Her advertisers ranged from Home Depot to Tiffany to Coke. And now, TrueGrace would be on the very short, very select Eleganza blog roll. She flopped back on her bed, kicking her legs in celebration.

  Quickly, she read the other responses. All but one were warm welcomes from bloggers who’d formerly included Gracenotes on their blog rolls.

  The sixth e-mail contained a sobering message.

  Dear Grace. I’d be only too happy to add TrueGrace to my blog roll, but I just can’t. I think you should know that certain people are out there making veiled threats to anybody who gives you a hand. Since my husband was laid off his job last year, my little blog and the money it generates is our family’s sole income. Unfortunately, I can’t afford to make any enemies right now. Wishing you all the best, PeanutButter&Jedi.

  Grace blinked. Was Ben actually contacting other bloggers and threatening anybody who helped her? Obviously, the others who’d agreed to add her name to their rolls either hadn’t been contacted by him or just didn’t feel threatened.

  PeanutButter&Jedi was an emerging mommy blogger from Denver whose blog had been one of the first Grace added after establishing Gracenotes. Susan, its author, was the mother of four young boys, including a set of triplets, and Grace loved reading her wry accounts of decorating their home on a budget, thrifting, and her inventive recipes.

  She felt a tiny stab of fear. What, exactly, was Ben threatening? His contacts with their advertisers were extensive. Maybe he’d casually dropped a hint to those same advertisers that anybody associated with Grace was poison? Whatever he’d done, it was enough to scare off Susan at PeanutButter&Jedi. And how many others?

  It didn’t matter, she decided. Ben would do whatever he could do. J’Aimee could preen and poach off her blog, but she would never be anything more than a poser.

  Suddenly, Grace’s path seemed very clear. She thought back to that first house she and Ben had restored together. They’d had nothing but sweat and perseverance. It was a cliché, but they’d made lemons out of lemonade back then. She would do it again, she vowed. Without Ben, without his connections, without money. And without fear.

  34

  Grace stood in the paint aisle at the hardware store on Friday morning, staring at the huge display and its thousands of one-inch color chips. What she wouldn’t do for her trusted paint fan-decks, with all the notes she’d scrawled on the backs of the cards and the yellow Post-it notes reminding her what paint strength and finish she favored for all her favorites. But the fan-deck, along with all her old files and design library, in fact, all her old life, were back at Sand Dollar Lane.

  She knew she wanted the equivalent of either Farrow & Ball’s White Tie or Pointing, two very specific whites for the walls at Mandevilla. Farrow & Ball itself was out of the question. Imported from England, it was just too expensive. She liked Benjamin Moore, too, which was what she’d used at Sand Dollar Lane, mostly because the Benjamin Moore paint store in Sarasota was one of her blog sponsors. She had shelves and shelves of BM paint at her old house. Now, however, neither paint would work for her tiny budget on Mandevilla. She sighed. Cheap paint always just looked shoddy to her eye, and using it would require at least three coats, which would take up too much of her precious time.

  She walked around to the clearance endcap and scanned the assorted cans of “oops” paint cramming the shelves.

  There was a logical reason these cans were marked down; they were mistints, custom colors that had been rejected by the original customer. Most of the gallon cans were in shades she deemed either truly heinous—a neon bubble-gum pink, a muddy-looking taupe, a sickly green that reminded her of gangrene—or they were just unsuitable for a simple vernacular cottage like Mandevilla.

  She did, however, find six gallons of an innocuous white in Benjamin Moore’s low-VOC paint, marked down to ten dollars a can. That she could afford. Grace pulled a can from the shelf and studied the dab of paint on the tin lid. This paint had been custom-tinted, so it didn’t have a color name or a formula. The shade was what she’d always thought of as a “dead white.” But maybe if she had it tinted?

  The clerk at the paint counter was a middle-aged man in a red apron. Grace set the oops can on the counter. “Help you?” he asked.

  She gave him her sweetest smile. “Hi there. I’m wondering if you can add a little something to this paint to brighten it up a bit?”

  He looked puzzled. “Like what?”

  “Well, I was thinking you could add a little black to tint it, to see if I like it better.”

  The clerk took a closer look at the paint can. “Sorry. This is an oops paint. See, the sign says all paint is “as-is.” That means we don’t remix or add tint.”

  Grace sighed dramatically. “Look, it just needs the teeniest amount of black paint. I’m trying to match it to Farrow and Ball’s Pointing shade. It wouldn’t take very much time, and I would be soooo grateful?”

  This approach
had always worked for her in the past—at furniture showrooms, fabric houses, plumbing-fixture showrooms. A sweet smile and a plea for mercy, especially with men, had always been a winning formula in the past.

  The hardware store clerk, though, seemed immune to her charms. “Sorry. Store policy. Can’t help you.” He went back to working on a display of weed killer.

  And Grace went back to the clearance counter, where she loaded up all six gallons of the dead white, along with a pint of black latex paint. She would just have to experiment with mixing her own paint. She added in two gallons of white latex enamel for the trim, a paint tray, a five-gallon plastic bucket, canvas drop cloth, and rollers and brushes, sighing, again, at the thought of her workshop back at Sand Dollar, where all of her painting equipment and tools were lined up neatly, ready for her next project. At the last minute she plucked six Benjamin Moore paint cards from the display, to give herself an idea of the shades she was trying to achieve.

  When the cashier added up all her purchases and applied them to the account Arthur Cater had set up for her, she was shocked that she’d already managed to make a four-hundred-dollar dent in her five-thousand-dollar budget.

  * * *

  It was nearly nine by the time she pulled up to the new cottage. Wyatt’s pickup was parked out front, but he and Sweetie were walking around the yard, inspecting the property.