“Oh, wow.” Grace breathed.
“Uh-huh. Both couples split up, and it made a nice little scandal, because the husband called the state board and filed a formal complaint against Thorsen and then leaked it to the media out there. Connie sent me a link to the story in the Portland paper. ‘Mindful Marriage Melt-Down.’ Long and short? Thorsen dumped Paula. After their divorce was final, he married the other woman. And Paula, apparently, fell to pieces. She ‘borrowed’ one of her ex’s prescription pads and wrote herself a bunch of scrips for tranquilizers. But she got caught.”
“Did she go to jail?” Grace asked, wide-eyed.
“It was a first offense, so the judge agreed to drop the criminal charges and allowed her to check herself into a rehab program for impaired healthcare givers,” Camryn said. “She must have completed it to the court’s satisfaction out there, because Connie couldn’t find any record of the arrest.”
“Poor Paula,” Grace said. “I guess she’s been through the wringer, just like all of us. But how did she end up all the way out here?”
“Probably got sick of the rain. You ever been to Portland?”
“No.”
“I don’t actually know what brought her to Florida,” Camryn admitted. “What I do know is, she only set up this divorce and life coaching business six months ago. And it seems like it’s just barely legal—as long as she doesn’t call herself a therapist or a marriage counselor. Which she doesn’t.”
“I see,” Grace said, toying with a piece of lettuce that had slid off her mahi-mahi. “So—is Paula actually qualified to do what she’s doing? I mean, I thought she was a quack that first week, but honestly, I think she really is trying to help us. And she has some real insights into what goes wrong with marriages.”
“When she’s sober or not having a ‘family emergency,’” Camryn said, still clearly not convinced. “Her credentials are for real. I checked. Her undergrad degree is from the University of Washington, and she got a master’s in clinical social work from Portland State. She belonged to a bunch of professional organizations in Portland and was even on the board of a center for battered women, until her life went to shit.”
Grace drummed her fingernails on the tabletop. “Obviously, she’s back on the pills, self-medicating. It’s such a shame.”
“She’s a grown-up,” Camryn pointed out. “Nobody’s making her take those pills. What I want to know is, how did she and Stackpole get hooked up?”
“Good question.” Grace considered the woman sitting opposite her at the table. “Camryn?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“You’re a member of the group. It affects you as much as it does me.”
“There are three other people in our group. You don’t even like me.”
“Did I ever say I don’t like you?”
“Well, it’s not like we’re buddy-buddy. You’ve never called me and asked me to go to lunch or anything.”
“I don’t do lunch, Grace. You want to know about the glamorous life of a morning anchor in a third-tier market? I get up at five in the morning, get on the elliptical, haul my ass to the station. I’m in makeup at six, on air at seven. After I get off the air, I’ve got meetings, I read the wires, the online editions of The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, Miami Herald. Since I still do my own enterprise stories, I’ve got phone calls to make and interviews to set up, and lots of times I go out on remotes with a camera crew. I eat a take-out salad at my desk, go to some more meetings, make some more phone calls. Oh yeah, and I talk to my lawyer about this freakin’ divorce and brood about being single again at my age. And that’s my day.”
Grace still wasn’t convinced. “Why me?”
Camryn considered her over the top of her sunglasses. “Because other than me, you’re the only normal person in this group.”
Grace started to protest.
“Stop!” Camryn took off the sunglasses. “Wyatt doesn’t count. He’s a guy. A white guy, and I know it’s a new century and we finally have a black man in the White House. And I should be better than this, but I still consider him the man. Ashleigh? Pffft. I won’t even go there. You and I? Yeah, we did some stuff to our men, but they had it coming. Ashleigh is just all kinds of flaky. I wouldn’t trust her any farther than I could throw her.”
“What about Suzanne? She’s shy, sure, but she’s also smart and compassionate, and she seems to understand people.”
Camryn shook her head. “No. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something definitely off about that woman.”
“She’s an introvert,” Grace protested.
“It’s more than that,” Camryn said. Suzanne is damaged goods. Like it or not, Grace, it’s you and me.”
“You and me—doing what?” Grace said impatiently. “We don’t definitely know that Paula and Stackpole are involved. She’s not breaking the law billing herself as a divorce coach. I don’t see us blowing the whistle on her because she’s got a problem with pills. If anything, I think we should try to get her help.”
“Help her?” Camryn looked disgusted. “Who’s helping us? Who’s helping us pay three hundred dollars a session for a ‘divorce coach’ who can’t keep her eyes open for an hour at a time? Who’s helping all those other poor women Stackpole sends to Paula for help? You ever consider that? I have. I hung around outside her office yesterday. Yeah. I saw what looked like three different ‘divorce recovery’ groups filing in there. Total of fifteen people. All women. I did the math. That’s 4,500 dollars. In one day. Do you make that kind of money in one day? I sure as hell don’t.”
It didn’t take long for that to sink in. “What do you want from me?” Grace asked.
“You said your lawyer went to law school with Stackpole? You trust her?”
“Yessss?” Grace said reluctantly.
“Talk to her. Ask her to sniff around. I’d ask my lawyer, but he’s a man. And he’s from Miami, went to law school down there. Balls of brass, great for negotiating your next contract at the station, but he’s definitely not in the local courthouse pipeline.”
Grace hesitated. “I’ll ask Mitzi what she can find out, but in the meantime I’ve got an idea of what we can do to help Paula. But I’ll need your help. The others, too.”
“You bleeding-heart liberals,” Camryn said. “What have you got in mind?”
“I’ll e-mail everybody else in the group, let them know the plan. Wednesday night, assuming Paula shows up, we ambush her. Do an old-school Betty Ford intervention.”
Camryn nodded thoughtfully. Put on her sunglasses, picked up the check. “I like it.” She pulled her straw hat down so that it put her face in deepest shade. “Don’t tell anybody else, but I like you, too, Grace Stanton.”
“Davenport,” Grace corrected. “It’s Davenport now.”
Grace watched while Camryn sped purposefully down the pier toward the parking lot. Had Camryn Nobles actually just befriended her? Were they in cahoots? Conspiring against Stackpole? Her life had just taken another unexpected turn. For the better, she hoped.
39
Grace took the outside stairs to the apartment two at a time. She let herself into her bedroom and set Sweetie on her bed. She knelt beside the bed and whispered into the dog’s silky ear. “I’ve got to take a shower and get ready for tonight. But you have to be really, really quiet, or the bad lady downstairs will kick us both out of here.”
Sweetie blinked, gave Grace’s nose a lick, then settled herself on one of Grace’s pillows, with her head on her paws. By the time Grace emerged from the shower, the dog was asleep. She dressed quietly, in a pair of blue and white seersucker shorts and a scoop-necked white T-shirt that she’d found for a total of five dollars at the Junior League thrift shop.
She found Rochelle downstairs, behind the bar, refereeing a hot argument about politics between two of her regulars.
“You look nice,” Rochelle said, raising an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”
Rochelle frowned. “Is that dog…”
“Sleeping in my room. Don’t get your panties in a wad. It’s just until I round up some food to take over there. He’s got Bo tonight. What do little boys like to eat?”
“I never had a little boy, so I wouldn’t know. But I can tell you what the big ones like. Meat. Fried things. Cheesey things. Anything with ketchup or barbecue sauce. Or jalapeños.”
“Well, it’s after five now, and I promised to have dinner there at six,” Grace said. “So I don’t have time to fix anything healthy from scratch. What are our specials tonight?”
“Wings. Crab burgers. Fried fish bites. Taco casserole.”
“God help me, but the taco casserole hits on all the major male food groups,” Grace said.
She went through the swinging doors into the kitchen and found the taco casserole on the steam table. Grace scooped up enough of the casserole to fit into a foil nine-by-twelve to-go tray and fitted it with a cardboard top. She was filling another foil tray with salad when Rochelle joined her.
“What about dessert?”
“Maybe just some fruit?”
Rochelle snorted. “If you’re ever gonna land another man you’ve got to get over this healthy fetish of yours.” She turned to one of the big walk-in coolers and lifted out a plastic-covered dish. “Never met a man or a kid yet who didn’t love my brownie pie,” she said, slicing off a huge slab and placing it in a large Styrofoam clamshell. Then she reached back into the cooler and handed her daughter a white can. “Whipped cream. You know what to do with this. Don’t you?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Grace said primly. She sorted everything into a large brown paper sack. “Thanks, Mom. This will be great.”
Rochelle raised one eyebrow. “Don’t forget the damned dog.”
* * *
Wyatt Keeler emerged from the shower to find the other male inhabitants of his home immersed in the Rays game. Nelson was stationed in his recliner command center, and Bo was sprawled on his belly on the floor, his face inches from the television. The room was a disaster. A mound of clean, unfolded laundry took up most of the sofa. Bo’s mud-grimed T-ball uniform, underpants, socks, cleats, and sweat-soaked cap were tossed on the floor. The wood laminate coffee table was littered with three days’ worth of newspapers; dirty dishes, including a half-eaten potpie; empty Coke cans; and the remains of their fast-food lunch.
“Hey, you guys,” Wyatt started, but then he felt his bare foot impaled with a piece of sharp plastic. He stooped over and held up a yellow Lego. “Ow!”
“Dad!” Bo protested. “You messed up my Mega-Bot.” He started to scoop up the scattered red, yellow, green, and blue blocks. “I’ve been working on this all day. Now I gotta start all over.”
“Now you gotta clean up this mess,” Wyatt told him. Nelson looked up from his chair.
“Both of you,” Wyatt said firmly. “We’ve got company coming in fifteen minutes, so I need all hands on deck here. Bo, pick up all your Legos and stash them in their basket, where they belong. Get your uniform and put it in the laundry room, then clean up all this trash on the coffee table. Dad? Didn’t you say you’d fold the laundry and put it away?”
“You said I’d fold the laundry,” Nelson muttered, bracing his hands on the recliner’s arms as he struggled to stand. “And what are you going to be doing while me and Bo slave away in here?”
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen, sweep the floor, and take out a week’s worth of garbage. I already cleaned and disinfected the bathroom, so don’t either of you dare go in there.”
“What if I gotta pee?” Bo asked.
“Take it outside,” his father said.
“Who’s coming over, the queen of England?” Nelson griped. He was folding T-shirts and shorts and underpants, matching socks.
“It’s Grace, Dad’s new girlfriend,” Bo told his grandfather.
“Who told you Grace was my girlfriend?” Wyatt said. “I never said that.”
“Well, she is, isn’t she?” Nelson asked.
“Anna said it’s okay for Dad to have a girlfriend, since Mom already has you know who,” Bo commented.
“Remind me to have a discussion with Anna about minding her own business,” Wyatt said. “In the meantime, just get busy, you two. She’ll be here in, like, ten minutes. And she’s bringing dinner, so be nice. And whatever she brings, pretend like you like it.”
“What if she brings fried liver?” Bo asked. “Or lima beans?”
“Or tofu?” Nelson said darkly. “I’m warning you right now. I don’t do tofu.”
“If she tries to make me eat liver and lima beans, I’ll blow chow,” Bo said.
“She’s not bringing liver or tofu,” Wyatt said. “Just remember what I told you. Nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Nelson said under his breath. He looked over at Bo, who was busily wadding up the newspapers and paper bags and stuffing them under the sofa. “Aren’t I always nice?”
Bo gave it some thought. “Mostly. Except when my mom calls.”
* * *
Wyatt sprayed the chipped Formica countertops with Windex and surveyed the kitchen. He had no idea what Grace’s reaction would be to his place. He knew she’d lived in some mansion, because he’d surreptitiously looked at pictures of the place on her old blog. It was huge, with something like five bedrooms and four bathrooms, a screening room, home gym, swimming pool, pool house. Hell, from the looks of it, her pool house was bigger than his crappy little double-wide.
Still, she seemed happy enough, working over at the house on Mandevilla, even admitting she’d fantasized about living there. Maybe she wouldn’t turn around and run screaming into the night after she got a look at this dump.
At least it was a fairly tidy dump now. He’d picked some zinnias from the flower bed by the back door and stuck them in an empty jelly jar. The table looked okay, set with his mother’s good dishes, the ones with little sprigs of blue cornflowers and gold edges. The silverware all matched, and there were paper napkins at every place, which was a huge step up from the usual roll of paper towels he kept on the table.
But there were only three chairs. How had he missed that? At one time, the dinette set had four chairs, but just a few months ago Bo had been leaning back in his chair when one of the back legs buckled and cracked. He’d meant to try to fix that. But it was too late now. He hurried through the house, looking for an extra chair. Nothing. In desperation, he went out to the carport, found an old plastic beach chair, and dragged it inside. He frowned. It was too short. He went out to the living room, where Nelson and Bo were again wrapped up in the baseball game. He snatched a throw pillow from the sofa and tossed it onto the seat of the chair, just as he heard a knock at the door.
Wyatt wiped his sweaty palms on the seat of his shorts and went to answer the door.
* * *
As Rochelle’d predicted, the taco casserole was a hit with the Keeler men.
“Pretty good,” Nelson said, scraping a last bit of hamburger, tomato sauce, and cheese from his plate. He pointed at the nearly empty Pyrex dish Grace had used to warm up the casserole. “Is that a Frito?”
“Afraid so,” Grace said. “Not very healthy, I know, but…”
Before she could apologize further, Nelson reached across the table and scooped up the last remaining spoonful.
“Dad loves Fritos,” Wyatt said. “Almost as much as chicken potpie.”
“Just the Marie Callender’s ones,” Nelson said. “Not Swanson. The Marie Callender’s are more expensive, but I can usually find a coupon in the Sunday paper.”
“Dad does most of the grocery shopping,” Wyatt said. “He’s a fiend for those coupons. Knows where all the best deals are.”
Nelson beamed at the compliment. “Do you like baked beans? Because I’ve got an extra BOGO for Bush’s baked beans at Winn-Dixie this week.”
�
��What’s a BOGO?” Wyatt asked.
“Buy one, get-one,” Grace said. “And yes, I’d love a coupon, if you’ve got an extra.”
Dinner, she thought, had been a breeze. It was so cute, the way Wyatt had obviously gone to such pains to make a good impression. She looked down at her plate. “I know this china pattern. It’s Bachelor’s Button, right?”
“Uh, maybe,” Wyatt said.
“That’s right,” Nelson volunteered. “It was our wedding china. Peggy picked it out. Blue flowers were always her favorite.”
“Mine too,” Grace confided. “Bachelor’s buttons, or cornflowers, any shade of hydrangea, iris, those deep-blue pansies with the little clown faces…”
“Plumbago?” Wyatt said. “You like plumbago?”
“I love it, especially the ferny leaves,” Grace said.
“I grow it in our nursery here,” Wyatt said. “We could dig up some clumps and plant it at Mandevilla if you want, maybe a swath of it in front of the gardenias by the porch. The lighter green foliage would be a good contrast against the dark-green gardenia leaves.”
“Great idea,” Grace said. She looked around the table, beaming at the sight of all the empty plates. “I brought dessert, if anyone’s interested.”
“I’m interested,” Bo said.
“You’re interested in any kind of food,” Nelson observed.
“Except liver and lima beans,” the child said. “Gross.”
Grace laughed. “I have to agree with you there. Totally, gag-me-with-a-spoon gross.”
She’d sliced the brownie pie into generous squares and arranged them on one of the chipped white plates she’d found in the cupboard. Now, she set it in the center of the table. “My mom’s brownie pie. It’s her secret recipe, so I don’t know what’s in it, but we always sell out at the Sandbox.”
Each of the males at the table immediately reached for a square. They were all munching happily.
“Bo, I meant to ask, how did your big T-ball game go today?” Grace asked.
“We lost,” Bo said, spraying crumbs of chocolate over his plate.
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