The Divorce Attorney

by Melanie Munton

  Hattie’s house comes into view once Carter and I emerge from the gardens. I suck in a steadying breath, my hands white knuckling the book.

  He reaches over and grasps my fingers. “She’s going to love it as much as I do, darlin’. You paid homage to two great men with your writing. And whether you publish it or not, it’s still going to be a treasure to this family for generations. It’s as much your history now as it is mine and Hattie’s.”

  I nod. “I just hope she sees it that way, too.”

  “She will,” he says reassuringly. Then he lifts my left hand up to his mouth, kissing my new jewelry. “This looks good on you, by the way.”

  My gaze runs over his features, taking in the relaxed planes of his face that are no longer constantly strained with tension and stress. “And that looks good on you.”

  “What does?”

  “Happiness.”

  A smile forms on his handsome face. “Feels good, too.”

  

  Later that afternoon, after giving Hattie the opportunity to read my thesis, she takes me into her arms with tears streaking down her cheeks.

  “Josiah was one of the few people who ever befriended my daddy,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “And you payin’ both of them respect like this means more than you could possibly know. It brings peace to not just me, but to my whole family. Thank you, child. Thank you.”

  I was right.

  Today is even better than yesterday.

  Six years later

  “Carter!” I yell down the stairs. “What time did Hattie say she’d bring Maya back over? Everyone will be here soon.”

  “She said by one-thirty!” he yells back, probably from the kitchen where he’s been preparing the hamburger patties for our guests. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she’s dressed in the outfit you laid out and that her hair is done. You just get yourself ready. I’ve got it handled.”

  I sigh happily.

  If those aren’t some of the sweetest words a wife and mother can hear.

  Especially since I know he really does have it all handled. The man is a natural at fatherhood, husbandry, housework, yardwork…he excels at all of it. He says it’s because he’d been waiting so long to become a husband (again) and father, to have a yard to take care of and stuff around the house to fix, that he can’t stand to not do everything himself. I can barely even grab a diaper before he’s jumping in front of me and swiping both it and Maya out of my hands to change her diaper himself.

  As if that isn’t adorable enough, he’s been practicing on fixing her hair. Ponytails, pigtails… He even shocked the hell out of me the other morning when she pranced into our bedroom with her hair in a messy French braid.

  I couldn’t have nabbed myself a man more devoted to his family.

  And I’m seriously not being cliché when I say I fall more and more in love with him every single day.

  Maya is our little two-year-old hurricane with an independent streak the likes of which neither of us were prepared for. She’s sassy and fearless—traits Carter says she got from her mama—and is already developing a witty sense of humor—all Daddy. She’s both a mama’s and daddy’s girl, depending on her mood. Although, she might be a papa’s girl more than anything else. My father fell in love with my girl the instant he laid eyes on her. I’ve never seen a grandfather more enamored of his granddaughter and vice versa.

  I look at myself in our bathroom mirror and lovingly rub my swollen belly.

  Our son should be here in little over a month.

  Which is another reason why Carter thinks I shouldn’t be lifting so much as a teacup by myself. This pregnancy has been a little rougher than the first, so he’s been walking around on pins and needles, making sure I’m not doing anything strenuous. When I was sweeping the kitchen floor earlier, he wouldn’t even let me bend down to pick up the dust pan.

  I shake my head at his overprotective antics and finish curling my hair. Touching up my makeup, I brush some of Harper’s eyeshadow over my lids, then apply some of her lip gloss. Shoot, most of the products in my makeup bag these days are Harper’s label. Giving myself one final inspection, I smooth my hands down my cotton shift dress and head downstairs.

  I’m at the base of the stairs when Carter notices me and halts in his tracks. He’s holding a tray of raw hamburger patties and hotdogs, which he sets down on the kitchen island before striding over and taking me in his arms.

  “Gorgeous, darlin’,” he murmurs against my hair, inhaling its scent. “But you knew better than to wear a dress that shows off this much of your legs. You knew I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about what happened last time.”

  I purr in delight when his mouth leaves a trail of kisses along my jawline. “Did I?”

  He grunts. “Careful. Or I’ll fuck you in the laundry room again, right on top of the washing machine, with all of our friends in the next room.”

  “Who says I’m not asking for exactly that?”

  His next grunt is more animalistic. “And who am I to deny my pregnant wife anything? Let’s go.”

  I pull on his hand, laughing, when he starts to head for the laundry room. “Later. Hattie should be over any minute with Maya, and everyone else will start arriving soon.”

  His heated gaze burns me from head to toe, his voice turning pleading. “I can make it quick.”

  Smiling, I adjust his black-frame glasses on his nose. “I’ll make it up to you tonight, I promise.”

  He winces as he adjusts himself in his pants. “I can’t guarantee I won’t corner you in the bathroom before the night is over.”

  Carrying what he’ll allow me to—the super heavy ketchup and mustard bottles—I follow him outside where the charcoal from the grill wafts through the late summer air, creating that intoxicating scent of barbecue. Carter refuses to ever buy a gas grill, insisting charcoal makes everything taste better.

  Men and their meats, what are you gonna do?

  Despite the fact that it’s still late in the afternoon, string lights, tiki torches, and citronella candles light up our massive patio. Tables and chairs are covered by umbrellas, a pergola provides shade over our conversation sets, and the fire pit in the center will most definitely be ablaze by the time the sun starts to set.

  Our barbecues have become a regular thing for our group of friends. And sadly, this Labor Day/baby shower celebration will probably be our last one for a little bit, what with the new baby coming.

  I look around the patio and sprawling yard beyond it, absolutely, wholeheartedly in love with everything Carter and I have created here at the plantation. We got married here on the property, we’re raising our children here, we’re making memories here.

  This is our home.

  And in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined anything better.

  I earned my PhD and have been teaching at Charleston College for three years now. I love my students, I love my job, and it allows me to work regular hours so I can spend every night at home with my family.

  Carter sold his firm downtown and started a family law practice that’s just a short drive from the house. Financially, he doesn’t even have to work, but like me, he loves his job and the area needed a good lawyer. It allows him to spend far more time with me and Maya than if he’d remained partner at Van Gordon & Associates. Granted, I still think early retirement is in his future, as he says he has plenty of projects around here to keep him busy.

  We’ve even been working on starting up a non-profit foundation that would help fund educational programs for school-age kids, especially ones that focus on teaching history and culture.

  “That should be enough beer for the guys,” Carter says as he looks over the industrial-sized cooler I got him for Father’s Day last year. “Don’t tell me Gretchen is bringing another one of her concoctions for the girls.”

  I laugh. “I think so. I believe her exact words were, ‘Everyone’s going to lose their shit over how fucking awesome this shit is.’”

  Not t
hat I’ll be able to partake in any awesome shit.

  Actually, I’m not sure anyone should.

  The last time everyone sampled one of Gretchen’s surprise mixes, Harper’s husband knocked her up with their first child, Quinn and her husband made a bet on who could climb our big oak tree faster and almost broke their necks, and Gretchen and her husband attempted to put on a Polynesian fire show that almost started a full-blown brushfire.

  Carter points his spatula at me, speaking in his stern Dad voice. “I don’t want Gretchen anywhere near the bonfire this time. Someone needs to tell that girl she was not a fire dancer in a past life.”

  I burst into laughter as images of that night flash through my mind. “That was a joke. She’d been doing Fireball shots all night and thought she could literally spit fire.”

  “Doesn’t change the fact that she nearly singed off her own eyebrows.”

  “Mama! Daddy!”

  Carter and I both turn to watch our baby girl run toward us, raven hair whipping wildly around her smiling face. Hattie is right on her heels, though moving at a much slower pace than the hellion in front of her. After an afternoon at Hattie’s, you never knew what level of a sugar overdose Maya will be at when she returns or what she’s going to be covered in.

  And I don’t know who usually enjoys themselves more—the besotted grandma or the infatuated little girl.

  I lean back against Carter as he wraps his arms around me from behind, his hands falling protectively over my belly.

  Life is crazy sometimes.

  It takes unexpected twists and turns that usually pop up at times when you’re completely unprepared for them. But that doesn’t mean those are necessarily the wrong paths. They may not have been part of your original plan, but that’s why plans should never be written in pen.

  I chuckle when I’m finally able to get a good look at Maya’s clothes that are covered in—yep, that’s mud all right.

  Life is also messy.

  But that doesn’t make it any less beautiful.

  Like a wise man once said, an orderly existence can be a boring one.

  I never thought I would get divorced at twenty-three and re-marry by twenty-four. Never thought the man I was meant to be with would be fifteen years older than me and own what is quite possibly the most gorgeous plantation in all of South Carolina. And I certainly never predicted that same man would be so intimately intertwined with my past.

  But the way I see it, Carter’s actions back then set my life on a course that ironically, eventually led me to him. I firmly believe we wouldn’t be where we are today if he and my father had never connected the way they did.

  So, don’t tell me that messes can’t also be gifts.

  I’m reminded of that every time Maya finger paints or talks her Daddy into letting her have ice cream.

  In fact, all of our friends’ lives are just as messy as ours, and I couldn’t possibly love a group of people more.

  The next time we’ll all be together like this will probably be for Maya’s birthday in two months, after Carter and I have gotten back into a somewhat stable sleeping routine. Maya’s already been showing us what she wants her decorations and cupcakes to look like and how pink her tutu skirt has to be.

  It’s going to be messy and chaotic and perfect.

  As long as Carter makes all the desserts.

  

  Curious about the rest of the stories from the Southern Hearts Club?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of Harper’s book, The Six Month Lease, coming July 2020!

  Sneak Peek of The Six-Month Lease

  Life can be one cruel bitch.

  Taunting you with things you’ll never have. Making you wish for impossibilities. Dreaming for non-realities. I suppose this particular form of torture could be prevented if I’d just avoid coming to the Charleston city market altogether.

  But that’s like telling the sun to stop rising

  Or a nun to stop praying.

  Or Donald Trump to stop tweeting.

  Ain’t gonna happen.

  Walking the long row of vendor booths inside the old, gazebo-like brick structures that have been a staple in this city for two hundred years comforts me. It’s soothing to shop the local merchants and artists, absorb the southern flare of the handmade knick-knacks, and inspect how all the small businesses and entrepreneurs are marketing themselves in today’s environment. Call it research, I suppose.

  And life is cruel because I want to be on the other side of one of those booths, selling my homemade products to the public.

  Also ain’t gonna happen.

  Yet I’m a regular here, pointlessly hoping and dreaming.

  I stop at one of my favorites, a pottery booth that showcases some of those most incredible pieces I’ve ever seen. Bowls, vases, pitchers, mugs—each one is completely unique and painted with intricate designs that are characteristic of the artist’s style.

  I’m examining a small bowl that looks like the perfect size to hold rings and stud earrings when a male voice comes from the jewelry booth next to me.

  “Excuse me, can I get your opinion on something?”

  It takes me a moment to realize the voice is addressing me.

  My head jerks up unconsciously, the masculine sound jolting me out of my wandering thoughts. I glance up to see a young guy, probably around my age, his gaze darting from me down to the collection of necklaces draped over his arms and hands.

  I would start laughing my ass off.

  If he didn’t look to be in a complete panic.

  His slightly bloodshot eyes are wide, his brown hair disheveled, like he just got out of bed. At ten o’clock in the morning, he looks to already have a five o’clock shadow smattering his cheeks. Otherwise, that’s just left over from yesterday. His clothing looks clean enough, though a little wrinkled.

  But none of that takes away from his actual looks.

  In fact, his somewhat harried appearance might only improve on what he already has going for him. I mean, there’s no question about it.

  The boy is fine. Damn fine.

  Though those aren’t the muscles of any boy I’ve ever seen. The T-shirt he’s wearing with one of the local brewery’s name scrawled across it stretches across his broad chest. My fingers actually itch to lift up the corner of that shirt and see if his abdomen is as rigid as I’m imagining it to be. His board shorts and flip flops are typical attire for Charleston’s humid, summer weather, especially if you’re headed to the beach. He looks like a beach guy.

  And for some reason, the aviator sunglasses he has hanging from his shirt collar have me literally licking my chops like a female dog in heat.

  He should probably put those on.

  I scoff at myself in disgust. Hard up much, Harp?

  He doesn’t seem to notice my reaction to him, thank God. Like, at all. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice anything else that’s going on around him, except for those necklaces hanging precariously from his outstretched limbs. He keeps right on talking to me as if he’s completely oblivious to how he tends to affect the opposite sex.

  “Which one would you pick?” he asks, making the necklaces jingle when he shakes both arms. “Say it’s your birthday. Which one is your favorite?”

  It’s taking me longer than I care to admit to process his questions because he honestly looks like he’s on the verge of a heart attack.

  I clear my throat. “Um. Well, I guess it depends on who you’re buying it for. What’s her taste like?”

  His face scrunches up in utter bafflement as his eyes meet mine. “Hell if I know. The only information I have to work with is that she likes this particular designer.” He nods at the booth he’s standing in front of. “So, here I am.”

  I immediately wonder if he’s shopping for a girlfriend and feel my heart sink in disappointment. If someone else has already swiped him up, then I won’t be able to flirt with this guy.

  And I find myself really wanting to flirt with this guy.

  “D
oes she like vintage pieces or does she go for the flashy stuff?” I ask, trying to take pity on him. Poor guy looks so terrified at the prospect of buying jewelry for a woman.

  Maybe it’s not a girlfriend if he’s never done this before.

  “It’s like, what do girls call it…” He frowns as he wracks his brain for the right words. “That… hobo look?”

  I clamp my lips shut to prevent the laughter from bursting out. He actually looks proud of himself and it’s adorable.

  “Boho?”

  His eyes relax in relief. “That’s it. Whatever the hell that is, it’s her thing. So, which one of these is the most…bo-ho?”

  He shakes his arms again, drawing my attention back to his arms.

  Now, I’m convinced he’s shopping for a girlfriend. I’m not conceited by any means, but I know guys tend to like what they see when they look at me. I’ve heard just about every pick-up line in the book, and let me tell you, a lot of the mystique is gone for me. I don’t know how this guy even registered that I am a woman with all the attention he hasn’t paid to anything but my eyes. And even then, he seems to be looking right through me.

  But maybe for the first time ever, I actually want this guy to deliver some corny pick-up line. I want him to lewdly check me out because I have a feeling that when he does it, it won’t feel lewd at all. Besides, it will give me permission to do the same to him.

  So, either he’s already taken by one super lucky girl.

  Or he doesn’t like what he sees.

  Or he’s gay.

  Or he’s the worst flirter in the history of the world.

  I cluck my tongue as I examine the pieces draped over his forearms, forcing myself to put all thoughts of flirting out of my head. “Well, if it were me and my boyfriend was buying jewelry for my birthday, I’d want it to look like he put actual thought into it. So—”

  His booming laughter comes out of nowhere, making me jump. It’s such a full-bodied sound and comes from deep within his chest. He puts his whole face into it, too. Huge smile, eyes crinkled in amusement, head thrown back.