And One Last Thing...

by Молли Харпер

  I shivered, touching the cold glass with my fingertips and thinking of Miss Havisham and her moldy wedding dinner. It didn’t seem like the same house anymore, the place where I’d spent so many happy hours. I backed away from the door, worried that Monroe would come back and find me staring into his window like some creepy stalker. I ran back to my car and grabbed my purse, thankful that I’d left some stuff behind when I bolted to Emmett’s.

  I took out my cell phone and called him. After he shrieked at me for a couple of minutes about being worried sick and checking the emergency rooms because he’d heard Beebee had whipped my ass in the Uniquely You parking lot, he calmed down enough for me to tell him that I’d just driven up to the cabin to pick up a few things.

  “Well, it would have been nice to let me know,” he huffed. “Are you staying up there for the night? It looks like the weather is supposed to get pretty nasty.”

  “It already is up here,” I told him. “I will probably stay. But I’ll come back first thing in the morning.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “Actually, Lace, there’s an auction I wanted to check out in Sikesville. I’ll be gone all weekend anyway; why don’t you just stay up there?”

  There was a casual nonchalance to Emmett’s tone that I just didn’t trust. I chuckled. Emmett had always been a terrible actor. “Emmett, if you and Peter are getting back together, all you have to say is that you need some privacy.”

  “Um, sure, you got me,” he said, laughing awkwardly. “Remember, we’re closed on Mondays, so no need to rush back. I’ll see you soon, Lace.”

  I listened for Emmett’s line to go dead and shook my head. “My brother is weird.”

  I shrugged out of my wet dress and into some warm flannel pajamas. I spied my laptop, open and in hibernation mode, at the kitchen table. I hadn’t even thought to grab it in my exodus to Emmett’s. I clicked the touchpad and the screen roared to life, showing me the chapter I’d been working on before my fight with Monroe. The police had just questioned Laurie about Greg’s mysterious disappearance. Greg’s new girlfriend,

  Patricia, had stormed into the house and demanded that Laurie tell her where Greg was. Behind her, Laurie saw the sliding pocket doors twitching in the entryway to the dining room, as if any second they would snap together, closing on Patricia like the jaws of a steel trap. I’d been in Gladiator thumbs-up or thumbs-down mode, trying to decide Patricia’s fate, when I’d left the computer.

  Part of me wanted to write Patricia’s death in brilliant, blood-soaked detail, the sound of the doors crunching through bone to meet in the middle, the look in her eyes when she realized that Laurie was making this happen. The more rational part of my brain realized that as long as I wanted Laurie to punish Greg or his mistress, she wasn’t going to be a bigger, better person. She was going to be the same person she was at the beginning of the book. And she’d be stuck in an evil house that ate people.

  As long as I was mad at Mike, I wasn’t going to be able to finish this book. As long as I was unsettled on my future, I wouldn’t be able to give Laurie the ending she deserved.

  “Okay, I get it!” I shouted at the ceiling, at some invisible writing god. “It’s a metaphor!”

  I chewed my lip, staring at my cell phone. I dialed Samantha’s cell number. She picked up on the first ring. “For future reference, when we talked about ‘not having contact with Beebee or Mike,’ that includes not beating the tar out of one of them with your car antenna on a beauty salon lot.”

  “I did not do that,” I promised her.

  “I know, I’m just messing with you,” she said, hooting. “The antenna thing seemed a little too mafioso. You’re more of a fists-and-fingernails kind of girl.”

  “Thank you,” I muttered. “I need to come see you next week. There’s some paperwork we need to talk about.”

  “Has Mike filed involuntary commitment papers?” she asked.

  “It’s likely, but that’s not what I need to talk to you about,” I muttered. “What would be the fastest way to wrap up the divorce proceedings?”

  “Off the top of my head, you could ask for what you brought into the marriage, a fair share of your savings-slash-gifts, and promise not to come after more later if he drops the lawsuit,” she said. “He might go for that, or he might laugh in your face and threaten you with the Sizzler again.”

  “Could you have that drawn up for me this week sometime?”

  I could almost hear her smiling through the phone. “What are you up to, Lacey?”

  “Growing up,” I told her.

  “Sucks a little bit, doesn’t it?”

  “You aren’t kidding,” I snorted.

  After settling a few minor details and asking Sam to keep an eye open for decent rentals in the area, I hung up, closed the blinds, turned off my phone, and refused to acknowledge the outside world until I’d finished the damn book.

  Eventually, I lost track of time and the cartons of Coke I’d consumed.

  I didn’t know if Monroe was paying attention to the lights in my window or how late I was staying up. Frankly, I was glad he couldn’t see me pacing in front of my computer, dancing to Gloria Gaynor to try to make words come out of my brain… eating chocolate fudge icing straight out of the can. Using an Oreo as a spoon.

  I wrote until my eyes drooped and I thought my head would explode from staring at the screen. I fell asleep with my head against the keyboard on more than one occasion.

  In a gesture I preferred to think of as hope, I did not let the house eat Patricia - or Laurie, for that matter. In the end, Laurie burned it to the ground, destroying her past, banishing the bloody specter of her former husband. But because this was a horror novel and I wanted the ending to be somewhat ominous, I wrote a little scene in which Laurie is moving into her new apartment. Her handsome male neighbor comes over to introduce himself while she’s moving in, and romantic sparks fly. Behind her, where neither of them could see, the stairs rippled just the tiniest bit

  “The end,” I muttered as I typed out the last line.

  And now, according to Monroe, the real work began. Editing, writing query letters to agents, surviving the rejections. As intimidating as it was, I wanted to see if I was good enough, if my work was good enough to actually get published.

  “And now, the editing,” I muttered, returning to page one. When the overwhelming smell of, well, me, wafted up from my T-shirt, I shuddered. “But first, a shower. Blech.”

  When I’d read the manuscript, once and then again, taking most of Monroe’s advice into account, I printed it out and sneaked it over to his cabin in the dead of night. Well, I thought it was the dead of night. By the time I came out of the cabin, it was 4:30 p.m. on Monday. And I was still in my pajamas. Well, let’s face it, Monroe had seen worse from me.

  I padded across the lawn, my paper baby cradled in my arms. I laid it on Monroe’s steps and almost made a clean getaway when I heard the door open behind me.

  “Crap,” I muttered without looking back.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” he said in a tone far more pleasant than I’d expected. “So we’re just leaving manifestos on each others’ doorsteps now?”

  “It’s not a manifesto,” I protested. “When I stalk you, you’ll be aware of it.”

  “Good to know,” he said.

  There was a long awkward pause. “I’m sorry.” I said. “I’m sorry for the things I said and for taking the easy way out again. You said some pretty horrible things, but they were accurate, which was probably why they hurt so much.”

  “Lacey -”

  “I’m not saying this because I’m looking for an apology. I just wanted to say I miss you and not just because you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a functional sexual relationship. I miss my friend. And I’m hoping that we’ll eventually find our way back to being friends again.”

  “Lacey, don’t -”

  “Let me finish,” I told him. “But for now, I’m moving out. I’m sorry we left thi
ngs the way we did. Thank you being my friend and the voice of reason I so desperately needed. If you ever base a crazy-woman, scorned character on me, please be kind. My brother’s right; I’ve hidden out up here too long. And if you ever tell him I said that, I will deny it to my dying breath.

  “But I did want to leave this for you,” I said, handing him the manuscript. “It’s an extremely rough draft. But I’d like to know what you think.”

  “You finished it?” he asked, flipping through the pages.

  “Well, what did you think I was doing when I was avoiding you?”

  He pursed his lips. “I pictured something involving ice cream.”

  “Well, you weren’t wrong there.”

  “So did you do this just to spite me for saying you wouldn’t?” he asked.

  “What? No!” I scoffed. He stared at me. “Okay, yes. That had a little bit to do with it.”

  “I’m sorry I said that,” he told me. “And all of the other mean, horrible -”

  “Incredibly hurtful, yet accurate?” I added.

  “Yeah, those things I said. I didn’t mean them,” he promised. “Well, I meant it when I said I love you. But the rest was just my being an ass. Could we go back to the way things were before? I don’t care if we don’t put a label on it. We were happy and that’s all that -”

  “Let’s just take things slow, okay?” I asked. “We’ll start with you reading that.”

  “Well, I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “So does Laurie find love with a brooding, far more handsome man in the end?” He blanched. “Wait, did you make the house eat him, too?”

  “You’re just going to have to read and find out for yourself.”

  27

  BIah, BIah, Blahdy Blah

  I’d like to say that my newsletter ruined Mike’s life, that his clients were so disgusted with his extracurricular activities that they abandoned him. But if anything, the newsletter and the ensuing drama gave the firm more cachet, like having your taxes done by the cast of Melrose Place.

  The employees in the lobby of Terwilliger and Associates froze when I walked in. A couple of clients were sitting on the couch, their jaws unhinged and a gleeful anticipation shining in their eyes. Libby Hackett, Beebee’s younger, blonder replacement, widened her eyes to an even more doe-like state when I approached the desk. Dexter and Dave, the junior associates, snapped out of their stupor first, dropping their coffee mugs on the floor with a clatter and scrambling for the video function on their cell phones. I smiled sweetly, which seemed to frighten the receptionist even more.

  “I need to see Mr. Terwilliger, please,” I said.

  “I’m supposed to call the cops if you show up,” Libby whispered.

  “Would you mind giving me a five-minute head start?” I whispered back.

  She let loose a nervous laugh. “Okay.”

  “You know I’m kidding, right?” I told her.

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  “Libby, honey, if you feel you need to call the cops, you go right ahead. I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Really?” She sighed in relief. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. I’ll just pop into Mr. Terwilliger’s office before the sirens get close, okay?”

  Libby nodded. Behind me, I heard Dexter and Dave follow me into the hallway. Over my shoulder, I saw them holding up their phones.

  “Mike,” I said, knocking on the frame of his door, something I’d never bothered with before.

  Beebee was in his office, demanding his opinion on fabric swatches. The bitchy part of me wanted to tell her that they were all hideous, but the whole point of this visit was emotional growth and that wasn’t a good start. (But seriously, they were all butt ugly. We’re talking a lot of pink. Mike was going to be living inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle.)

  Somehow, that made it easier when Beebee sprang up off the couch and yelled for Libby. Mike looked up and, for a moment, it looked like he forgot we weren’t married. His first instinct was to smile. Then I’m sure he remembered, just as soon as he saw the thunderous look on Beebee’s face. I could tell by the flinching.

  “Don’t make me call my lawyer,” he said, sounding tired.

  “Oh, I’m not going to do anything; sit down,” I commanded. Mike looked unsure. “Sit down.”

  I turned to Beebee, who was sending a poisonous glare Mike’s way. “I just want to tell you that I hope you’re everything he deserves and more.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Beebee demanded.

  “If you think about it for a while, you’ll figure it out,” I told her, winking. “Would you mind if I spoke to Mike alone, please?”

  “Like hell!” she cried.

  “Beebee, please.” Mike said.

  “No, Mike.” She glowered at him. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “Beebee,” he pleaded.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “But I’m waiting right outside. This door stays open and I’ll be listening to every word!”

  “She’s a … lovely girl,” I told him, sitting across from him. “You caught me off guard the other day. There are things I need to say to you, without lawyers… or witnesses present.”

  Mike looked so hopeful for a moment, but his face fell when I said, “You’re a jerk, Mike Terwilliger. What you did to me was just shameful, wrong, despicable. But what I did was sneaky and spiteful and immature. I was a good wife to you. I may not have met all of your needs, but I never set out to do anything to intentionally hurt you. You can’t say the same thing. But I forgive you for what you did, because I don’t want to carry this around with me for the rest of my life, screwing up everything else that I touch. I don’t want you to have that kind of power over me. And I hope that one day you’ll forgive me for what I did.”

  I took a manila envelope out of my shoulder bag and slid it across his desk. “I had my lawyer draw these up. It’s a settlement. It lists all of the assets I brought to the marriage, plus a request for the equivalent cash value of my car, the equity I have in the house, my part of our savings - enough to get me started. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want anything from you that I didn’t earn. I’ve already signed them. I’d appreciate it if you signed them and we could get this over and done with.”

  I’m pretty sure all Mike heard was “Blah, blah, blahdy blah, I’m going to make this easier for you.” But I didn’t say all that for him. I said it for me. If one of us was going to learn from this, I’m glad it was me.

  I stood and offered Mike my hand. “Good-bye, Mike.

  He pursed his lips and grasped my fingers. I had been holding that hand since I was nineteen years old. I knew every ridge, every scar. It was warm and solid in my hand. And it might as well have belonged to a stranger. I shook it. He smiled sadly.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Lacey,” he said as I walled out the door. “I’m dropping the lawsuit, and so will Beebee.

  Beebee gasped. “But -”

  “So will Beebee,” Mike said again, giving her a stern look. “A clean split, okay? I’ll tell Bill we want to do this as quickly as possible. No more fooling around.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Thanks.”

  I was pretty sure that was the closest thing I was going to get to an apology.

  I walked out of the office with a clear conscience.

  Somewhere in my heart a little door closed with a clean, quiet “snick.” I was through with Mike Terwilliger. And he had moved on to a woman who, while she obviously didn’t make him entirely happy, was still better suited to him than I was. Whether he stayed with her or left her within a year, I knew it wouldn’t affect me either way. Instead of waiting for them to collapse on themselves, I would be living my life. I may not have wished them well, but at least I wasn’t devoting precious energy to wishing they would spontaneously combust.

  Surely that had to be a sign of emotional development.

  As I hauled in the bags of groceries I’d bought in town I found another package from Maya on my
doorstep. It contained very subdued, expensive-looking letterhead for Season’s Gratings. It listed both Maya and me as owner/operators. “Okay, final offer time,” Maya’s note read. “Full partnership.”

  I’m not going to say it wasn’t tempting, especially when I saw what my share of the profits would be as a full partner in Maya’s company. But I’d finally made a clean break from Mike and Beebee. Even though it had some, let’s say, negative aftereffects, I couldn’t say the newsletter was a mistake. I’d taken a stand. The newsletter had shown people that I was more than my father’s daughter or my husband’s wife. I made my own choices, even if those choices had the potential to get me in a lot of trouble. And it had brought me to the lake, to Monroe. And even if things with Monroe had taken a turn toward the end, his friendship had helped me figure out what sort of person I wanted to be.

  Still, somehow it seemed like a step backward to write more. The newsletters were my way of standing up for myself. As much as I wanted to help these other women, they needed to do the work for themselves. They needed to find their own way of striking back at their exes, or not, if they managed to cool down.

  I opened my e-mail and composed a new message for Maya entitled, “You may find this hard to believe…

  28

  Moving On

  Mike had provided everything I had asked for, plus some family Christmas decorations and an heirloom rocking chair I’d forgotten in my flight from the house. He even agreed to replace my iPod, which had mysteriously been run over by Beebee’s car.

  It was the nicest present he’d ever gotten me.

  In return, I was giving Mike the skeleton of his boat, unscathed. He’d sent movers for it the week before I planned to move out of the cabin. It would have felt like a hostage exchange, if not for Wynnie Terwilliger ‘s glowering at me from the front seat of the moving truck. She made it a little less friendly than a hostage exchange.

  Samantha felt bad for taking my retainer, but not taking my divorce case or my lawsuit to trial. It looked like Mike and I were going to be able to wrap everything up in mediation now that we’d agreed to start acting like adults. She didn’t feel bad enough to repay my retainer, but she was helping me move, so I guess it was a wash.