by Donna Fasano
She waggled her fingers at him as she left the room. On her way to the front door she stopped by the hall table and picked up the mail that had been piling there for a couple days. She stuffed it into the side pocket of her briefcase and locked the front door behind her.
Twisting to watch where she was going, she backed the car out of the drive way, her mind focused on the appointments that were lined up for her today. Two new clients were coming in this morning. And she would spend a better part of the afternoon in court. Then she had an intimidating letter to write on a client's behalf; sometimes a well-worded threat to sue provoked action and saved time and money for the people she worked for.
By the time she'd registered that she'd seen Greg, he'd already passed her on his way, she guessed, to her house. She glanced at the rearview mirror and watched him pull into the driveway.
No wonder her dad was making a pot of coffee rather than just a cup. She thought it odd though that, if he had been expecting Greg to come for a visit, why hadn't he just said so? Why hide it?
It wasn't as if she expected her father to stop speaking to Greg because she was divorcing the man. But maybe he thought she'd be upset at the thought of Greg visiting him at the house? Maybe he, too, was doing his best to keep the peace now that they were living under the same roof.
Snapping on the radio, she listened to the national news for the few minutes it took to drive to the office.
The deadbolt on the door thunked as she turned the key. She opened the blinds on the large front window and turned up the thermostat to take the autumn chill out of the air. She usually arrived at the office before Norma Jean because she liked to spend a few minutes getting settled before the phones started ringing and clients arrived.
After plugging in the electric kettle and plopping a tea bag into a mug, she went into her office and sat at her desk. She sorted through the mail she'd pulled from her briefcase. Bills and correspondence in one pile, sales brochures in another, junk mail headed for the garbage can in a third.
The large, white envelope was tucked between a couple thick sales flyers. The return address on the front made her heart skitter. She ripped into it like a child with a long-awaited, gaily-wrapped birthday present.
She grasped the document inside the envelope, slowly pulled it into the light of day, placed it in front of her with something akin to reverence and leaned back. The official decree sat on the desk top, and she just stared.
It was official. She was a divorced woman. She was free. She was single.
An odd feeling swept over her.
Before the papers arrived, she had imagined this moment many times over. In fact, imagining this moment had gotten her through some of the roughest times over the past year or so. She had envisioned herself running to the liquor store to buy a bottle of expensive champagne. She'd fantasized about celebrating her divorce by painting Sterling bright red, drinking and dancing from one hot spot to another, showing everyone the papers that made her a free woman.
But she simply sat and stared.
What was wrong with her? She'd thought once her ties to Greg had been well and truly severed she'd feel as if a huge weight had been lifted off her. She had thought she would feel. . .lighter. . .happier. . .something.
But she felt nothing.
No, not nothing. There was emotion churning behind her solar plexus. But what was it exactly?
The whistling kettle had her on her feet and padding to the office's small efficiency kitchen. She poured steaming water over the tea bag and watched it turn a golden brown.
She should be snapping her fingers, swiveling her hips and dancing the jitterbug around her desk. Not that she knew how to jitterbug. She would if she'd let her parents teach her when they'd wanted to all those years ago; however, she'd been content to sit on the staircase and watch through the railings while they twisted and shook and swung each other around the living room floor.
Lauren contemplatively stirred honey into her tea.
Divorce wasn't something to be taken lightly. And she hadn't.
She and Greg had shared some wonderful times. But the final year they'd been together had shown such a bright light on their differences that she could no longer avoid seeing them.
She carried her mug back into her office and settled at her desk.
Separating herself from him had been the right thing to do. For her, at least.
He'd fought her tooth and nail. He'd suggested a host of remedies: a romantic vacation (who could afford to fly off to the Bahamas when a business was going under?), separate bank accounts (too late), counseling (no way was she going to chance some professional talking her into seeing Greg's point of view).
During those last months of the marriage, she'd felt as if she'd been swept up into some financial whirlpool that would surely suck her bank account and her bones completely dry. And that was nearly what had happened. Not only that, but before it was all over her emotions had been as spent as her checking account.
Every time she thought about what had happened, she became so ticked off she could barely speak, and that anger overrode everything else. Even the strange, heavy feeling that sprouted in the pit of her belly right now upon seeing the official divorce papers. She set down the mug with more force than she meant to. Tea sloshed onto the postcard advert for a local pizza joint and one, wide corner of a white, business-size envelope sticking out from beneath the unsorted pile of mail.
Lauren tossed the postcard into the wire wastebasket, and then reached for the envelope, grabbing a tissue from the box on her desk at the same time. As she blotted off the worst of the mess, she noticed Greg's name neatly printed in the upper left corner.
She slid her thumbnail under the flap and ripped the paper with short, jerky tugs. The deed to the Skeeter Neck property was tucked inside. Lauren placed the document next to the divorce decree.
The front door of the office whispered open and she heaved a deep breath.
"Morning," she called out to Norma Jean. "I'm glad you're here. I need to talk about the vast contradiction of good and evil sitting on my desk."
She got up, grinning at her joke, and made for the door leading to the reception area. . . where she nearly bumped into a good-looking, sandy-haired, blue-eyed man.
He reached out and grasped her shoulders so their forward momentum didn't cause them to collide. "Sorry," he murmured.
"I was expecting Norma Jean." The quick start and stop had dislodged a tendril of her hair from the twist she'd hastily pinned up this morning. "My receptionist," she clarified, swiping the lock back from where it had fallen across her cheek.
Lauren glanced at her watch.
"Yes, yes," the man rushed to say. "I'm early. I called, but couldn't reach anyone. I did leave a message."
Automatically, she peeked around him and saw the red blinking light on the telephone-slash-answering machine-slash-intercom that sat on Norma's desk.
"I hope I'm not messing up your day," he told her.
Taking a backward step, Lauren smiled. "Of course not."
His amazing, blue eyes were the first thing she noticed. He was tall. At least six foot. The black business suit fitted his body well. And his eyes were an awesomely vivid blue. She'd describe him as trim and athletic-looking rather than bulkily muscular. A long distance runner, maybe? And those eyes. . . They were enough to make a woman's thoughts go haywire.
She thrust out her hand automatically. "Lauren Flynn."
He shook it, smiling, and that gaze of his twinkled.
"Scott Shaw. I'm Scotty's father."
Lauren nodded. "Ah, yes. Scott. He called and said he wanted me to represent him."
When the man automatically reached for the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, she told him, "Come on in." She retreated behind her desk, but didn't sit. "Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?"
"No, thanks. I've got appointments this morning."
He handed her a check and she couldn't help but notice what neat penmanship he ha
d.
"Scotty would have brought this himself, but he had class this morning." His jaw firmed and so did his tone. "He's going to be focusing on his grades more and partying less. And he'll be keeping his nose clean. That much I can assure anyone who's interested. The police. A judge. The Dean. You."
Uh-oh. Sounds like poor Scott, Jr. wasn't in just a bit of hot water with his father, he was in a tub full.
"You don't have to worry about me," she assured him. She set the check on her desk. "I'm on his side."
"And we appreciate that, too. Very much." He tucked his checkbook back into his jacket. "Can you tell me what to expect? When Scotty goes to court, I mean?"
"Well, I can promise you that your son will get a firm lecture from the judge." She crossed her arms. "I'm sure he'll be fined. And depending on who oversees the case, he could get some probation. However, I will do everything I can to keep his punishment to a minimum."
The man nodded, his serious gaze never leaving her face. He made her feel as if she were the only person alive at that particular moment.
"It's not the court's intention to ruin Scott's life over this." She let her hands fall to her sides.
"Yes." He sighed. "They just want to ram home the message that stupid behavior has consequences."
"Exactly." She reached out and touched the check he'd written. "I'll need your signature on the retainer."
"I'd like for my son to sign any formal documents, if you don't mind. He'll be footing one hundred percent of the bill for this little escapade. That—" he pointed to the check "—is just a loan."
When Scott, Jr. had told her that he had no job and that he was given a weekly allowance, she'd pegged him as spoiled and his father as a pushover.
"I didn't mind providing a free ride as long as he was acting like he had some sense. But now. . ." He lifted one shoulder. "Gainful employment is in my son's immediate future. I'm paying the retainer because I want him to have solid representation, but I expect him to repay every nickel. And he'll be responsible for any fees over that, as well."
Wow. The man was quickly proving himself anything but a pushover.
"But don't worry," he said, his blue eyes glittering. "If something happens, if he can't find a job or packs his bags and flees the state before his court date, I won't let him stiff you."
She grinned.
He shifted his weight on his feet, looking at her desk. She thought he was staring at the check he'd given her and she wondered if he might be having second thoughts about loaning his son the retainer fee.
Softly, he asked, "So, are congratulations in order?"
"Excuse me?"
Scott chuckled, pointing. "I know finalized divorce papers when I see them. If they belonged to one of your clients, the state wouldn't have sent them here."
Her gaze unwittingly fell on the decree; then one corner of her mouth lifted. "That's true. And I'm guilty as charged."
He smiled, and those gorgeous eyes flashed. "So congratulations are in order."
Lauren continued to smile at him, not certain how to respond.
"And I see that, like my ex, you're a good house keeper."
Her smile slipped. Then she saw what he was looking at. She picked up the deed, chuckling at his joke. "Oh, this isn't for the house." She found she was blushing as she explained, "I did keep the house. But that was only fair since it was mine before we got married."
His brows arched. "A fair-minded woman? Wow. Wish I'd been that lucky. My wife kept our house, our SUV, half the savings and—drum roll, please—half my pension."
"Ouch!" Lauren winced.
He sighed. "Yeah, she sold the house within a year and moved to Atlanta. An up and coming city full of opportunity, she called it. She's remarried now, and raising kids that are his and theirs, and she rarely calls our son."
She'd grown used to listening to people's woes. For some reason, the public seemed to look at lawyers as they did psychiatrists or counselors; the money you offer for services includes an ear to bend and a shoulder to lean on.
"That woman is a piece of work, I don't mind saying. Scotty flies down there to spend a week with his mother every summer." Scott Shaw's mouth flattened, then he added, "Whether he wants to or not."
Lauren found herself nodding.
His head cocked slightly as he looked at her askance. "You look like you just put two and two together and came up with four."
The smile she offered was evasive. "Just making sense of something your son said when he was here."
It's just my dad, the young man had told her when she'd mentioned his parents. For the most part. Now she understood. Before he could inquire further, she said, "You're sure I can't get you something?"
"No. Really. I have to go." He backed through her office door as he spoke and she followed him out into the reception area.
Norma Jean pulled open the front door and called out, "Hello, hello!"
After shooting Norma a smile and a tipped-chin greeting, Scott Shaw turned back to Lauren. "When you meet with Scotty to go over things, would it be all right if I came along with him?"
"Sure. If it's okay with your son, it's okay with me."
He went still suddenly. "And, uh, maybe I could take you to lunch some day. You know—" he grinned wickedly "—to celebrate."
The invitation was so unexpected she couldn't think of a single thing to say or do. Her mouth widened of its own accord, and she saw her hands lifted outward even though she hadn't given conscious thought to the action.
"Maybe." She croaked the word rather than spoke it.
He winked at her. "I hope you'll take me up on the offer. It'll be fun." He moved to the front door. "I'll see you soon."
After nodding goodbye to Norma Jean, Scott waltzed out the door.
"Who was that?"
Lauren turned her attention to Norma, feeling for the first time in many minutes that she could take a nice, deep breath.
"Mr. Shaw," she said. "Scott Shaw's father."
"The Shaw appointment wasn't until nine-thirty."
Lauren nodded. "He said he tried to call."
"He brought the retainer? We've got a new client?" She made her way to the front of the office, to the big picture window. "Great. I'll work up a file."
But it was clear her mind wasn't on office procedure at the moment. She was too busy watching the man cross the street.
"You going to go? To lunch, I mean? I think you should, Lauren." She gave a little wolf whistle. "Oh, yes, I think you should."
"What's that you brought?" Lauren asked, hoping the change the subject.
Norma Jean glanced at the covered dish she'd set on her desk but didn't move from her spot. "Oh, I made a casserole. For Lew's dinner tonight."
"Well, thanks. That was awfully nice."
"Actually, I thought I'd follow you home. We could all eat together. There's plenty there." She busied herself unbuttoning and then slipping off her jacket, her eyes still trained out the window. "I had a good time talking with him the other night."
"Sure," Lauren said. "Dinner at my place sounds great. I'll pick up a bottle of wine at lunch. I'll put the casserole in the fridge for you."
She reached over and picked up the dish, but Norma Jean came over, caught one of the handles and met her gaze levelly.
"So. . .you going to go?"
"Probably not," Lauren said. "I don't even know the man."
Norma let go and walked to the front door. "You should. That is one heavenly piece of man meat."
Lauren just shook her head. "Would you come away from there? He's going to catch you staring."
She hoped she would be as zesty as Norma was when she reached her sixties.
"No harm in looking." Her nose was nearly pressed to the glass. "Did you see those eyes?"
Turning on her heel, Lauren headed for the break room refrigerator as she asked, "He had eyes?"
She wasn't surprised that her glib remark prompted no response. Norma was too busy studying the man meat.
&n
bsp; Chapter 6
I beg your pardon; I was not in the rear of the barn.
I was in the other end of the barn that faced the street.
~Lizzie Andrew Borden
For the third day in a row, Lauren left the house in a hurry. More like, she'd been shooed out by her father. It was as if the man couldn't wait for her to get out of the door each morning so he could read the paper in peace or turn on his laptop and start trolling the Net.
As she pulled out of her neighborhood, Greg was once again pulling in. He offered a quick smile and lifted his hand in greeting, but he passed by before she had time to react.
The frown between her brows bit deeper the farther she drove away from home. Was this the third time she'd passed Greg on his way to her house over the past week, or the fourth? She tilted her head just a fraction. Could it really be the fifth?
Who her father visited with was no business of hers. Lauren tried to focus on the day ahead, plan out the phone calls she had to make, the people she needed to see, but her thoughts of work soon scattered.
She knew her dad and her ex were close, but five visits in a week? That just didn't make sense.
Men didn't normally participate in coffee klatches. They didn't sit over crullers and hazelnut lattes, dishing the dirt like women did.
Or did they?
"Noooo." She whispered the answer, shaking her head and chuckling as she drew the small word out.
Men didn't talk. Not about anything meaningful, anyway. They watched football on TV and discussed the players' stats. They visited home improvement stores and pointed out the items on their wish lists. They scratched itches and shifted private parts in public. No way were they social enough to participate in civilized, chatty conversation.
Lauren grinned as she turned onto South Avenue and entered town. She wasn't being fair and she knew it. She oughtn't to think that way about fifty one point four percent of the human race.
Something seemed fishy, though. Five visits in a week. That frown was back, pinching the space between her eyebrows, and a band of tension tightened with enough force to trigger the first inkling of a headache.
