“Damn,” Camryn said. “Those boobs are fine.”
The fourth woman in the room wandered up, looking distinctly uneasy. She was older than all of them, in her early fifties. Her dark brown hair was streaked with gray, and a thin network of crow’s-feet radiated out from her eyes. She was neatly dressed in a pale gray linen blouse and gray slacks.
“Hello,” she said quietly. “I guess I should introduce myself? I’m Suzanne.”
“Ashleigh.”
“Grace.”
“I’m Camryn. Look here, is the judge hearing your divorce named Stackpole?”
Suzanne looked startled. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Uh-huh,” Camryn said, nudging Grace. “And did you do something ugly to your ex? Maybe act out a little bit, something like that?”
Suzanne’s face paled. “I can’t … I don’t … I won’t…”
“Never mind,” Grace said. “Whatever you did, I’m sure your husband deserved it.”
Suzanne bit her lip. “I still can’t believe I went through with it. And I can’t believe I’m here, tonight. It all seems so surreal.”
“What’s surreal is the fact that this group is all women,” Camryn said. “This isn’t group therapy. It’s ladies’ night.”
“A really, really, expensive ladies night,” Grace put in.
“Ladies…” Paula called from her seat at the front of the room. “Let’s get started, shall we? I’m expecting one more member to join us, but I think we’ll go ahead and get started. So take a seat, if you will.”
Grace sat down on one of the folding chairs and crossed her legs. The other three women did the same.
“Well,” Paula said, giving them a bright smile. “I take it you’ve all introduced yourselves to each other. Ashleigh, Grace, Camryn, and Suzanne. Tonight is an important night for all of you. Right? It’s the night you all start the healing. And the forgiving.”
“No way,” Camryn muttered under her breath.
“Excuse me?” Paula said sharply.
“I said, no way,” Camryn said defiantly. “That judge can order me to come to these bullshit counseling sessions. And he can order me to pay through the nose for the privilege of coming here. But he cannot make me forgive what Dexter Nobles did to me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And neither can you.”
“I see,” Paula said. She nodded at Ashleigh. “What about you, Ashleigh? Did you come here with an open mind tonight?”
“I came with an open checkbook,” Ashleigh said. “That’s the best I can do right now.”
Camryn guffawed and Grace managed to stifle her own laugh.
“Grace?” Paula’s look was expectant.
“My husband has locked me out of my own home,” Grace said, feeling her throat constrict. “He’s frozen my bank accounts. Canceled my credit cards. I have no way to support myself. I’m living with my mother, tending bar to pay for gas money. He’s living in a two-million-dollar home, shacking up with my twenty-six-year-old former assistant. So no, right now, I’m really not ready for what you call a healing.”
Paula frowned. “All this negativity. I find it very sad. Very disappointing.”
Too damn bad, Grace thought. She glanced over at Camryn Nobles, and then at Ashleigh Hartounian. Their faces were impassive. Suzanne’s face was scrunched in concentration.
“We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us,” Paula said after a moment. She went over to her desk, picked up a stack of old-fashioned black-and-white-spattered composition books, and handed one to each of the women.
“This,” she said. “Is your divorce journal. I want all of you to get in the habit of writing in it, at least once a day, although several times a day would be most helpful.”
“Write what?” Ashleigh demanded.
“Everything. Anything. We’re going to be doing some visualization exercises that I think will be helpful. And I’d like you to search, really search your souls, for the truthful answers to some questions I’m going to pose to all of you. Because, in here, honesty is everything.”
Paula waved toward the windows. “Out there, with your family and friends, you can hide your pain. You can cover it up, sanitize it, deny it. But in here—with group—I expect nothing less than absolute honesty.”
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and brought out a boxy Polaroid camera. She walked briskly to the semicircle of chairs and snapped a photo of Grace, before Grace had time to object. When the photo ejected from the camera, the therapist handed it to Grace and moved on, pictures of Camryn and Suzanne, then Ashleigh, handing each woman her photo.
Grace stared down at the Polaroid, watching as the pale gray of the film disappeared and a grainy image of herself came into focus. She was shocked at what she saw. Her formerly full, round face looked gaunt. Her hair hung limply from a center part that emphasized her dark roots. She hadn’t bothered with makeup that day, hadn’t actually bothered with it at all since the day she’d been turned away from the security gate at Gulf Vista. There were dark circles under her eyes and deeply etched grooves at the corners of her mouth. It struck Grace that she couldn’t remember smiling, not in days. She looked sad. Sad and old, and defeated.
She glanced at the other women. Camryn and Ashleigh didn’t look any more pleased with their photos. In fact, Ashleigh had pulled a compact from her Louis Vuitton satchel and was busily applying more lipstick. Suzanne stared at her photograph as though she’d never seen a picture of herself before.
Now Paula handed Grace a stapler. “I want you to staple the Polaroid to page one of your divorce journal. This is your before picture. Now, turn the page and describe what you see in yourself in this photo. Tell me where you are, today. What you’re feeling about the place you’re in, right now, emotionally. If you like, you can write about this experience you’re having, your first night in group. Be honest. I know you all resent me, resent being here. I expect that.” She looked down at her watch. “I’m going to give you fifteen minutes to write. And when I come back, I want you all to be ready to share what you wrote with the rest of the group.”
“What if I don’t feel like sharing?” Ashleigh asked, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “What if I don’t feel like writing anything?”
Paula’s smile was tight. “Oh, Ashleigh. You know Judge Stackpole made your attendance at group mandatory as a condition for granting your divorce, right?”
“How could I forget?” Ashleigh asked.
“It’s not as simple as just showing up,” Paula said. “Judge Stackpole knows some people will just go through the motions, simply so they can get that divorce decree. Despite what you all think, I must tell you, Cedric Stackpole is really a very wise man. So he’s asked me to be very clear about his expectations for all of you.” She smiled.
“Each week, I’ll be reporting in to Judge Stackpole about your progress in group. And if I feel that you’re only coasting, just giving group therapy lip service, I won’t be able to sign off on your attendance report.”
“Attendance report?” Ashleigh asked. “Like in kindergarten? Are you serious?”
“Very serious,” Paula said. “You have fifteen minutes to write. Starting now.”
She walked out into the reception area, closing the door firmly behind.
* * *
Grace began scribbling on the second page of the journal.
I can’t believe I have been “sentenced” to group therapy. I have nothing in common with these other women. I don’t see how hearing their pathetic stories is going to help me get over what was done to me. I don’t need therapy. I need a divorce. I was betrayed by my lying, cheating, dirtbag husband. You want to know how I feel? I feel different ways, different days. Most nights, I can’t sleep. I don’t know what’s happening with my life. How will I make a living for myself? Where will I live? I can’t keep living with my mother, but right now I don’t have a choice. I have no choices at all. That’s what I think I resent the most about all this. The feeling of pow
erlessness, of being helpless. It’s so damned unfair. And I’m supposed to get over all of this? I’m supposed to reach a point where I don’t feel this rage, bubbling up inside me, threatening to boil over at any moment? Most of the time, I am CONSUMED with anger. And when I’m not, I’m just sad. So damned sad. And lonely. Everything I had is gone. I’m thirty-eight. And alone.
“This is bullshit,” Camryn Nobles was saying, as she made bold, looping lines of script on the open page of her journal. “My lawyer didn’t tell me anything about having to write in a journal, or having to report to therapy, like a high school kid to study hall. I’m calling him tonight, just as soon as I get out of here. That bullshit judge can’t make us do this shit.”
“Shh,” Ashleigh whispered, jerking her head in the direction of the door. “She’ll hear you and tell the judge what you called him.”
“I don’t care what she tells that damned judge,” Camryn said fiercely. “I’m not in his courtroom now. This is America. Not some damned banana republic, where he gets to lay down the law and make us salute every time he farts.”
Grace laughed despite herself. “Maybe you could do an exposé of the judge for your television station.”
“Maybe I will,” Camryn shot back. “Just as soon as I get my divorce from Dexter Nobles, I might just do that.”
The room was quiet then, with only the scratching sounds of their pens as they scrawled their thoughts across the cheap notebooks.
After she’d filled two pages of her journal, Grace looked at her watch. “It’s been thirty minutes. Where do you think Paula went?”
“Who cares?” Camryn said. “This whole thing is a charade.”
“I’m gonna go check on her,” Grace said. “I’ve had a long day. I just want to get out of here.”
She walked across the room, opened the door, and peeked out into the reception area. Paula Talbott-Sinclair was slumped down in the chair behind the reception desk, her chin resting on her chest. She was snoring softly.
Grace stood there for a moment, uncertain what her next move should be. Then she heard the front door behind her open.
A man stepped inside the reception area, looking uncertainly around the room.
He was tall and lanky, and sunburned. He was about Grace’s age, she guessed, and at first she thought he was completely bald, until a closer look revealed a fine dark stubble of hair covering his scalp. He was dressed like a workman, in baggy khaki cargo shorts, a grimy-looking faded khaki safari hat, and high-topped lace-up work boots. His eyes were dark, nearly black, with an astonishing fringe of thick, luxuriant lashes. And dimples. It was the dimples that reminded Grace that she’d seen this guy before, and recently.
“Hey,” Wyatt Keller said, scowling at her. “I’m looking for Dr. Talbott-Sinclair?”
Grace nodded in the direction of the slumbering therapist. “You just found her.”
12
“Is this a joke?” Wyatt asked, narrowing his eyes. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and reread the card the judge had forced him to take. Then he took a closer look at Grace.
“Didn’t we meet…” he hesitated. “In court?”
“That’s right,” Grace said.
“I’m supposed to be here for the, uh, divorce recovery group,” he said.
“Well, you’re late,” Grace snapped. “It started thirty minutes ago. Not that you missed much.”
“Damn,” Wyatt said. “The bridge was up. I’ve got a sick bird, and I had to run her to the vet’s office, and the asshole vet tech wouldn’t wait for me to get there, and the office was closed by the time I got there, and I had to stop at a drugstore and buy some meds…”
“Really?” Grace sniffed. “That’s the best you can do? The dog ate your homework?”
Wyatt bridled. “It’s true. Anyway, what do you care?”
Grace shrugged. “I don’t. I just care about getting out of here. Right now. I’ve had enough ‘sharing.’”
Wyatt nodded in the direction of Paula, who hadn’t stirred despite their odd conversation.
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Grace said. “It’s eight o’clock. My time’s up.”
She marched over to the desk and shook the therapist’s shoulder. “Paula,” she said loudly. “Hey, Paula. Wake up.”
Nothing.
“Is she sick or something?” Wyatt asked, taking a step closer. He reached out and touched the side of her neck, looking for a pulse.
“Who’s that?” Paula’s eyes flew open and she swatted his hand away. She looked wildly around the room. “What’s happening?”
“You told us to write for fifteen minutes, but it’s now been more than thirty minutes,” Grace said. “I came out here to check on you, and found you dead asleep. Or passed out.”
“Ridiculous!” Paula said. She stood, fluffed her hair, and straightened her clothing, looking like Stevie Nicks after an epic bender. “I was meditating, waiting on the group to complete their visualization exercise.”
“Who are you?” she asked, looking Wyatt up and down.
“I’m Wyatt,” he said. “Judge Stackpole said I had to come see you. For divorce recovery group.”
He said the words with such distaste, that Grace almost laughed out loud.
“Didn’t the judge tell you our sessions start promptly at seven?”
“He told me,” Wyatt said. “But I had a family emergency. And the bridge was up. But I’m here. I’ve been here for…” he looked down at his watch, and then at Grace, his dark eyes pleading.
“Twenty minutes,” Grace volunteered. “We weren’t sure whether or not to wake you.”
Paula studied Grace’s face carefully. “Really?”
“It’s true,” Grace said, with a shrug. “You can ask the others. We were all waiting for you to come back and take a look at our journals, to see if we did what you asked.”
Paula waved her hand distractedly. “Never mind that. It’s late. I’ll read them next week.”
“So … we can go now?” Grace asked. “All of us?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” Paula asked.
She went into the inner office and clapped her hands for attention. “All right. That’s the session for tonight. I’ll see everybody next Wednesday, at seven o’clock. Remember to bring your journals.”
She turned and handed Wyatt a notebook. “And next week, please be on time.”
Camryn and Ashleigh stood quickly and headed for the door, while Suzanne was still jotting in her notebook. “Ladies,” Paula said, gesturing toward the newcomer. “Before you go? This is Wyatt. He’ll be a part of group for the next few weeks. I’d like you to welcome him to our little circle of healing. Wyatt, this is Ashleigh, Camryn, and Suzanne. And you already met Grace.”
Suzanne looked distressed. “Uh, Paula, no offense to him, but I thought this was just a women’s group? Nobody said anything about men being part of it.”
“We welcome anybody with an open, willing heart to group, Suzanne,” Paula said.
“Hey,” Wyatt mumbled, blushing slightly as the women carefully looked him over.
“Hmm,” Ashleigh purred.
“What’s your story?” Camryn wanted to know. “Did Stackpole sentence you, too? I thought he only hated women.”
“Never mind that,” Paula said. She grabbed her camera and snapped a picture of the startled Wyatt. When the photo had developed, she handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, gazing down at the picture. It was not what you’d call a flattering image. The harsh overhead lights cast his face in deep shadows. He needed a shave, he noted, and there was a distinct sweat ring around the collar of his shirt. Also? There was a tell-tale white dribble on the shoulder of the shirt. Parrot poop, from Cookie, who’d insisted on riding on his shoulder the whole way to the vet’s office.
“That’s your before picture,” Paula told him. “Staple it in the book. And the journal is your homework assignment. I want you to writ
e in it at least once a day, every day, more often if you can. Tonight’s assignment is to write about how you feel about where you are in your emotional journey.”
“Ohh-kay,” Wyatt said slowly.
“And Wyatt? As the ladies can tell you, the one thing I insist upon in group, besides punctuality, is absolute honesty. No whitewashing. No lies. Understand?”
Camryn snorted. “He’s a man. They’re genetically programmed to lie.”
“Telling a man not to lie is like asking him to pee sitting down,” Ashleigh agreed.
“Ladies?” Paula said wearily.
Wyatt had had more than enough. He could feel the hostility radiating out of every woman in this room. Man-hating ball busters, every one of them.
“Also?” Paula held out her hand. “Your counseling fees must be paid in full, in advance of each session. Did your attorney explain my fee structure? You understand I don’t accept personal checks? Credit cards, although no American Express, or a cashier’s check.”
“She told me,” Wyatt said. He reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a tightly rolled bundle of money. The bills were faded and creased, and as he counted off each of the six fifty-dollar bills he thought of what that money should be going to. Groceries. New tennis shoes for Bo, and, now, payment on his ever-growing vet bill.
He pressed the money into Paula’s hand.
“Cash?” She looked down at the bills as though he’d just handed her one of Cookie’s bird turds.
“Yeah,” he said. “Can I get a receipt for that? My lawyer told me to make sure and get one. To prove to the judge that I was here.”
* * *
When he finally got outside the therapist’s office, he took a deep breath of the hot, humid night air. May, and it was already sweltering. Well, that was Florida. Anyway, it felt good to be outside. It had been freezing in that damned office. And all those women, staring at him, like he was some kind of spawn of Satan.
Just because he was a man. Betsy had warned him it would probably be like this. “It’s a divorce recovery group, honey,” she’d said. “A bunch of sad, mad, depressed, repressed women. All of ’em blaming all their problems on some man who done them wrong. Just sit there and take it, and with any luck, six weeks from now, Judge Stackpole will sign off on your divorce and you and Bo can get back to living your lives.”
Ladies' Night Page 10
