Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “That’s easy. It was the big ol’ honkin’ ring he gave me,” Ashleigh whispered, with a giggle, fingering the bauble she wore around her neck.

  Paula hadn’t heard, as usual. “I’ll see you all next week.”

  Grace looked at her watch. It was barely 7:30 P.M. Why was Paula suddenly in such a hurry to end the session? When she looked up again, she saw Stackpole speeding toward the door with the look of a man with a mission.

  25

  “Sandbox?” Camryn murmured, as the group drifted out to the parking lot.

  “I’m in,” Ashleigh nodded vigorously. She turned to Suzanne. “You coming?”

  “Well, I guess I could. I did tell my daughter I might be a little late,” Suzanne said.

  Grace looked at Wyatt. “How about you?”

  He hesitated. Camryn tugged at his arm. “Oh, come on. You can’t hold out forever.”

  “I thought this was a girls-only thing,” he said. “No boys in the tree fort?”

  Ashleigh gave him a wink. “For you, we’ll lower the rope ladder. Right, ladies?”

  * * *

  A hastily scribbled RESERVED sign was taped to the booth in the corner. Rochelle hurried over to the table when Grace pushed through the front door. “They’re coming tonight, right?”

  “Yeesss,” Grace found herself slightly annoyed at her mother’s eagerness, but she couldn’t say why. While Rochelle returned to her post behind the bar, she slipped outside with the tote bag, and when she returned five minutes later, the rest of the group were arranged around the table, each with a drink in front of them. She slid into the booth beside Wyatt, who was sipping a beer.

  “What was going on with Paula tonight?” Ashleigh asked.

  “Here you go,” Rochelle said, as she placed a glass of white wine in front of Grace and a big basket of freshly made popcorn in the center of the table. She plunked herself down beside Camryn at the opposite end of the booth.

  “Why?” Rochelle wanted to know. “What was Paula doing?”

  “She was, like, sober,” Ashleigh said. “All dressed up. With shoes and everything. She actually kind of looked like what I pictured a professional therapist would look like. It was kind of crazy.”

  “Mm-hmm. Mama was definitely on some new meds tonight,” Camryn agreed. “There were a couple times tonight she managed to almost sound coherent. Not that I agree with any of that forgiveness crap she was selling,” she added hastily.

  “I couldn’t get over how changed she was. And when Judge Stackpole came in, I was really struck by the transformation,” Suzanne said. “It was like she was hoping for his approval. Dying for it.”

  “The judge showed up?” Rochelle asked, her eyes widening.

  “Asshole,” Wyatt muttered, staring down at his beer.

  All the women turned to look at him at once. “Can’t help it,” he said defensively. “He’s gonna ruin my son’s life, letting Callie drag him off to Birmingham. How often will I be able to get to Birmingham to see him? Every other month? Probably not even that. Even if I could forgive her, I’ll never forgive him, if I lose my kid.”

  Ashleigh waved the straw from her half-empty margarita glass in the air. “I think Paula’s got a big ol’ school-girl crush on Stackhole.”

  “Stackhole, that’s good!” Rochelle said. “What do you think, Grace?”

  Grace had been surreptitiously slipping a handful of popcorn in the direction of the tote bag, which was between her feet. She was distracted by the soft snuffing sounds and hoped the din of the bar would drown them out.

  “Well … I agree, Paula was definitely on her best behavior tonight. And I did wonder about Stackpole’s appearance. Why was he there? Paula told us she reports to him on our progress. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than sit in on our sad little sessions?” She turned to Suzanne. “Do you think maybe there’s something going on between them?”

  “Maybe,” Suzanne said, her voice tentative.

  “Eeew,” Ashleigh said, wrinkling her nose. “Paula and that … old man? And isn’t he married or something?”

  “He’s not all that old. My lawyer, Mitzi, was in law school with him. When he was appointed to the bench, he was the youngest judge in Florida. But, yes, he’s definitely married,” Grace said. “During our hearing he made a point of telling my lawyer that his own wife has no problems running his household with two thousand dollars a month.”

  “Which pays for what?” Rochelle asked. “I’ll bet he doesn’t expect her to pay a mortgage or utilities or insurance for that.”

  While they batted ideas around, Camryn was busily typing away on her iPhone. “I’ve got the Florida judiciary Web site here,” she announced, thumbing down the page. “Gimme a minute. Okay, here it is. Cedric Norris Stackpole, age fifty-one. B.A., University of Florida, 1980. J.D., University of Florida, 1983. Appointed to the bar, 2000.” She looked up. “Wow, a judge at forty. That’s impressive, even if he isn’t.” She scrolled a little more. “Married, 1999, to the former Eileen Bolther of Kissimmee.”

  “Bolther? Why is that name familiar?” Suzanne asked.

  “If she’s a Bolther and she’s from Kissimmee, she must be related to Sawyer Bolther. As in Bolther Groves and Bolther Beef. Two of the biggest cattle and citrus growers in Florida. Not to mention Bolther Bank and Trust,” Camryn said.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Ashleigh asked.

  “I’m a reporter. I don’t know it off the top of my head, but I get paid to know how to find it out,” Camryn said. “I covered the last three governor’s races, and, as I recall, Sawyer Bolther was one of the biggest campaign contributors to that last joker we elected. So that gives you an idea how ol’ Cedric got named a judge at the ripe old age of forty. His wife’s family is politically connected.”

  “What about Paula?” Suzanne asked. “I’m a little curious about her, I have to admit. She’s such an enigma. After those first two sessions, I’d written her off as a total fraud, or at least a deeply troubled person with some kind of substance-abuse issues. But tonight?” She looked around the table for consensus. “She actually said a couple things that I thought made sense.”

  “Like what?” Wyatt asked. “I mean, I’m not disagreeing.”

  “I can’t quote her directly,” Suzanne said, flustered. “It was something about taking the time to figure out what went wrong with our marriages, putting blame aside, and just, you know, taking a look at what the problems really were.”

  “Wasn’t the fact that everybody’s husband or wife cheated on them the big, overriding problem?” Rochelle asked.

  “A problem? Or maybe a symptom?”

  All heads turned toward Grace. She shrugged. “I don’t know anything. I probably know the least about marriage of anybody here. I thought my marriage was just peachy, until it all went up in flames. I’m not saying I want Ben back. If I ever did before, the things he’s done since I left have opened my eyes to the kind of person he is. I keep wondering how I didn’t see the real him.”

  “Sometimes, maybe we do see the real person, but we convince ourselves that we can live with him, or somehow change him, just by loving him enough,” Rochelle said.

  Grace stared. Where had this come from? And why did Rochelle keep hanging around?

  “Dexter changed, once he had a taste of success, once he got into politics,” Camryn said. “In college, when he was at Morehouse, and I was at Spelman, he wrote poetry! Yes, he did. He was this shy, skinny, geeky mama’s boy. Not anybody I ever would have taken a second look at. But one of my sorority sisters was dating his roommate, and she begged me to go out with him, as a favor so the two of them could get some privacy on a Friday night. I asked him to a mixer, and it turned out the guy could dance. I mean, dance! Later on, he admitted he’d been watching Michael Jackson videos for years, learning his moves. I thought that was so sweet. You know? That’s the Dexter I fell in love with. He had ideals. He wanted to change the world.”

  Camryn sipped her drink. “I don’t kno
w him now. Obviously.”

  “Would any of you take your husbands—or wives—back, if they wanted to come back?” Ashleigh asked.

  The table got very quiet. “I’d take Boyce back,” Ashleigh volunteered. “But, I mean, there’d have to be some changes. For one thing, I’d go back to managing his practice. Some men you just have to keep on a short leash. I know he doesn’t love that tramp he’s seeing. She’s not even his type! I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll tell you that.” She grinned mischeviously and leaned forward. “I’ll tell you something else, too. When he comes back—I’ll be a lot more adventurous. In the bedroom, you know? Keep him guessing.”

  Grace felt herself blushing. She’d just met these people. There was no way she’d ever talk about her and Ben’s love life—especially with her mother sitting right there!

  Ashleigh pointed at Camryn. “How about you? If Dexter wanted you back—would you do it?”

  “Oh, hell to the no,” Camryn said. “How could I respect myself if I took him back? I know what a sleaze he is. Jana’s sad about us breaking up, but I want her to know, as a black woman, she needs to have some standards. I don’t want her settling for second-rate, or thinking it’s okay for some brother to cheat on her and degrade her. Besides? He’s been dipping his pen in a lot of ink. And I know Dexter. I know he wasn’t wearing a condom for any of those close encounters. Who knows what kind of diseases he might be carrying around?” She shuddered. “We hadn’t been sleeping together for months anyway, but just to be sure I got myself tested as soon as I saw that little DVD of his. Somehow, I got lucky. Everything tested negative.”

  “How about you, Wyatt?” Camryn asked pointedly. “You’ve been pretty quiet all these sessions.”

  “Yeah,” Ashleigh agreed. “I’d just looove to know how it feels when the shoe is on the other foot.”

  Wyatt’s face colored. “You don’t think women cheat on their husbands? Look, it’s different with me.”

  “Because you’ve got a penis? And choices?” Camryn asked.

  “Because I’ve got a six-year-old son to raise,” Wyatt half stood, obviously roused. “I’ve got to put my kid first, and myself second.”

  “What if you didn’t have a kid? Or what if she broke up with the other guy?” Ashleigh persisted.

  Wyatt glared at her. “Can we just drop it?”

  “No, we can’t,” Camryn snapped. “Can you quit being macho man long enough to answer an honest question?”

  He eased back into his chair, some of the fight gone out of him. With his thumb, he twisted his wedding band around and around. “You read all these statistics about the children of divorce. They don’t do as well in school, have emotional problems. I don’t want that for Bo.”

  “Listen, Wyatt,” Rochelle said, reaching down the length of the table and grabbing his hand. “Shrinks can come up with all kinds of statistics to make people feel guilty. What kind of home will you be raising Bo in if he knows you and Callie hate each other? Kids aren’t dumb. They can sense things. And what happens if you take her back and she decides to go off with some other guy?”

  Wyatt’s face contorted and Grace wished she could kick her mother under the table. Instead, she spirited some more popcorn into her tote bag.

  “Suzanne?” Now Rochelle was concentrating on the least forthcoming member of the group.

  “What about you? Would you take your husband back?”

  Suzanne seemed to shrink into her chair. “Our situation … is unique,” Suzanne said. “I’m sorry. You’ve all been so open and honest. I feel like a voyeur, sitting here, contributing nothing. I’m still … still trying to sort out my feelings.” She took a deep breath and started again.

  “Let me try to explain. I come from a very religious Catholic family. My father dragged us to Mass every Sunday. My mother was very pious. From the outside, we looked like the ideal family. Inside?” She shrugged. “He cheated on her. Always. Made her life miserable. She’d never worked outside the home, what was she going to do? Leave him? Besides, we Catholics don’t divorce, right? So she stayed, a martyr to the end. Why did she put up with his crap? My two sisters and I swore a pact that we would never, ever fall into the same trap she did.

  “Damned if we didn’t. Tricia’s husband is a closet drinker. Eileen? We think he abuses her, but we don’t have any proof, and even if we did, she has kidney disease, and she needs his medical benefits. And me? Eric and I lived together off and on for eight years. When I was thirty, and still working on my Ph.D., I got pregnant with Darby.” Suzanne’s small, sad face suddenly lit up. “It was a huge surprise. I’d had ovarian cysts in my twenties, and my doctor told me I probably wouldn’t have children.”

  Suzanne took several deep breaths, sucking in more oxygen to fuel her narrative. The others waited, willing her to continue. “Even then, I waited until Darby was two, just to be absolutely sure, before I agreed to marry Eric. I thought we had something good, you know? Not perfect, but a much better marriage than my parents’.”

  “You poor thing,” Rochelle said. She stood quickly. “Don’t say another word, okay? I need to see if everything’s all right in the kitchen. Can I get anything for anybody?”

  Ashleigh raised her nearly empty margarita glass. “I could use a freshie.”

  Grace could feel her jaw tightening. Did she dare suggest that Rochelle stick to bartending instead of marriage counseling? Probably not.

  “Listen, Suzanne,” Grace said gently, “don’t feel like you have to talk, if you don’t feel like it. We all understand.”

  “No!” Suzanne said, taking a gulp of her tea. “I think this is probably good for me. I’ve never discussed my family’s … marriage issues, to anybody. Ever. Not even with my best friend. Not even with my sisters. So thanks, for listening. And not judging.”

  “Oh, you are just so welcome,” Ashleigh said, looking around the table for consensus. “Isn’t this awesome? I mean, I feel soooo much better, hearing what you guys have been through. If I didn’t hate the whole idea of paying three hundred dollars an hour to Paula, I would think just being with you all was totally worth it.”

  Camryn had her chin propped on her hands. “Yeah. I can’t believe Stackpole is making us pay Paula that much money for the privilege of watching her fall asleep and drool on herself once a week.” She grimaced. “Speaking of sleep, I’ve got to be at the studio at six, to tape an interview with some exercise diva, and if I don’t want to have king-sized bags under my eyes, I better get out of here right now.” She stood, pulled money from her billfold, and placed it on the tabletop.

  “Grace, tell Rochelle I said ’bye. See y’all next week!”

  Ashleigh yawned widely. “I can’t believe it’s not even ten o’clock and I’m this sleepy. Guess I need to take off, too.” She stood up and slapped her backside. “My new trainer is making me do this really intensive booty camp, starting tomorrow.” She added some bills to the pile on the table. “I’ll just run by and tell Rochelle never mind on the drink,” she added. “I probably don’t need the calories anyway.”

  “I hate to ask,” Suzanne said, turning to Grace. “But is it too much trouble for somebody to give me a ride back to Paula’s office?”

  “I’d be happy to take you, but the front seat of the pickup is loaded with sacks of bird feed and crap for the park,” Wyatt said apologetically. “Didn’t want the chance of it getting rained on.”

  “I can take you,” Grace said. She was painfully aware that that the tote bag at her feet was starting to wriggle, and every once in a while a small brown muzzle would pop out. “Be back in a minute.”

  By the time she got back to the table, Suzanne and Rochelle were deep in conversation. Wyatt was standing, looking around, unsure of his next move.

  “If you’re going to take Suzanne back to Paula’s office, why don’t you let me ride with you?” He was trying to sound casual, cool even. “It’s not that great a neighborhood.”

  26

  There were now a dozen cars in the shop
ping center parking lot. The lights were on in the tattoo parlor, heavy metal music blaring from within, and a trio of imposing black Harleys were parked on the sidewalk in front of it. Suzanne leaned over the front seat console. “Here’s my car.” She pointed to a silver Prius. “Thanks again, Grace. Wyatt. See you next week.”

  Grace pulled alongside Suzanne’s car and waited until she’d started the car and eased out of her parking spot.

  “Hey, look.” Wyatt pointed at the very end of the parking, where a black Lexus had just pulled into the space nearest the end. As they watched, Paula emerged from the passenger’s side of the sedan. She slammed the car door, and then, while they watched, she kicked the tires. Next, she ran around to the driver’s side. She was screaming something, slapping at the car windows, pounding, but the driver never cut the engine, instead throwing the car into reverse. Its tires screeched and skidded as the driver slammed it into drive and sped out of the parking lot, turning left onto Manatee Avenue.

  Paula stood, hands on hips, watching it go. Then, she walked back, unlocked her office door, and disappeared.

  “Oh my God,” Grace said. “Do you think that’s Stackpole in the black car? Looks like they were having a knock-down, drag-out fight, huh?”

  “Only one way to find out,” Wyatt said, leaning forward to keep his eyes on the car.

  “I’m on it,” Grace said, pulling out of the shopping center. Traffic was light that time of night, and she could see the Lexus’s red taillights only half a block ahead of them.

  “Good of him to be such a safe driver,” Grace said.

  “If it’s Stackpole, the last thing he wants is to get pulled over by a cop,” Wyatt pointed out.

  Grace followed the Lexus west on Manatee, for five blocks. It stopped at the light at West 75th and put on its blinker to turn left. Grace pulled behind the Lexus and did the same. “You think this is really a good idea? Following Stackpole—or whoever is in that car?”