Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “Mrs. Keeler, did you call your six-year-old a ‘little shit’? Yes or no?”

  Callie burst into tears. “He’s my little boy! How would you like it if your son told you he hated you? How would you like it if you went to pick up your son and he refused to get in the car? I may have called him that, in the heat of the moment, but I never meant it.”

  Wyatt folded his arms across his chest and looked away. Callie loved to turn on the waterworks whenever she was backed into a corner. It was her go-to tactic. He wondered if Stackpole would fall for it. Betsy claimed the judge hated women, but Callie seemed to be the exception to that rule.

  Betsy saw an opening and went for it. “Judge, Mr. Keeler is also concerned about his son’s behavior. If Bo is unhappy after returning from a visit with my client, it’s because he is uncomfortable seeing his mother living with a man other than his father. Bo is upset over the breakup of his parents’ marriage, which is totally understandable, and I want to address that in a minute. But in the meantime, Mr. Keeler would like to know more about this past weekend. If Bo wasn’t at school when Callie went to pick him up, why didn’t she notify my client?”

  “I left him a voice mail!” Callie said. “He never returns my calls. I basically assumed Wyatt had Bo.”

  “But she didn’t know that,” Betsy said calmly. “Did she do anything else to check up on her son’s whereabouts? Question the teachers at the school? Go over to my client’s home to see if Bo was there? Did she call his friend’s homes to see if he’d gone home with one of them?”

  “I just told you, I figured Bo was with Wyatt.” Callie glared at Betsy.

  Stackpole frowned. “Mrs. Keeler, did you leave town for the weekend without knowing your son’s exact location?”

  “We had to get on the road,” Callie said, her voice shriller by the minute. “We had dinner reservations. It’s a long drive to Birmingham, and I was positive Bo was with his father. I never would have left Bo home alone. And it turned out fine! He was with Anna.”

  Betsy went in for the kill. “He could have been abducted, Judge. My client relied on Mrs. Keeler’s representation that his son was in her custody for the weekend. He had no knowledge that Bo wasn’t where he should have been. And we find that very disturbing.”

  “As do I,” Stackpole agreed. He looked Wyatt up and down. “Mr. Keeler, Dr. Talbott-Sinclair tells me you’ve been attending her divorce-recovery sessions, and I, ah, noted your presence there this week when I stopped by. She seems pleased with your progress.”

  He swung around in his chair and considered Callie, who was dabbing at her crocodile tears with a Kleenex in a valiant effort to look brave and vulnerable.

  “Mrs. Keeler?”

  “Yes?” she whispered, her lower lip trembling.

  “If you and your son are having relationship issues, perhaps you’d better spend more time working on your relationship with him, and less on your fiancé.”

  Stackpole said the word “fiancé” as though it were some revolting sexual practice. Wyatt felt his spirits start to brighten.

  “A young, impressionable boy needs a father in his life. Mr. Keeler had that regrettable episode at the baseball park, but he seems to be making some progress handling his anger and hostility. I’m starting to rethink the wisdom of allowing you to move your son so far away from his father.”

  Yes! Wyatt wanted to jump up, fist-bump Betsy, maybe even hug Stackpole. Nah, not that. But still.

  “Now, Judge,” began Callie’s lawyer, who’d been noticeably silent until now. “Mrs. Keeler’s fiancé has already accepted a job in Birmingham and put his home on the market. It’s going to work a real hardship on them if you prevent them from moving…”

  “I’m not preventing anybody from doing anything, yet,” Stackpole interrupted. “I’m just saying I’m rethinking. I still want to wait a few more weeks to make sure that Mr. Keeler completes his therapy, and I want to hear reassurances from Dr. Talbott-Sinclair that there won’t be any more episodes of violence before I rule on this custody issue.”

  “Thank you,” Wyatt said fervently. “Thanks very much, Judge.”

  Stackpole was staring at Callie, eyes narrowed.

  “And Mrs. Keeler?”

  Callie blew her nose on the tissue. “Yes, Your Honor?”

  “The next time you are in my presence, I do not want to be assaulted with the vision of your body piercings. Is that clear?”

  Callie looked down and yanked her top over the diamond-studded navel ring winking from her abdomen.

  * * *

  Wyatt waited until they were in the elevator to gather his aunt into a bear hug. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “Finally, a win for our side.”

  “Not a win, necessarily, but at least a point for our team,” Betsy conceded. “I can’t believe that little…”

  “Shit?” Wyatt grinned.

  “Shit works, although I was going to call her an ignorant slut,” Betsy said, returning her nephew’s smile. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Wyatt said. “You were awesome in there, the way you kept on about how Callie just left town, not knowing where Bo was.”

  “I wasn’t just grandstanding. It really is appalling that she was so focused on her little trip she didn’t even care enough to make sure Bo was somewhere safe. In the past, I just thought Callie was a selfish, stupid, self-involved little twit. But now I’m starting to wonder how fit a mother she is.”

  Sobered, Wyatt nodded in agreement. “I keep telling myself she really does love Bo, but since she hooked up with Fatso, Callie’s changed. It’s like she’s turned into this eighteen-year-old party animal overnight. She wasn’t always like this. She was a good mom. She wouldn’t even let Bo sleep in his nursery until he was, like, eighteen months old, because she’d read all this crap about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. He slept in a bassinette in our bedroom or in bed with us, until I finally convinced her he’d be okay in his own room. Maybe we got married too young. Maybe she’s just immature. Maybe this, the tattoos, the piercings, the clothes, maybe it’s all just a phase.”

  “I hope you’re not making excuses for her,” Betsy said. “She’s thirty-six. It’s a little late for her to be in a ‘phase.’”

  “Hell no, I’m not making excuses for her.” Wyatt pulled his baseball cap on again. “Maybe I’m making excuses for me, for letting her go without putting up a fight.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up,” Betsy said. “Callie and her lawyer are doing enough of that. You’re a good guy. Remember that, okay? And don’t go getting soft on me.” She made a fist and thrust it into his face. “And if you start thinking about taking her back, I’ll punch out your car window.”

  “No worries there,” Wyatt said.

  “Listen,” Betsy said suddenly. “Did I understand Stackpole right? Did he actually sit in on your therapy session the other night?”

  “Yep,” Wyatt said.

  “So weird. What was he doing there?”

  “Paula said she invited him,” Wyatt said. “But there’s something definitely … kinky going on between the two of them.”

  “Kinky and Stackpole are not two words you necessarily think of together,” Betsy said. “Kinky how?”

  “There’s a vibe between them. And everybody in the group noticed it. Paula was positively giddy that he showed up. In fact, she was stone-cold sober, which is a major change.”

  “Your therapist? You mean she’s not usually sober? Wyatt, what’s going on with this group?”

  * * *

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. They emerged into the courthouse lobby. Betsy pulled Wyatt by the arm, gesturing for him to sit on a bench.

  “Talk,” she ordered.

  “Paula’s stoned out of her gourd during most of our sessions,” Wyatt said. “The first one, I got there a little late, and she was passed out cold. I had to wake her up to make sure she realized I was there. On a good night, she’s just vague and glassy-eyed. During our second session, the light was get
ting dimmer, if you know what I mean, and then after we got back from break, she zoned out again. We actually left her on the sofa in the reception area. But before we left, just to make sure she hadn’t overdosed or something, we checked her purse and figured out she’s mixing tranquilizers and sleeping pills.”

  “Don’t you think that’s something you might have mentioned to your lawyer?” Betsy scolded.

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” he said. “Like I was telling you, Stackpole showed up at our last session. Paula was on her best behavior, all dressed up and proper and professional. She actually ran the session.”

  “She doesn’t usually?”

  “Not really,” Wyatt said. “But this week was different. She had her act together, and was so excited about him being there, it was kind of pathetic. He made a stupid little speech, about what a good thing it was we were all doing, blah, blah, blah. And it was going good, and all of a sudden Paula just ended the session. We’re supposed to be there an hour, and it wasn’t even thirty minutes.”

  Betsy was shaking her head. “How on earth did he find this woman? And if she’s obviously on drugs, like you say, why would he refer people to her?”

  Wyatt glanced around the lobby and lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you why, but you’re not gonna believe it. Because he’s in her pants.”

  “Shhh!” Betsy yanked him up by the arm and hustled him out of the courthouse.

  “Oww,” Wyatt winced and she loosened her clutch.

  “In my car,” she said, making a beeline for the parking lot.

  * * *

  When they were in Betsy’s car, with the air conditioner blowing at full blast, he gave her the whole story. Or as much of it as his pride would allow.

  “Wednesday night, after Paula let us leave early, we all went over to the Sandbox, like we always do.”

  She gave him a fishy look. “Tell me that’s not a strip joint.”

  “All those women? You know I’m the only guy, right? The Sandbox is a bar. In Cortez.”

  “That dumpy little fishing village?”

  “It’s not all that dumpy,” Wyatt said. “Anyway, the Sandbox is a classic dive bar. It’s even got an original Ms. Pac-Man. One of the women in the group, Grace, her mother owns it, which is why we go there.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Everybody in the group. Me, Grace, Camryn, Ashleigh, and Suzanne. Like I said, I’m the only guy. At first I thought they were gonna scratch my eyes out, because they’ve all been shafted by their husbands, and they all hate men, but we’re cool now.”

  “You were telling me about Stackpole being, as you indelicately put it, in your therapist’s pants? What makes you think that?”

  “For one thing, you had to see them in the same room together. Paula was all giggly and flirty. And then, well, there was this other thing.”

  “Tell me.” Betsy dug in her pocketbook, pulled out a stick of gum, offered it to her nephew, then took one for herself.

  “Okay, but you’re not gonna like it,” he warned.

  * * *

  When he’d finished recounting his story, Betsy sighed. “You’re right. I reallllly don’t like what you guys did.”

  “Do you happen to know where Stackpole lives?” Wyatt asked eagerly.

  “I have no idea. But I would imagine he probably lives somewhere over on Longboat.”

  “How about his car? Do you know what kind of car he drives? Like I said, this was a Lexus.”

  “Stackpole is as conservative as it comes, so whatever he drives, I’d be willing to bet it’s a big American-made land yacht.”

  “Hey!” A light came into Wyatt’s eyes. “Do judges have assigned parking spaces? Here at the courthouse?”

  “Probably,” Betsy said. “God forbid a judge might have to drive around and hunt for a parking spot like the average Joe.”

  She sighed. “I suppose you want me to swing through the county parking deck to check this out?”

  Wyatt leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. “Did I ever mention that you’re my favorite aunt?”

  “I’m your only aunt,” Betsy said. But she started the car and went on the prowl.

  29

  Transformations and Dirty Laundry

  Dear Readers: If you’ve managed to follow me over here to my new blog, TrueGrace, from my former blog, you know that my personal life has been dealt some, uh, “challenges” lately. My marriage came off the rails in a fairly spectacular way, I’ve left my husband and lost my home, and now my former blog has been co-opted by my estranged husband and my former assistant. It sounds like it should be a funny story, but unfortunately there’s no punch line.

  Somebody—and I have a good guess who that is—has been sabotaging me professionally, wiping out my blog posts, leaving nasty comments falsely attributed to me on other blogs, and just generally smearing my good name in the blogosphere. I won’t make any accusations, but I would like to assure all my readers, and other bloggers, that I have never and would never engage in such scurrilous behavior.

  On a positive note, my life these days is a clean slate. And I have an exciting new project to share with you! Over these next few weeks and months I hope you’ll follow along as I rehab, restore, and redecorate a wonderful original 1920s cottage.

  Mandevilla Manor, as I call it, is a classic example of a vernacular Florida cracker cottage. Built of heart pine on a raised cinderblock foundation, it has the original pine board and batten walls, oak floors, and an airy screened porch.

  I discovered this diamond in the rough when I was out for a morning run recently. I noticed a huge pile of trash sitting on a curb, which meant a house was being cleaned out. As I watched, a gentleman dragged a fabulous 1940s rattan sofa to the curb. When I struck up a conversation with Arthur, who turned out to be the landlord, I learned that his deadbeat tenants had vacated the house after thoroughly trashing it.

  The house has been in Arthur’s family for three generations, and he was disheartened by all the work it would take to make it habitable again.

  At Arthur’s invitation, I toured the house, and, although it was filthy and in terrible disrepair, I could easily see all the charm just waiting to be rediscovered. So Arthur and I worked out a deal. He has provided a tiny budget, and I will provide the vision—and the sweat—to bring Mandevilla Manor back to life.

  This will be a true shoestring operation. I’ll be shopping at discount centers, thrift stores, and yard sales, and, yes, I’ll probably be doing some Dumpster diving and curb cruising. Since my budget is so small, I’ll be providing most of the girl power myself. As you can see from this first batch of before and “in process” photos, I’ve already torn down all the yellowing venetian blinds and ripped up all the nasty old carpet. The kitchen cabinet doors have been removed, and that ugly vinyl flooring is currently under attack. Watch this space for frequent updates!

  One other thing. Meet my new BFF, Sweetie. She is an adorable poodle mix who was cruelly locked in a bedroom at the cottage and abandoned by her former owners. Can you believe she is the first dog I have ever owned? Sweetie is an expert at watch-dogging and cockroach wrangling, and she works cheap—just a little kibble and a lot of love. Life is full of twists and turns, dead ends and detours, isn’t it? Lose a husband, gain a dog, take a run, find a house to transform.

  I can’t wait to see what the next chapter of my life will bring.

  Grace uploaded all the before photos she’d taken of the little cottage, resizing and writing captions as she went. The last photo she posted was her favorite, Sweetie, posing on the front steps of the cottage, ears pricked up, tongue lolling, as though to say, “Hey, check me out!”

  She held her breath and clicked the PUBLISH toggle on her new blog’s dashboard.

  “Just try and hack me now, Ben,” she muttered to herself. She’d knocked off work on the cottage at noon, just so she could come home and re-create her blog. One more time. She’d chosen a new, easier platform, WordPress, and gone through every security move she c
ould think of to foil any other attack on her blog, including running a malware program that would pinpoint and hopefully eliminate whatever method Ben had used to sabotage TrueGrace.com.

  “Everything new” was her motto this time around. She didn’t have the graphics knowledge Ben had, and she sure didn’t have any of her former advertisers. But her new platform was clean and simple. The writing was brutally honest, and from the heart. The photos of Mandevilla Manor were clear, and Grace felt certain this project would resonate with all the homeowners, thrifters, and DIY-ers in the world, in a way her old blog never had. How many people, after all, could relate to a three-hundred-dollar Belgian linen tablecloth like the one that had adorned the dining room table at Sand Dollar Lane? Were there really all that many hostesses who wanted recipes calling for black truffle oil and imported pink sea salt?

  After she published the blog post, she copied the URL and e-mailed it to every lifestyle blogger she’d ever read, explaining to them that Gracenotes had been taken over by Ben and apologizing, again, for any spurious negative comments they might have seen floating around on the Internet.

  I’ve reinvented myself, and my blog. I’m TrueGrace now, and I would love it if you’d drop by and check out my new project. And since I’m starting from scratch, I’d be humbled if you saw fit to add me to your blog roll.

  Grace lolled back on her bed pillows and closed her eyes. It was nearly six. She’d been hunched over her laptop for hours. She was tired and sore from being down on her hands and knees hacking away at the kitchen floor. She told herself she was in no mood for divorce-recovery group. And she really dreaded seeing Wyatt Keeler again after her clumsy and humiliating encounter with him after their last session.

  She was surprised to find that she was looking forward to seeing the others. Camryn’s wisecracks and brutal honesty never failed to entertain her. Suzanne, quiet, vulnerable Suzanne, seemed close to revealing whatever secrets were tormenting her, and even that gold-plated gold digger Ashleigh was at least good for comic relief.