Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

  “Vandals?” Rochelle asked. “Did you report it to the police?”

  “Arthur did,” she replied. “He’s dealing with them.” She walked around to the back of the bar and poured herself a mug of coffee. She took a sip and seated herself on a barstool. “Did you find out anything from the women who showed up here last night?”

  Rochelle took a sip of her own coffee. “I found out a lot of stuff I didn’t want to know, that’s for sure. Husbands who are cross-dressers. Husbands who like to hang out in public bathrooms and expose themselves to little boys. Husbands who like to watch their wives have sex with strangers…”

  “Eewww,” Grace said. “Stop. I get the picture. I mean, did you find out anything about people who’ve been referred to Paula by Judge Stackpole?”

  “Yup,” Rochelle said, looking immensely pleased with herself. She turned to the bar back and pulled a spiral-bound stenographer’s notebook from the drawer. “I took notes,” she added.

  “I must have put twenty or thirty of those coupons in the cars in that therapist’s parking lot,” she continued. “I didn’t get over there ’til nearly eleven yesterday, and by that time, there were five women coming out of her office. I just handed them the coupons, and, since they were watching, I had to put them on the other cars. I got back over there after the lunch hour and hung around an hour, and another group of women, and one man, drove up and went into her office, so I put coupons on their cars. Then this big, burly, scary-looking guy came out of that tattoo place, and he wanted a coupon, so what could I do? I had to give him one. And then…”

  “Mom,” Grace said gently. “You did a great job handing out the coupons. But could you just cut to the chase? How many people actually showed up here last night who said they were in Paula’s divorce camp?”

  Rochelle didn’t like having her story interrupted. “I was getting to that. I guess there were nine women who came in last night over the course of the evening with those free-drink coupons. I was trying not to act too nosy, just, you know, talking them up, asking how their day was going. A couple of them got kind of snotty with me. Just drank their free drink and left, without even leaving me a tip! What kind of woman stiffs a bartender who’s giving her free drinks?”

  “Probably one whose husband got to keep all the money in the divorce,” Grace said.

  “Eventually, though, four women sat right here at the bar. I think they were all in the same divorce group, because they were calling each other by their first names and kind of joking about their action plans. One of them said her action plan was to find herself a new sugar daddy. So I kept pouring the free drinks and playing dumb. Finally, I asked the chattiest one, this gal named Ginger, how they all knew each other, and she said they were in the same divorce-recovery group. I told Ginger I was going through a divorce myself, and how did she find out about something like that. And she said it wasn’t her idea. The judge in her divorce case told her she had to go to a therapist. And not just any therapist. It had to be a therapist named Paula Talbott-Sinclair. That’s when I started calling you.”

  She glared accusingly at her daughter. “And when you didn’t call me back, I called Mitzi Stillwell. And she came right away.”

  “And that’s when things started getting really interesting.” A woman’s dry voice came from behind them. Grace swiveled around on her barstool. “Mitzi! I thought you had an early deposition.”

  “I did, but when I got to the other attorney’s office, he asked if we could reschedule. So here I am.”

  Rochelle took a mug and filled it with coffee before handing it over to the lawyer.

  Mitzi sat down beside Grace. “I’m seriously thinking of hiring your mother as a private investigator. She’s that good at asking dumb questions and drawing people out without raising their suspicions.”

  “That’s what happens after you’ve tended bar for thirty years,” Rochelle said modestly.

  “What did you find out?” Grace begged. “Give me the nitty-gritty, please. I’m dying here.”

  Mitzi nodded deferentially to Rochelle. “Go ahead.”

  “All four of those gals, Ginger, Angie, Becky and Harriett, had your judge in their divorces,” Rochelle said.

  “The Honorable Cedric N. Stackpole Jr.” Mitzi put in.

  “Right. Harriett Porter, she was the oldest one, probably around my age, her husband owns a Cadillac dealership up north in Indiana, but they live down here full-time now,” Rochelle reported. “She discovered her husband was having himself a fling with a male stripper in Tampa. She waited for him outside that club, and when he came outside at two in the morning, she sort of lost her temper and accidentally ran over his Gucci loafers with her SRX Crossover.” Rochelle took a sip of coffee. “I’d never heard of such a car, but Harriett says it’s sort of a cross between a real Cadillac and an Escalade. Escalades are what all the rappers drive, Harriett says…”

  “Mom!”

  “Right,” Rochelle said, without missing a beat. “Stackpole threatened to throw Harriett in jail for aggravated assault, which her lawyer later told her was bullshit, because her husband did not want to have it get in the papers that he’d been run over in the parking lot at Jeepers Peepers. Instead, Stackpole told her she had to attend divorce-recovery group. With Paula.”

  “And the rest of the women in the group?” Grace asked.

  “Different stories, same endings,” Rochelle said smugly.

  “By the time I got here last night, dear Harriett was fairly intoxicated,” Mitzi said. “Lovely lady, but I think she probably needs AA more than she needs divorce recovery. I sat with all the girls for a while; then, I volunteered to make sure Harriett got home safely.” She raised an eyebrow. “While she waits for her divorce to get settled, she’s living in an enormous rented mansion on Siesta Key. Before I walked her to her door, I casually asked how much she’s paying for her divorce-group sessions. Grace, she’s paying nine hundred dollars!”

  “That’s three times as much as the rest of us,” Grace said.

  “I know,” Mitzi said. “I was as stunned as you are. It didn’t seem to bother Harriett. I think she’s actually enjoying the sessions with Paula. She apparently hasn’t made a lot of friends since moving here. Before I told her good night, I asked for her lawyer’s name.” Mitzi sighed happily. “It’s Carlton Towne. He’s senior partner in my old law firm, and a prince of a guy. I put in a call to him first thing this morning.”

  Rochelle pushed her steno notebook across the bar to Grace. “Here’s the name of the other gals in Harriett’s group. They even have a name for themselves. The Diva Divorcées. Cute, huh?”

  Grace read the names scrawled on the notepad. “Are these their lawyers’ names, too?”

  “You bet,” Rochelle said.

  “I only know one of these lawyers personally,” Mitzi said, running her finger down the list of names. “And because we have to do this very quietly, with an abundance of caution, I’m not going to call them until absolutely necessary.”

  Grace nodded. “Just what is it you’re planning to do?”

  “First, I’m going to call Betsy Entwhistle and chat with her about Wyatt’s experience with Stackpole. Then, I’m hoping Carlton Towne will be as frank with me as his client was last night. Then, I think it’s time we talked to the other members of your group, Grace, to see what their lawyers have to say. If that goes well, I think we’ll probably have enough to file a complaint against Stackpole with the state Judicial Qualifications Committee.”

  “How long will all that take?” Grace asked. “After next week, we’ve only got one week of divorce camp left. Then, Stackpole’s supposed to rule on my divorce. What if he finds out what we’re up to?”

  “Leave that to me,” Mitzi said. “We’re going to gather every bit of documentation possible, and I can be very, very discreet and low-key.”

  53

  “Grace, can I speak with you privately for a minute?” Mitzi asked. Rochelle gave them a questioning look but retreated to the kit
chen.

  Mitzi lowered her voice. “How’s the condo coming along?”

  Grace blinked. “Good. I went shopping Thursday and picked up a lot of things to bring in some color, since you’ve got so much white. I don’t want it to look too sterile. You’re going to have turquoise and lime green, and pops of tangerine…”

  “How about the bed? I paid nearly two thousand dollars for that mattress, you know.”

  Grace felt herself blushing and glanced toward the kitchen to make sure her mother was not within earshot. “The mattress is amazing. Totally.”

  Mitzi smirked. “I just like knowing I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”

  “Trust me,” Grace said. “You did.”

  * * *

  Wyatt pulled up in front of Luke Grigsby’s house shortly after ten. He’d averted his eyes as he passed his old house, just down the street. It pained him to see the smudged windows, the stack of yellowing plastic-wrapped newspapers at the edge of the driveway, and the forlorn tire swing hanging from a rotted rope tied to a spindly tree in the side yard. Mostly, it pained him to see the “Bank Owned: For Sale” sign in the weed-strewn front yard.

  Losing the house to the bank, he realized, was probably more painful than losing Callie.

  He glanced at the clock on the truck’s dashboard, then at Luke’s front door and, as always, felt the same familiar, simmering resentment replace his previously cheerful, even joyous, demeanor.

  According to the written agreement they’d hashed out during their separation, Callie was supposed to deliver Bo to Jungle Jerry’s on the days Wyatt had custody. In reality, Wyatt usually ended up going to get his son on what he thought of as “hand-off days,” because Callie was rarely even remotely on time, which always made Bo anxious and agitated, afraid his mother would change her mind and refuse to allow him to see his father.

  Wyatt tapped his fingers impatiently, the back of his wedding ring sounding a ching-ching-ching against the hard plastic of the steering wheel. He’d been sitting there for ten, then fifteen minutes. He was reluctant to tap his horn or even go to the front door, because the last person he wanted to see that day was his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  He found his mind wandering back to the previous evening, and then this morning. He’d awakened early, as always, shortly after six. It was still dark outside, and Grace was sleeping on her side, faced away from him, moonlight silvering her slumbering form. The quilt had slipped from her bare shoulder. Carefully, he pulled it lower until her back was exposed. He marveled at the elegant curve of her spine, the way her soft brown hair spilled onto the pillow, the way her full hips flowed from her narrow waist. She had a tiny mole on her left shoulder; he could just barely see it. He’d pressed his lips to her shoulder, not really meaning to awaken her, but she’d turned, and seeing his face inches from hers, smiled lazily. He’d thought her beautiful the night before, but finding her like this, tousled and sleep-drunk, he decided she was the most exquisite woman he’d ever known.

  The passenger-side door opened abruptly and Bo hopped onto the seat and slammed the door hard. He folded his arms across his chest and grunted. “Let’s go.”

  His son’s face was set in anger, his eyes red-rimmed.

  “Hey, dude,” Wyatt said cheerily. “Something wrong?”

  “Mom’s really upset,” Bo said. “Some guy came over this morning and took her new car, and she’s been on the phone hollering and yelling at you know who. Can we just go now?”

  What now? Wyatt wondered. Callie’s car was a flashy red Mustang convertible. Bo told him Luke had given it to her for her birthday a few months earlier, complete with a vanity tag that read HOTMAMA.

  “Is your mom’s car not working?”

  “No. I mean, yeah, it works good. We were asleep, and then I heard something outside and it was still dark, so I snuck out to the living room window to see if was like a burglar or something, and I saw this guy breaking into Mom’s car! I went in and woke her up and told her, and she went and got this like gun out of the dresser. Then she went running outside, but the guy was already inside her car. She was screaming at him to stop, but he just rolled the window down and threw a piece of paper at her, and then he peeled off down the street, going really fast.”

  Uh-oh. Sounds like the repo man had paid a visit this morning. Mr. Bigshot must have missed a car payment. Or two.

  Wyatt would have found it comical, except that witnessing the unpleasant scene had clearly upset the child.

  “Well, I’m sure your mom will get it figured out,” Wyatt said for lack of anything better to say.

  “She’s really, really mad at him,” Bo said. He gave his father a hopeful look. “Maybe she’ll change her mind and they won’t get married, and we won’t have to move to stinkin’ Alabama.”

  Wyatt was about to pull away from the curb when out of the corner of his eye he saw Luke’s front door open. Callie stood in the doorway, dressed only in an oversized T-shirt that barely touched her thighs. Her hair was mussed and rivers of black mascara streamed down her cheeks.

  “Wyatt!” she screamed. And then she came running toward the truck in her bare feet.

  * * *

  Bo’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Stay here,” Wyatt said. He jumped out of the truck and met Callie at the sidewalk. “They repossessed my Mustang,” she cried. “It’s gone! Luke swears he doesn’t know what happened, but I know he’s lying. He lied about everything.”

  Callie threw herself into his arms. He closed them uneasily about her shoulder, turning to see that Bo was still in the truck, his eyes riveted to the unfolding scene.

  “Shh,” Wyatt said, patting her shoulder. “It’s probably just a misunderstanding. Maybe the car payments got posted wrong or something.”

  “No,” she sobbed. “Luke’s broke. He’s been lying all along. Oh my God, Wyatt. It was all just a big lie. What am I going to do?”

  “Hey,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out. Look, this is upsetting Bo. Why don’t you go inside and get dressed. Let me take him over to the park and get him settled with Dad; then I’ll give you a call and we can talk about it. Okay?”

  “A call?” Her voice was wobbly. Snot trails dribbled down her face. “Can’t you come back here and talk? I could make us some coffee…”

  “Not here,” Wyatt said, his spine stiffening. There was no way he was setting foot inside Luke Grigsby’s house again. Not ever.

  “Oh,” she said. “I get it. Okay. I could come over to the park…”

  “God no,” he replied. “You’re not exactly Dad’s favorite person these days, Callie.”

  “That was all Luke’s idea,” she said quickly. “I never meant anything by it…”

  Wyatt sighed. “I’ll meet you at Starbucks in an hour. Okay? But I can’t stay long.”

  “All right,” she said. “Oh my God. This is all such a nightmare.”

  For once, Wyatt thought bleakly, he’d have to agree with her.

  54

  Callie had managed a remarkable transformation in the hour since he’d last seen her. Her hair was now clean and shiny and pulled back in a ponytail, she had fresh makeup, and she was dressed in a low-cut pink top and tight white jeans. And, Wyatt noticed, as she clutched the mug of coffee he’d just brought to the table, she wasn’t wearing Luke’s flashy diamond engagement ring.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, her voice low. “I’m sorry I got all hysterical in front of Bo. That was bad. But everything happened so fast … I completely lost it.”

  “He’s a sensitive kid,” Wyatt said. “I know it’s hard to do, but, for his sake, we really have to try to keep things on an even keel.”

  “I know.” Callie nodded and took a sip of coffee. She gazed out the window at the parking lot. When she turned to look at him, her eyes were brimming with fresh tears.

  “It’s over between me and Luke,” she said, her lower lip trembling. “And not just because of the car. Everything he told me? Everything he promised me? It was all just a big fat li
e. He lost his job. There is no transfer to Birmingham. He just told me that because he assumed he’d get a new one with another company there. He’s known for three weeks now, and he never said a word. Just kept bullshitting me. About everything.” She held up her naked left hand. “My ring? Not real. Not even a good fake. And you know how I found out? I took it to the jewelry store in the mall yesterday, because I wanted to have it sized, and the girl behind the counter actually laughed at me when she saw it. It’s a friggin’ cubic zirconia.”

  Wyatt winced. “Did you ask Luke about that?”

  “Yes. Of course, he had all these bullshit excuses. He tried to tell me he gave me a fake ring because he was having the real one custom-made, and it wasn’t ready yet. He’s got lies and excuses for everything.”

  “Geez. I’m sorry, Callie.”

  “Not as sorry as me,” she said bitterly. “What do I do now? I can’t stay with him. I won’t. I told him that this morning. I can’t marry a liar.”

  “What’ll you do?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. I just know I won’t stay under the same roof with him. Not another night. I can’t have Bo exposed to somebody like that.”

  “Well, of course, Bo can stay with Dad and me for as long as you need him to. But where will you go?”

  “Good question. I don’t exactly have a lot of options. Most of my girlfriends? As far as they’re concerned, I’m the slut who cheated on her husband. They all made it pretty clear they couldn’t stand Luke.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Ha! My parents are barely speaking to me since our breakup. They always thought you walked on water, Wyatt. Anyway, I’m not about to move back to South Carolina. What would I do there? Get a job selling made-in-China sombreros at South of the Border? Anyway, Bo would hate it there. And the schools suck.”

  You didn’t care what Bo thought about Birmingham when you thought you and Luke were moving there, Luke thought.

  “What about Kendra?” he asked.