Ladies' Night

by Andrews, Mary Kay

Her lips twisted. “My baby sister is just itching to get a chance to say, ‘I told you so.’ She never liked Luke, either. Guess maybe I should have polled all my friends and family before falling in love with him and ruining my life, huh?”

  Funny how it didn’t occur to Callie that she wasn’t the only one affected by her affair with Luke Grigsby. She probably just considered her husband and son as collateral damage.

  “You’ve always gotten along with Kendra. Surely she wouldn’t turn you away, right? Until you get things figured out?”

  “Maybe.” Callie didn’t sound convinced. She grabbed a paper napkin from the stack Wyatt had brought to the table and used it to blot her eyes.

  “Oh God, Wy,” she whispered. “How could this have happened? You were the best thing that ever happened to me. And I let you walk away. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Wyatt twisted his own paper napkin into a tightly wound ribbon. “What’s done is done.” What does she want from me? he wondered. “You just need to figure out how to get your life back on track, with the least amount of disruption to Bo. He’s had more than enough of that in the last year.”

  “I know, I know,” Callie agreed. “I’ll call Kendra right now. I can probably stay with her for tonight, at least.”

  “What about a car?” Wyatt asked.

  “That bastard Luke traded my Civic in when he got the Mustang,” Callie said. “I drove his old Jeep over here. And he’s crazy if he thinks I’ll give it back. He owes me. Big-time.”

  “At least that’s something,” he said. “Look, Callie. I’m sorry, but I really need to get back to the park. We’ve got a group of thirty kids coming in with a day camp in an hour, and they’re expecting a guided tour and a performance from Cookie.”

  “I know you’re busy,” Callie said. “You don’t have time for my soap opera. Go on. I’m just going to sit here for a while and try to get my wits about me before I go back to Luke’s and start packing up my stuff.”

  He hesitated. “So … we’ll plan on keeping Bo at the park, at least through the weekend. Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” she said, shrugging. “What are you going to tell him? About Luke and me?”

  “Nothing,” Wyatt said. “I’ll leave that to you to figure out. You should probably call him later today, when you’re calmer. You don’t have to tell him the gory details yet. Just let him know you’re okay.”

  Callie reached across the table and squeezed his hand, clinging to him. “I will. And I won’t cry anymore. Not in front of him, anyway. Thanks, Wy.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, slowly sliding his hand away from hers. “Good luck with Kendra.”

  * * *

  On Monday, Grace was just unloading the last of her second batch of painting supplies from her car when Arthur’s car pulled up to the driveway.

  It took him a few minutes to emerge from the car, and when he did, Grace thought he looked tired. Tired and defeated. He walked, stiff-legged, toward where she stood, right outside the front porch.

  “Hi, Arthur,” she called.

  “Hi there, Grace.” He looked down at the buckets of paint she’d stacked on the porch steps and sighed and looked away. His shoulders slumped.

  “I know, it’s a hit to our budget,” she said. “But hopefully the insurance will pay for it, right? Anyway, Wyatt and I managed to get all the paint off the floors and the appliances, so I’m just repainting the walls in the bedroom and the kitchen cabinets. And the kitchen floor. Again. That’s a pain in the butt, for sure. We’ll have to get a floor guy to take a look at the scorched floor in the living room, but maybe that can just be patched.”

  “Come on inside, Grace. I need to talk to you.”

  Theirs footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged rooms. Arthur looked in at the kitchen, and the bedroom and bathroom.

  “You’ve done real good work here, Grace,” he said finally. “And I’m gonna pay you for everything you’ve done. I want to do right by you.”

  “But?” She dreaded what he was going to say next. It would not be good news, she knew.

  “The wife and I had a long talk yesterday. My blood pressure was up pretty high by the time I got to see my doctor, and that got her all upset and worried. And the thing is, at my age, I just don’t need the hassle.”

  “Arthur, once somebody’s living here, I seriously doubt you’ll have anything like this happen again,” Grace said. “Even if you don’t rent it to me…”

  “If we rented it to anybody, it’d be you, Grace. But we’re not going to rent it. We talked it over, and what with the money it’ll take to put in that central air-conditioning you keep talking about, well, I just don’t see putting that much money into the place right now. So we’re going to sell it.”

  “Oh.” Grace felt herself sag against the kitchen doorway. “I see.”

  He swallowed and she saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he worked through what he was going to say.

  “I hate like the dickens to let the place go,” he said, running a gnarled hand over the doorframe. “The way you had it looking, just these past couple weeks, my folks would have been proud of that. This was their homeplace, and they always took pride in it. But my wife, she helped me see, the time has come to let it go to somebody else.”

  Grace couldn’t trust herself to speak. She just nodded.

  “I’ve got a real estate agent coming over on Saturday, to look the place over and tell me what she thinks I could sell it for,” Arthur said. He looked up at her. “My wife was wondering if maybe you’d be interested in buying it. If you were, we’d try to make you a fair price, taking into consideration how much time you’ve already put into the house. But we’d need you to make a decision pretty quick, before we go ahead and list it with an agent.”

  She bit her lip. “If my divorce were final today, and I had the money, I’d love to buy this house,” Grace said. “But to be honest with you, I can’t say exactly when that’s going to happen, or how much of a financial settlement I’m going to get from my ex. The judge in my case … well, let’s just say he doesn’t exactly see things the way my lawyer and I do.”

  “That’s a damn shame,” Arthur said. “And that fella, that friend of yours? I don’t guess he’s in any position…”

  “He’s in almost the same position I am, except he’s also got child-support payments,” Grace told him. “Anyway, Wyatt and I … well, he’s a very nice person. But we just started seeing each other. It’s way too early to know how that’s going to turn out.”

  “I see. Well, I guess that’s that then,” he said. “I’m real sorry it had to end like this, Grace. I liked the idea of you fixing up this place, moving in and living here, starting all over again. Don’t guess there’s any need for you to do any more painting now. I feel bad enough that you put all this time into the place, for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” Grace said. “I enjoyed the process. I just hope whoever buys the place will finish the job and do justice to it.”

  She followed the older man out to the front porch. “I meant to ask you,” she said, as he fumbled in his pocket for his car keys. “Did you report the vandalism to the police?”

  “Yes. I filed a report. I showed them the pictures I took with my camera. They didn’t seem too interested. I guess they see a lot of that type of thing.”

  “I’ve got an idea about who might have done it,” Grace said slowly. “Would it be okay if I talked to a cop I know?”

  He gave her an odd look. “Grace, it’s over. I appreciate your wanting to catch whoever did this, but don’t you have something better to do with your time?”

  “Humor me, will you Arthur? You’re probably right. It’ll probably come to nothing. But this is personal now. I’d like to see it all the way through, whatever happens.”

  Arthur patted her shoulder. “You’re a stubborn little gal. Guess I should have figured you’d want to get to the bottom of things. All right. Go ahead. And if this cop friend of yours has any questions, have
him give me a call.”

  55

  In a pair of frayed jeans with holes at the knees, a Tampa Bay Rays T-shirt, and Wayfarer sunglasses, Pete Strivecky looked nothing like a cop and everything like a too-cool-for-school teenager as he stood on the doorstep of the cottage on Mandevilla, holding his motorcycle helmet under one arm.

  “Awesome house,” he said when Grace greeted him Tuesday morning. “I’m glad you gave me a call. I’ve been reading about it on your blog. I even rode my girlfriend over here last weekend so she could take a look at it in person.”

  “It is an awesome house, or it will be, when whoever buys it gets done,” Grace said sadly.

  Officer Strivecky stepped inside and immediately walked over to the scorched corner of the living room. “So, you said the fire started here? Looks like it didn’t do much damage.”

  “They poured some kind of lighter fluid or something on a new canvas drop cloth,” Grace said. “Fortunately, the neighbor saw the flames through the porch windows, and he was able to put it out before the fire spread.”

  “Did you happen to save the drop cloth?”

  “What was left. I put it out in the garage,” Grace said. “Along with the empty paint cans they used in the kitchen and living room.”

  “Good idea.” Strivecky nodded his approval. “Like I told you on the phone, I’m not a detective, and I’m sure not an arson investigator. But I don’t think it would hurt to take a look around.”

  Strivecky walked through all the rooms in the house while Grace gave her running narrative on all that she’d accomplished in rehabbing the house—and what the vandal did to ruin her handiwork.

  When they were done, they sat on the front porch steps, and Grace handed him a bottle of water.

  “You really think it’s your ex-husband’s girlfriend? Why would she do something like that?” he asked.

  “Revenge,” Grace said succinctly. “She and Ben were blatantly ripping off material from my new blog for Gracenotes. So I e-mailed most of my old advertisers to let them know what was happening. I thought they should know they were spending money with people who have no ethics. At least a couple of them dropped their ads. J’Aimee came over here last week, and she threatened that she’d make me sorry. So yes, I think she’s behind this.”

  “She sounds like a head case,” Strivecky said. He took a swig of water. “I can talk to one of our detectives about your suspicions, but I can tell you right now he’ll probably say that unless somebody catches her in the act, there’s nothing he can do.”

  “What about if she left fingerprints? On the paint cans, or even in the bathroom, where she did the cute fingerpainting?”

  “The bathroom was wiped clean,” Strivecky reminded her. “And what if she did leave fingerprints? You said she came over here last week. She could claim she left fingerprints then. But it’s not going to get that far, Grace. We already know there’s bad blood between you and your ex and this woman. Our detective is going to say this is just another domestic dispute. Nasty, yes. Criminal? Probably not.”

  Grace kicked at the porch railing with the toe of her sneaker. “This day just keeps getting better and better. Because of her, the owner of the house has decided to just sell it, instead of renting it to me. And I can’t afford to buy the place myself, because I don’t have any money. And now you tell me, even if I could prove it was her, there’s nothing the police will do.”

  She glared defiantly at Strivecky. “Now I know why people take the law into their own hands. I feel so powerless—it’s infuriating!”

  “But you won’t do anything to get back at her—right?” Strivecky said. “We didn’t have this conversation. Right?”

  “Right,” she said glumly. “No violence. I’ll just have to figure out how to get back at Ben—and her—legally.”

  Dear Lily: Thanks for your recent e-mail and your kind words about TrueGrace and the cottage on Mandevilla. It was a dream project—while it lasted. Unfortunately, the owner notified me today that he intends to sell the cottage, as is, meaning that my work there will go unfinished. I’d be happy to send you photos of my other current project, although it is not on the same scope as Mandevilla. And I’d love the chance to land an assignment for Veranda. Regretfully, Grace Davenport, TrueGrace.com

  When she’d sent the e-mail, Grace flopped facedown on her bed and screamed into her pillow. Then she stood up, combed her hair, and called her lawyer.

  * * *

  Nelson Keeler was kitted out in his Jungle Jerry’s uniform, khaki safari shirt, khaki slacks (his old khaki shorts no longer fit around his thickened waist), and his battered old safari hat—the leather-lined one that had been handed down to him by his father. He was happily chatting with a half-dozen members of the Hibiscus Garden Club who’d gathered around him in the gift shop after buying their senior-citizen-discounted tickets.

  “Now, ladies, we’re going to start your tour with a little history of the park,” he was saying.

  Joyce Barrett, their only other full-time employee, was staring out the glass door leading into the gift shop and ticket area when she saw Callie Keeler briskly approaching.

  She was in her eighties and had silver hair she wore in a long braid down her back, and her own Jungle Jerry’s costume was immaculately pressed, as always.

  “Uh-oh,” she whispered under her breath. She glanced back at Nelson, who’d already briefed her on Callie’s latest attempt to torpedo Wyatt’s happiness. She reached for the walkie-talkie they kept under the ticket counter.

  “Wyatt? Office to Wyatt. Storm on the horizon. Repeat. Storm on the horizon.”

  There was a burst of crackling static. “Shit. Copy that, Joyce. On my way. Be there in five.”

  Joyce tugged at Nelson’s arm. “Er, Nelson?” He looked up, and she jerked her head in the direction of the door just as Callie pushed through it.

  Nelson stopped speaking, midsentence. His expression darkened. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Don’t know,” Joyce murmured. “But Wyatt’s heading back here right now.”

  “Ladies,” Nelson said loudly, turning so that his back was to the door. “Let’s head out to the garden now, and I’ll fill you in on what’s in bloom as we walk.” He strode out the double doors to the park without a backward glance.

  “Joyce,” Callie cooed, when the older woman returned to the ticket counter. “How nice to see you. How are the grandkids?”

  “Fine,” Joyce said, stone-faced.

  “Quite a few cars in the parking lot,” Callie said, leaning against the counter. “Business must be picking up, huh?”

  “It’s all right,” Joyce said, her voice a monotone. “We get by.”

  “Is Wyatt around?” Callie asked, craning her neck to try to see around the bookkeeper.

  “He’s been out with a group from summer day camp, but he’s on his way back now,” Joyce said. “Excuse me, Callie. I need to get the snacks ready for those kids. They’re always hungry and thirsty when they come back in out of that heat.”

  She turned to go, but Callie placed a hand on her arm. “Oh, let me help, Joyce. I know where everything is.” Callie stepped neatly under the old-fashioned wooden turnstile and bustled into the office.

  Two minutes later, when Wyatt hurried into the lobby, followed by thirty clamoring children, Callie was setting juice boxes and plates full of graham crackers and apple slices on the long table in the snack bar.

  Bo brought up the rear of the group. He was dressed in a faded and somewhat shrunken Jungle Jerry’s T-shirt, and Cookie the parrot was perched on his shoulder. He beamed at the sight of his mother. “Mom!”

  “Hey, Bo-Boy,” she said, looking up from her task. She met her husband’s unsmiling eyes. “Hi, Wy.”

  “Shots and beer!” the parrot demanded. “Gimme whiskey. Gimme beer.”

  Callie broke off a piece of graham cracker and held it out for Cookie, who snapped her beak around the cracker—taking with it a sizable chunk of Callie’s fingertip.

&n
bsp; “Owww,” Callie screeched. “Son of a bitch!”

  Startled, the parrot squawked and flew crazily around the room, while the day campers alternately screamed, giggled, ducked under tables, and covered their heads with their arms.

  After circling the room a couple of times, Cookie finally settled on Wyatt’s shoulder. He tried to soothe the agitated bird. “Shhh,” he said, stroking the bird’s head. “Quiet, Cookie. It’s all right.”

  Callie held her bleeding finger out for inspection. “It is not all right. Look at this! I think I might need stitches.”

  Bo studied his mother’s wound. “Awww, Mom, it’s hardly a scratch. Cookie wouldn’t really bite you. She just thought your finger was part of the graham cracker.”

  Callie frowned. Her eyes rolled back. “I think … I think I might faint.” She looked around the room. “Wyatt! I feel faint!”

  Before he could respond, Joyce Barrett swung into action. She bustled to Callie’s side and looped an arm around her waist. “Come into the office and let me get you some antiseptic and a Band-Aid.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper. “We don’t want to upset the children or make them afraid of Cookie, do we?”

  Callie scowled but reluctantly allowed herself to be led away. “That bird never did like me.”

  * * *

  Later, after he’d loaded the children back on their day-camp bus, returned Cookie to her aviary, and settled Bo in the trailer for a late lunch, Wyatt walked into his office to find Callie seated in the chair in front of his desk.

  “There you are,” Callie said, holding up her bandaged finger. “See what that stupid bird of yours did to me?”

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “I think maybe she got a little overexcited with all the kids around. She’s never bit Bo or me or Dad before. Did you get yourself set up over at your sister’s?”

  “Sort of. Kendra’s out of town, but she called her next-door neighbor to meet me over there with the key, so I dropped off a load of my stuff there before I stopped off here. At least I don’t have to deal with her holier-than-thou crap right now.”